Savage Liberty

by Eliot Pattison

  Tremblay, who seemed to have trouble breathing, finally found his voice. “Impossible! You old fool, release me this instant!”

  The vicar general ignored him. “You would need to remain for a period of reflection and penance, say two years, under the guard of converted natives—I hear the Illinois are almost as formidable as the Mohawks—and then you will be allowed to do as you please. There are voyageurs who call every few months.” The old priest shrugged. “So you might make it back to Paris in three or four years.” He aimed a beneficent smile at Tremblay. “Such an adventure, eh?”

  “You cannot!” Tremblay loudly protested. “I am employed by the king of France!”

  “No, you belong to the Society of Jesus. We have the papers to prove it.”

  “You fool! I will not put up with this farce!”

  Two Mohawks pressed close to Tremblay. The vicar general sighed. “You need to appreciate your dilemma, Father.”

  “I am not a priest!”

  “An intriguing proposition, sir. Your defense against being a priest is that you work for the French king. Mais monsieur, nous sommes anglais. The French king repudiated us. The French king gave this land to the British king.” The vicar shrugged again. “So you are a priest who will make full confession and go west to atone for your sins. Or you are a spy to be delivered to a British hangman.”

  The defiance in Tremblay’s eyes was quickly changing to fear.

  “King Louis may have suppressed the Society of Jesus, but we are not without our supporters, both in Paris and in Rome. Imagine what an embarrassment it will be to Louis when it is revealed to the world that he engaged in lies about the suffering Jesuits to pursue his dreams of empire, that he actually created a false priest to inflict harm on his enemies. Lying about a man of the cloth is a sacrilege not even a king can live down. The pope will be outraged, I assure you. Louis is already in bad odor with the Vatican for seizing the assets of our order for his own enrichment. He will probably be forced to restore the Society in France. So please, Father, let us go to the governor and get you hanged so we can save our fellow Jesuits.” The vicar general gestured to the plaque on the wall again. “We will add your name to our lists of martyrs.”

  Tremblay’s hands started shaking. The vicar general called to one of the friars at the back of the room, “A drink for Father Tremblay. Claret, I should think.”

  More than claret was needed. Tremblay answered questions for an hour. Bread, cheese, and brandy were brought in, and as he ate, friars took turns writing down his every word. Deschamps finished a turn with a quill, doodled on a scrap of paper, and slid it toward Duncan. It was an expertly drawn image of a circus scene—a pig with Tremblay’s round face walking on a tightrope.

  Woolford, also in a hooded cassock, began asking questions; then Conawago and finally Duncan joined in. Tremblay lost all pretense and spoke freely of his conspiracy and his career with the Sun King’s government. He had been taken out of the French military academy as a gifted student with perfect English, having lived in London as a boy. He had been given a commission as a lieutenant and reported to two army captains named Henri Comtois and Philippe Meunier, who worked out of a well-guarded chateau in Normandy, running special observers, as they called them, in and out of England. Tremblay had been trained at the chateau by a defrocked Jesuit, of which there were many in France, specifically to go to St. Francis and earn the trust of the Jesuits there.

  “Why St. Francis?” Woolford asked.

  “Because we had been told that St. Francis had never really been defeated, that it was still a French town with French sympathies, where the hatred of the Abenaki for the English could be harnessed.”

  “You mean used as killers,” Duncan said.

  “That wasn’t . . . I wasn’t sent for any of that. The mission for the ledger arose quite unexpectedly when news of its existence arrived from London, so my mission was adapted. But Comtois refuses all my questions about it, says I am not of high enough rank for such knowledge,” Tremblay sulkily explained. “I was meant to collect information, look for signs.”

  “Signs?” Conawago asked.

  “Of things that had been left behind in the confusion of war.”

  “You mean a few thousand gold pieces that had been misplaced,” Duncan suggested.

  “It was the king’s money!” Tremblay hissed.

  “More like spoils of war,” Woolford suggested.

  “It was meant to support another year of war in Canada,” Tremblay said.

  “It still could,” Duncan observed.

  Tremblay frowned, then shrugged. “I found no sign of it. But then we caught word that Major Rogers and the Jesuits of St. Francis had a different plan in mind. A different war, which would require much gold.”

  Duncan glanced at LaBrosse. “You mean a campaign for an independent nation of Saguenay.” He watched the vicar general, who showed no surprise at his words. The credit extended to the French farmers had come from Montreal banks. Had it been based on deposits made by Jesuit clerics?

  “Saguenay,” LaBrosse corrected, “was the code for the mission, as Rogers called it. The name of the new state was to be Champlain.”

  “They’ve already started, right under your nose,” Tremblay said with a gloating air.

  “A few farms in Chevelure don’t make a war,” Duncan observed.

  “Imbeciles! Every one of those farmers is a former officer in the Quebec militia! Ask LaBrosse. They signed articles pledging themselves to the state of Champlain!”

  Conawago, Duncan, and Woolford all turned to LaBrosse, who gave one of the shrugs that seemed to be characteristic of many of the Jesuits. “We drank a lot of claret that night,” LaBrosse explained. “The suggestion had come from Rogers. The first mission, he called it, ‘a reconnaissance in force’ was the term he used.”

  “A reconnaissance against the English enemy, you mean,” Woolford said in an icy voice. He still held a commission in the British army.

  “The tower at Chevelure,” Duncan said. “It had been planned during the war but never built.”

  LaBrosse nodded. “As a gun emplacement. The positioning was perfect for sending shells over the walls of Crown Point. There are cannons hidden in a cave along the St. Lawrence.” He saw the heat rising in Woolford’s eyes. “Purely to discourage intervention,” he hastily added. “We never intended violence. It’s unclaimed land. We saw it more as a remote community of like-minded people, free of oppression.”

  “There were two conspiracies,” Duncan reminded those at the table, and turned to Tremblay. “Something in your mission changed after you arrived in America,” he suggested.

  “I was summoned here to Montreal by my handler, our senior officer in North America, and told of the existence of a secret ledger that could change everything, that with it, France might take back all it had lost in America and more, all of New England even. My superiors were setting sail from Normandy, following it to America.”

  “And they seized it outside Boston,” Duncan said, chilled once more by the memory of the bodies lying in a row on a beach. “Killing thirty-seven innocent men to obtain it. That was an act of war, a secret war. There is no forgiving those who did so.”

  “I knew nothing of that!” Tremblay gasped. He gripped his hands together to stop them from shaking. “Comtois spoke of it after he arrived here, laughed and boasted that there was no proof connecting them to the Arcturus.”

  “I don’t believe you!” Duncan shot back. “You were in Boston, even New York perhaps, to help Comtois stalk Jonathan Pine. They had learned he was a messenger for the Sons of Liberty. You learned that Daniel Oliver would be on the same ship, and you took the news to Mog, who you knew would be the perfect agent for Comtois.”

  Tremblay shuddered and nervously twisted in his chair.

  “And if you knew such things,” Woolford interjected, “then there are spies among the Sons of Liberty.”

  “Just men who were willing to talk in exchange for a few coins or a ju
g,” Tremblay said, and looked imploringly at Duncan. “I beg you, you must believe I did not know they would sink the ship.”

  “But you made it all possible. You sent word to Halifax so Comtois would know what ship to seek when he arrived there.”

  Tremblay said nothing.

  “And you know where the ledger is now,” Duncan stated.

  Tremblay drained his fourth cup of brandy. “No! I told you, they won’t trust me with all their secrets.”

  “But why did the ledger have to come north?” Conawago asked. “Comtois was bound to come north when he caught wind of the treasure, but he was planning to come north even before.”

  “I told you. The chain of command. Our senior officer is here. And customs inspections. The inspectors in the American colonies are most aggressive. In Canada, on the St. Lawrence, there are far fewer inspections. They thought it safer to ship the ledger concealed in cargo, then sail on the same ship.”

  Woolford, who often engaged in covert operations for the Department of Indian Affairs, leaned closer. “And your senior officer in Montreal. What is his name?”

  “I am never given it. We just call him the field marshal. When I have to meet him, I go to a bookshop and remove a slip of paper left in a volume of Voltaire. It would say when and where we would meet, always at night, usually at the back of a tavern or along the river.”

  “Then surely you know his face.”

  “Comtois sometimes calls him the librarian. Meunier once laughed and called him the duke of dust, for he loves old books. Or sometimes even the cat keeper, for he often has cat hairs on his clothes.”

  “It must be the owner of that bookshop then.”

  “No. He is older than the owner there, perhaps the owner’s father or uncle. A collector of books, I’d say, or a private dealer in old books. He has gray hair that he keeps long at the back and a hand often twisted with arthritis. He has a powder burn on one cheek from an old battle and usually wears spectacles.”

  “Find him for us.”

  Tremblay’s face went bloodless, and he slowly shook his head. “I cannot! I would be killed if they suspected anything. There’s a brute named Regis, a monster, a killer. He would torture me and leave my body in the river. Surely you understand they are ruthless men. No sacrifice is too great to achieve their goals.”

  Duncan held up the note Tremblay had left at his inn. “ ‘Comtois,’ ” he read, “ ‘I am delayed. The visitor arrives this evening. Victory is in hand!’ you wrote. What visitor?”

  Tremblay buried his head in his hands for several breaths. “Someone who had to be met at the Richelieu River, the river that connects with Champlain. Very secret. The man is traveling under some false name. They said it was the final piece, that the ledger was already working its magic. Comtois said the halls of Versailles will be ringing with the news of his victory, that he will be a colonel by the end of the year.”

  Duncan and Conawago exchanged a puzzled look. “The mission will be complete because of someone coming up from Lake Champlain?”

  Tremblay nodded. “From the American colonies, coming to strike a deal, Comtois says. They said I should expect to go back with him with new orders, that glorious times lie ahead for us.”

  Woolford clenched a fist on the table and leaned forward. “Tell us this, Tremblay. What do they have you doing since you arrived in Montreal?”

  “Watching. There is an Englishman named Beck, a spy for King George, and his deputy, Sergeant Mallory. I watch them.”

  “Where do they go?”

  “To banks and finance houses mostly. I bribed one with whom he spent only a quarter hour. Beck told him he represents a syndicate of investors seeking to join those who are investing in new settlements in the Champlain Valley. When the banker said it was too risky, they moved on. And also to a graveyard where they dug up some soldier’s grave.”

  Duncan rose and paced around the table. “You’ve told us so little that is of use to us, Tremblay. The army will be more persuasive when we turn you over to them.”

  “I can tell you where the bookshop is!” Tremblay cried. “And they use an old warehouse by the river, where that man Regis lives with a couple of guards.”

  “Regis, who applied his skinning knife to a priest’s arm.” The statement came like a curse from LaBrosse, who fixed Tremblay with a vehement stare.

  Duncan put a calming hand on the shoulder of the Jesuit, who looked as if he were ready to do violence to the French agent. Duncan considered Tremblay’s words for several long breaths, then retrieved one of the cassocks hanging on the wall. “I assure you, Father Tremblay,” he said as he draped the robe over the Frenchman’s shoulder, “you will soon realize what a blessing it is to have become a mere Jesuit outlaw.”

  DUNCAN LINGERED AT AN ALEHOUSE for nearly an hour with Tremblay before the Frenchman stiffened and put down his cup. “It’s them—my masters!”

  The two figures across the street indeed fitted the description of the French visitors to Worcester the night Chisholm had died. “Proceed with your business,” Duncan reminded Tremblay. “Report about Beck, and add that he is asking about the missing gold. Find out the name of the stranger coming to meet with them. Do not alarm them, monsieur,” he warned.

  He watched, trying to control his emotions, as Tremblay crossed the rain-slicked street toward the inn where the French agents were staying. These were the men who had heartlessly taken the lives of the sailors on the Arcturus; these were the men who had used Mog to kill Daniel Oliver and Josiah Chisholm, who had intended to kidnap and probably kill young Will. A reckoning was long overdue, but Duncan knew there could be none until all the pieces of his puzzle fell into place.

  Tremblay entered the inn with them, pausing in the open door to shake the rain off his cloak; then they disappeared inside. More than any city Duncan knew, Montreal was accustomed to the sight of tribesmen on its streets, so the appearance of Woolford and his Mohawk rangers out of the shadows caused no alarm to passersby. Duncan and Woolford conferred briefly, and the Mohawks were dispatched to watch the rear of the inn and assess whether the Frenchmen’s upper-floor rooms might be easily accessible from the outside. Woolford slipped away with a nod, intending to make a brief passage across the front of the inn so he might better see the faces of the two spies as they lingered at the hearth, drying off.

  But once at the window, Woolford froze, staring inside. Duncan, fearful that he would make the Frenchmen suspicious, darted across the wet cobblestones. He grabbed his friend’s arm, but instead of moving, Woolford motioned toward the window. The three men were indeed at the hearth, but they had been joined by a fourth, their anxiously awaited visitor, who would complete their mission and take Tremblay back with him. The French spies were speaking with Robert Livingston, baron of the New York colony.

  20

  THE JESUITS AND THE MOHAWKS were surprisingly adept at what Wool-ford had taken to calling urban rangering. Each in their way had been evading, and watching, enemies for years, and now reports came in almost hourly to Duncan and Woolford as they waited in the vaulted kitchen of the old rectory. Between reports, they debated as to why Livingston would have business with the French spies. At best, he was just another merchant being asked about financial transfers supporting settlement in the Champlain Valley, as the French tried to find the missing gold. At worse, he was an operative for the French, though neither Duncan nor Woolford could imagine a goal that the French would have in New York town or the Hudson Valley.

  “But it isn’t about the gold for Livingston. It’s about the ledger,” Duncan said. “Livingston and Hancock were desperate to get it back, though I never understood why. And Tremblay’s bosses said the ledger was working its magic already.”

  “The Frenchmen stole that ledger for their king,” Woolford replied. “I doubt Livingston has anything to offer that would outweigh the glory they expect when they present it in Versailles.”

  “But why, Patrick,” Duncan asked in frustration, “why do kings so despera
tely want some ledger concerning merchants of the British colonies? The question has become like some black beast gnawing at my heart!”

  They had learned that Beck and Mallory had called at two more finance houses, Livingston had purchased some Brussels lace, and the French played chess with each other, then had a rich meal and walked along the outer wall, stopping for a time to sit on a bench opposite the cell of Robert Rogers. Corporal Longtree first reported that Colonel Hazlitt, commander of Fort Ticonderoga, had arrived and visited a violin maker behind the fish market then had a long talk with a furrier who was selling pelts of fisher cats. Later, two different Frenchmen wearing spectacles had called at Tremblay’s bookshop.

  DUNCAN AND CONAWAGO WATCHED FROM a leaded-glass window in the rectory’s spacious second-floor library as a cloaked figure followed Father Deschamps up the steps into the rectory, leaving his kilted escort, one of Corporal Buchanan’s squad, standing at the bottom of the steps. The visitor was engaged in lively conversation with the vicar general as the two men entered the long library chamber. Duncan and the old Nipmuc pulled up the hoods of their cassocks and took seats at a remote table as the vicar guided the visitor to a cabinet under the row of windows.

  “You are most welcome, Colonel,” the vicar graciously said as the commander of Ticonderoga removed his cloak, revealing his scarlet uniform.

  “I am at a disadvantage, sir,” Hazlitt admitted. “When your man—the poor fellow was mute, I believe—handed me this”—he produced a bright white skull with two long amber-colored teeth—“I was nonplussed. But then I saw the most amazing signature on it and had to learn more. I can tell it is authentic, from a letter I have in my possession.”

  “Most authentic, I assure you. Monsieur Bougainville was an avid natural philosopher even while serving here in the war,” the vicar explained, “and he collected so avidly he had to leave many specimens in our custody, saying he would eventually send for them. But as we know, he has been most busy. You may keep the beaver skull. I am sure the good gentleman would not mind.”