The Governor's Ladies

by Lake, Deryn

  “Is that good for you, controlling your emotions to the point of rigidity?”

  “Good for me or bad for me, it is how I am. An army man, disciplined I suppose. You obviously consider too much so.”

  “And does that worry you, what I think?”

  The Colonel still had hold of her arm and now he tightened his grip.

  “It would worry me very much indeed.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because even after so short an acquaintance, I hold you in the highest regard.”

  She took a step nearer to him. “Do you, Colonel Gage?”

  Tom ran his eyes rapidly over the landscape, a soldier’s trick if ever there was one. There was no-one in sight, the other walkers having disappeared into a frost-filled arbour.

  “Stop teasing me, Miss Kemble.”

  “Why? It gives me pleasure.”

  “And does this give you pleasure, too?”

  And he kissed her, swift and deep, before she had time to utter another word.

  She drew back from him. “Gracious me, Colonel. Wasn’t that rather indecorous.”

  Tom Gage shook his head. “No, my dear young lady, it was absolutely delightful. Wasn’t it?”

  The beautiful eyes gleamed with unexpressed thoughts. “May I write to a lonely soldier when he is posted away from home?”

  “If that soldier is myself, then most certainly.”

  Removing herself from his grip, Margaret ran ahead, then turned to look at him. “Will you be gone long?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “It had better not be too lengthy a posting. After all, who will I have to make me laugh when you’re not here?”

  And with that she hurried on to join the others.

  Chapter Two

  August, 1757

  The silence in the forest was almost audible. Other than for the breathing of the halted men, panting slightly, glad to have come to a stop, there was nothing. Not a bird sang, not a twig cracked, the quiet was enormous.

  Gage held up his hand, put a finger to his lips, then beckoned his second-in-command to his side. Moving as softly as he could, Henry Gladwin eased his way to where his superior stood. Gage mouthed the word ‘look’, and parted the branches so that Gladwin could get a reasonable view of the fort that lay ahead of them. The Major stared, then, equally quietly, allowed the foliage to drop back to its original position.

  “What do you think?” whispered the Colonel.

  Major Gladwin put his lips to his companion’s ear. “Looks horribly deserted to me, Sir.”

  “And me,” Gage murmured back. “I can’t see a human soul.”

  “Is it a trap?”

  “If it is, it means we’re too late.”

  The two men stared at each other momentarily, then Gage turned to his troop of soldiers and beckoned them on, again raising his finger to his lips. As quietly as they could, the forty proceeded forward through the dense woodland.

  The nearer they drew to the fort, the more there came a sense of unreality, as if they were looking at a paper cut-out rather than a large timber structure. Total silence engulfed the place, nothing moved. It seemed to the approaching soldiers as if the building had long since been deserted. Yet this could hardly be the case. The siege of Fort William Henry had started barely two weeks earlier, but of the besiegers and the besieged there was no sign whatsoever.

  For the second time, Gage drew his party to a halt and turned to the Major.

  “Well?”

  “It could be a ploy, Sir. Perhaps we’re meant to walk in.”

  “Urn.” Torn Gage deliberated. “On the other hand we can’t hang around in the woods for too long. Let’s send in a scout.” He turned, whispering, “Calico Joel, can you get the measure of the place for us?”

  “Why not?” said a voice with a marked French accent, right behind the Colonel and so close to him that it made him jump. He turned to look at the scout with a slight smile.

  “I wish you wouldn’t creep up on people like that. It’s unnerving.”

  The half-breed grinned. Part Indian, part French, Calico Joel stood unusually tall for one of his mixed ancestry. His mother had been French and his father a Cherokee warrior, who had abducted her from a wagon train while still a child in a calico dress. His eyes were deep set, brown and hawkish, his features a mixture of two nations, yet with something of his mother’s delicacy in them. But it was his long hair, waist length and black as night, today worn loose though he often plaited it, that the English found amusing. That and his peculiar garb. For Calico Joel wore an old pair of army breeches, together with a strange type of waistcoat made from fur which exposed his chest, even in winter. His hat, though, was the crowning glory. A tricorne, stolen from a dead British colonel, it had a tattered bow on one cock and a Cherokee emblem to ward off evil spirits on the other. This, together with a scarlet feather draped nattily over the crown, completed the ensemble.

  “You want me to search, mon Colonel?” he said now.

  “Go and have a look at the fort. Tell us what’s happening.”

  “Oui, certainement,” Calico Joel answered and, turning, vanished into the undergrowth without another word.

  Major Gladwin stared after him. “Do you trust that fellow?”

  “With my life,” said Gage simply, and put an end to any further discussion.

  Twenty minutes later the scout returned, his face expressionless. “They’re gone,” he said briefly.

  “What do you mean?” asked the Colonel.

  “Just that. The fort is empty of the living. I did not go in but there is no trap.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure,” replied Calico Joel, spat upon the ground, and vanished once more.

  The Colonel allowed himself the luxury of a laugh. “Well, we may as well find out.” He turned to his troop, some of whom had snatched the moment and were sitting down. “Come on, men. Muskets at the ready. We’re entering the fort.”

  There was a general scramble as they came to order and then the slow advance to Fort William Henry began. Meanwhile the Indian scout loped ahead, hiding himself amongst the trees so cleverly that occasionally he disappeared from view entirely. Eventually, though, the protection of the forest came to an end and they reached the clearing in which the fort had been built, the shores of Lake George clearly visible behind it, appearing nearer because of the heat of the day. Gage turned to his men once more.

  “Advance. On the double!” and unsheathing his sword he ran across the clearing and in through the double wooden doors, which hung open, listlessly responding to what breeze there was.

  It was an eerie sensation, Tom thought as he ran. In normal circumstances there would have been the cry of the soldiers on duty as he approached the gates. But today the only sound was the slight echo of his voice as he crossed the empty clearing and made his way into the unguarded fort. Silently, Calico Joel appeared at his side.

  “There’s death here,” he said briefly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That the only men left here are dead.”

  “How do you know?”

  For answer the scout gave a slight shrug but said nothing further and it was left to Gage to walk silently across the fort’s parade ground and enter into the main building itself. Then he heard it. A faint buzzing sound. He turned to Calico Joel.

  “What’s that?”

  “The flies have got here before us.”

  Even as he said the words, the first faint smell began to assail Tom’s nostrils. He clapped a handkerchief to his nose and said, “Oh my God,” to Gladwin, who had followed him in.

  “Where’s it coming from?”

  “Somewhere within. I’ll go and look. Order the men to keep close watch, will you.”

  The Major left the room briefly and Tom turned to the scout. “Lead the way. You know how I hate this.”

  Calico Joel smiled. “You hate war, mon Colonel. You have always hated it.”

  It was true, Tom thought,
as he followed the scout through room after room until eventually they came to what had once been Colonel George Munro’s office.

  There were papers everywhere; on the floor, on the desk, on the chairs. All scattered with wild abandon and no thought of order. But it was not to the documents that Gage’s eyes were drawn, but rather to the heap of bodies, thrown into the centre of the room with careless cynicism. As he took in the full horror of the scene Tom felt his guts heave and fought to control them. For there were brains and blood everywhere. The men had been scalped, every one.

  Beside Tom Gage’s foot, so close that he had almost trodden on him, lay a young soldier, his features hacked to bits for good measure, nothing much remaining above the shoulders except an oozing gelatinous mess. The Colonel drew in his breath and struggled to master his feeling of utter revulsion, seeing again the field at Culloden and that sea of kilted corpses, many bearing hideous mutilations.

  Calico Joel looked down impassively. “So the Frenchman couldn’t control his Indian allies,” was all he said.

  “Is that what this is?”

  “Absolument. Montcalm had to allow them some liberties, so he let them scalp their enemies.”

  Gage made a bitter sound. “Enemies! Why, this poor thing…” He indicated the soldier lying at his feet. “…could have been no more than eighteen years old.”

  Calico Joel shrugged. “What difference does age make?”

  It was pointless even discussing the situation with him and Gage did not try, instead calling out to Gladwin, who had come into the room and was standing horror-struck, “Arrange for these wretched creatures to be buried straight away. They’re starting to decompose.”

  The Major, pale, answered, “Yes, Sir,” and left rather swiftly.

  “We’d better search the rest of the building,” Gage said to the scout.

  Calico Joel, unmoved by the sight he had just seen, merely nodded.

  As they left to continue the search Major Gladwin came in with several of the harder soldiers, handkerchiefs over their noses, and set about the task of removing the bodies, unceremoniously grabbing hold of legs and dragging the dead out.

  “There may be more,” Gage warned over his shoulder.

  “Let’s hope they didn’t die like this lot.”

  But they had. In other rooms there were other bodies, some of them killed while they slept in their bunks. All in all it was a tragic case of ritual slaughter, the ferocity of which Gage did not fully comprehend, seeming savage beyond belief. Yet it was the Indian way to take a scalp as a trophy, and the French and the Indians were now allies against the British.

  Eventually his search was done and he reeled out into the open air, taking in great breaths as he did so. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Tom Gage closed his eyes momentarily.

  “It was a vile attack, Sir,” said Major Gladwin, close to his elbow. Tom looked at him. “You have to hand it to Montcalm. He must have taken the fort with great force.”

  “Yes, I think one could safely say that,” the Major replied bitterly.

  Gage pulled a wry face but made no reply and, laden with thought, the two men, having ordered that all the bodies should be removed and buried as an urgent priority, made their way to the shores of Lake George.

  It was calm as a pond and full of golden light, where the sun skimmed and dipped its surface. After the ugliness he had just witnessed, Colonel Gage simply stared, not looking at his companion, not looking at anything, except the vast expanse of water that lay before him. The sky was clear blue, reflecting in the lake, so that it looked bright as hyacinths and smelled almost as good.

  “Beautiful,” the Colonel said to himself.

  Major Gladwin nodded, sitting on the stump of a tree that had been felled to build the fort they had just left. His eyes closed as he basked in the sun, escaping momentarily the horrors of war.

  Tom Gage wandered a few paces, seeing again the young soldier who had died so savagely. Then, quite deliberately, he thought of Margaret Kemble, forcing visions of the dead men away. He hadn’t set eyes on her since that last time, a time early in January when she had left for New Jersey, to this. But she had written regularly, and he had corresponded with her, though he doubted that some of his letters had reached her. He wondered now whether she would feel the same about him, whether her interest had been dimmed by the passing of time. As for himself, he no longer knew what he felt, whether he was fond of her or not. In fact, at this precise moment, blunted by what he had just experienced, he no longer cared. Thoughts of his dead mistress returned to haunt him and he considered, at that moment, that he might be better remaining a bachelor.

  He must have made some faint gesture because Major Gilbey said, “Are you all right, Sir?”

  Tom turned to look at him, resting his eyes away from the glittering lake. “Yes. No. To be honest with you I dislike the sight of death. Always have. A weakness in a soldier I dare say.”

  “I didn’t relish it either. It was particularly savage. But that is the Indian way I suppose.”

  “Yes, the Indian way.” Gage sighed. “We’d best be getting back. Check that the burials are going satisfactorily.”

  “You’ll have to say a few words over the graves, Sir.”

  “Yes, I’ll say something,” Tom answered bitterly as they trudged back in the direction of the fort.

  Chapter Three

  Christmas, 1757

  The invitation was totally unexpected. It came from Peter Kemble himself, head of the Kemble family, and merely said that if Colonel Gage were at a loose end this Christmas he would be more than welcome as a house guest. Of his beautiful daughter, Margaret, there was absolutely no mention, rather the letter talked about Stephen Kemble who had been commissioned as an ensign in Gage’s regiment. It was he, apparently, who had suggested the whole idea. That is, if the Colonel were free and willing to accept.

  At first Tom had been intrigued, then, the more the idea grew on him, he became full of a restless energy, a wish to see Margaret again and satisfy his curiosity as to his feelings for her.

  Meanwhile, however, there was much to be done. He had been in New York for two days and had in his hands the long-awaited documents, delivered to him that very morning by Lord Rupert Germain. And what a triumph they were. Gage had not been wrong about the effeminate young man having a sharp and incisive brain. There, on paper, was the master plan for the formation of Gage’s chasseurs. Under the heading The First Definitely Light-Armed Regiment in the British Army, Germain had laid it all out.

  Gage would be responsible for enlisting five hundred men, consisting of sergeants and corporals from the Regulars and the Colonel’s own choice of officers, together with the tank and field who would come from America. No Frenchmen and no deserters would be accepted and the troops were to be ‘active, young and healthy and strong, free from all ruptures, sprains or any bodily ailment whatever’. In return Gage would raise and clothe the regiment, provided the government gave him £500, the price of his existing commission. For, if the plan was approved, he was to be promoted from Lieutenant Colonel to full Colonel.

  As he read through the document, prepared with such intricacy and cleverness, Tom went back in his mind to that Christmas – exactly a year ago – when he had first met Margaret Kemble and Rupert Germain. Had it been as Robert Hunter Morris predicted? Had Rupert fallen in love with him? It would appear from the paper in his hand that perhaps it had been so. But, much more importantly, what were Margaret Kemble’s thoughts? Her letters had been full of news and vitality but noncommittal, almost to the point of indifference.

  Gage sighed. The older he got – and he was now thirty-eight, having just celebrated his birthday – the less he found he knew, especially about women. Could it be that he was still in love with his fragile mistress, he wondered? Or had the passion that Margaret aroused in him been deeper than just a passing fancy?

  He got up and took a turn round the room, looking out of the window of the private house where he was quartered.
He could see horses and trees, and a carriage which passed slowly by. With a sudden determination Tom Gage went to his desk, put down the precious papers he still carried in his hand, and picked up his pen. ‘Dear Mr. Kemble,’ he started, ‘What a Great Pleasure it would Be to Spend Christmas with You and Your Family…’ Then he laid down the pen again and allowed a slow smile to light his rather tense features as he remembered.

  *

  “It’s a good plan, Gage,” said the Earl of Loudon, his Scottish accent quite pronounced, as it often was when he was tired. “A very good plan indeed.”

  He looked up over his spectacles at the man sitting on the opposite side of the desk. “I’ve a mind to give it my full support.”

  Tom longed to say, ‘Why don’t you then,’ but maintained a dignified silence, allowing himself no more than a deprecating movement. Loudon studied the document again. “Five hundred men, you say?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And you think that will be sufficient?” Loudon was clearly fatigued because his Scottish burr was becoming more and more pronounced.

  “I think that is the maximum I will be able to find, realistically speaking.”

  “I see.” There was a long pause while the commander-in-chief studied the document assiduously. Finally, though, he looked up. “I believe I am prepared to back this.”

  Gage controlled his joy, meanwhile sending a prayer of thanks to Rupert Germain. “I would esteem that a great honour, Sir.”

  Loudon allowed himself the luxury of a wintery smile. “Furthermore, Colonel Gage, I am prepared to lend you £2,600 from army funds, provided, of course, that you repay this amount when our superiors in London give their blessing to the scheme.”

  Gage leapt out of his chair. “My God, Sir, this is splendid.”

  Loudon shrank away slightly. “There is no need to thank me. It is an excellent plan and one which merits support.” He cleared his throat indicating that the interview was at an end. “That will be all, Colonel. I shall get my secretary to draw up the necessary papers. Good day to you.