“You promised to hunt me down and kill me. And yet here I stand.”
André nodded slowly, giving a hint of a smile. “I stand corrected. It is never too late, of course. But today I return you to your miserable commander. If it were me being returned to that man, I would consider it a sentence almost worse than death.”
Later that morning, Connor was assigned a stone-faced Mi’kmaq companion as a guide to the site where he would be traded. The warrior spoke little more than had Connor’s earlier Mi’kmaq companion. It was a long, painful trek, but Connor did not complain. He was walking toward life—not a long, drawn-out death—after all. After about an hour they stopped at the foot of a hill lined by spruce and waited in the mist. Some while later they were alerted by a crashing through the brush.
“English,” the warrior muttered with disgust.
Two Frenchmen entered the clearing first, both of them struggling with their balance since their hands were tied. The Mi’kmaq looked unimpressed but stood to welcome them. Behind them was a British soldier.
Fitch. He strode over and slapped Connor on his shoulder. “You’ve looked better, you ’ave. Bit of trouble with the locals?”
“Good day, Corporal,” Connor managed, offering a tight smile.
“Bet you’re surprised to see me, aye?”
“You could say that.”
“We’ll get you all settled in back with your own soon enough.” A shadow darkened his expression; then the glint was back. “Winslow’s eager to see you, he is.”
“I look forward to seeing him as well,” Connor lied.
Fitch stood with his legs apart, arms crossed importantly over his red coat. “Right. We’re good then. Let’s go. Farewell for now, lads.” He shoved the bound captives toward their waiting guide. “Next time I see you filthy French frogs, I’ll shoot you.” Looking toward Connor, he gestured with one hand toward the path. “After you, Sergeant MacDonnell. You’re the sergeant, after all.”
The forest was less dense here, making following the path easier, and it seemed to frustrate Fitch that Connor couldn’t walk quickly. But the pounding in Connor’s head hadn’t eased, and sometimes when the path dipped, Connor took a step that went farther than he’d planned. He fought dizziness by insisting they pause at any river crossing, where he gulped the glacial water and splashed his face, breathing deeply.
“We’ll make camp here,” Connor informed Fitch late that afternoon. The spot seemed perfect in more ways than one. First, it was near the river and offered shelter in the way of a shallow cave. Second, Connor didn’t feel he could take another step.
“What, ’ere?” Fitch sneered. “You’ve no stamina anymore, Sergeant. Made you into a bit of a nancy, did they?”
It didn’t matter what he said. Connor was—as Fitch had reminded him many times—the senior officer, and this was where he was going to sleep.
“Come on!” Fitch whined, walking a few more paces. “We can make it afore nightfall if we keep on.”
Recent rain had dampened most of the wood in the area, but Connor spotted a fallen tree which had sheltered a few twigs from the weather. He set to work building a fire.
Fitch watched him work. “I’d rather keep going,” he muttered.
“So you’ve made clear.” Connor fed a spark to a handful of dry moss, then dipped a piece of birch bark into the growing flame. “You seem in a hurry. I’m surprised. I’d have thought you’d welcome the opportunity to sit by a fire one more night and not return to active duty.”
Fitch wandered closer, surrendering to the inevitable. “Think you know me, do you?”
There seemed no real response to that other than a shrug, but yes, Connor knew exactly who Fitch was. He was a shallow, jealous man with few scruples. Since he could never move back up the military ladder as a result of his dishonourable conduct, he made himself feel important by belittling others.
“You don’t,” Fitch insisted, squatting by the fire.
Connor sighed, drained by the man and the day and the constant, pulsing pain in his head. “If you say so.”
The fire was rising, crackling cheerfully. Connor held his hands toward it, enjoying the delicious warmth, then slipped off his boots and laid his soaked stockings on the ground nearby. Perhaps in the morning they would be dry. When the weather was warmer, he promised himself, he would treat his blistered feet by going barefoot more often. He was aware of Fitch watching everything he did, hostility radiating off him as tangibly as the heat from the fire, suggesting his rage was unpredictable. Considering the condition Connor was already in, he decided the safest thing he could do was say nothing.
Evidently that was not enough for Fitch. He sprang to his feet and began to pace. “You might be a sergeant, but you’re not half the man I am.”
“True enough,” Connor said, on alert.
“You think you’ve outdone me, Scottish pig, but ye haven’t.”
This new reference to Connor’s nationality was a shock, and his hackles rose in reaction. “I have no such thoughts, Englishman,” he retorted. “In fact I don’t think of you at all unless you are with me, talking my ear off.”
“That’s not true!” Fitch hissed, leaning toward Connor’s face.
“It is.”
“Get up and march, soldier!” Fitch snapped.
Exhaustion was set aside, replaced by irritation. Must he spend his entire life dealing with this ass? “If you’re in such a hurry to get back to the rum in your tent, go on your own. I’ll follow in the morning.”
Fitch’s eyes flashed with anger. He kicked at the fire, pelting Connor with burning twigs. Despite his pain, Connor leapt to his feet.
“You’d kick fire at me, wee man?” he said through gritted teeth. “What would possess you to do that? Stand down, Corporal! I’ve no idea what has you in such a state, but you’ll quit it now. We will stay here the night, and I’ll hear no more about it.”
They glared at each other, breathing hard, until Connor turned away. It wasn’t worth fighting over this. He started to walk back to his place by the fire but stopped abruptly, struck by a sharp pain in his back. He dropped to his knees, hand at his side, then turned it palm side up. His hand was slick with blood. The wound didn’t feel deep, but it burned.
He looked at Fitch with disbelief. The man clutched a bloodied knife in his shaking hand, and he shuffled from foot to foot, appearing uncertain. He looked more like a simple thug than a soldier.
“Now who’s in charge?” he nonetheless demanded. “You’ll do as I say, you will!”
Connor dared himself to laugh, looking away again. Taking his eyes off Fitch was a gamble since the man might still kill him; he was already unstable, yet it seemed what Fitch truly craved was confirmation he had won. Connor could not give him that.
Moving carefully so as not to jar the fresh wound, Connor slipped out of his coat and pulled his shirt over his head. He shivered as he wrapped the material around his torso, tying the sleeves tightly at his side so the bleeding might stop. He wished he could see the damn thing. And he wished people would stop attacking him from behind. Once the makeshift tourniquet was secure, he huddled back into his coat and settled in front of the fire as if nothing had happened.
The burning twigs Fitch had kicked at him before had all died out, leaving tiny lines of smoke behind, so Connor tossed them back into the fire.
“Idiot. I cannot walk now, so we are obliged to stay here a while longer,” Connor calmly informed him. “You stabbed me in the back like the coward you are, and now I must heal. You did not think that through, did you?”
Fitch’s nostrils flared with anger. “At least now you cannot escape.”
“I had no plans to escape. I am a sergeant in the British army, and unlike you, I know my place.”
“Ha! Do you indeed! I say you do not!”
“What are you saying now?”
“Only that I know about you.”
This was going nowhere. Connor shook his head and stared back at the fire.
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“You’re a traitor!” Fitch roared. “You were on that French ship what got away. And I know who else was on it, don’t I? Didn’t I just find that ship, then see your dolly on the beach after?”
“What?”
“Never thought I’d see her again, and she looked surprised to see me as well. But she knew who I was, and she knew I would come for you.”
Blood rushed into Connor’s cheeks.
“She was mighty glad to see me. Welcomed me to her bed, she did.”
The image sickened Connor, though he knew Fitch was lying.
“I had thought you’d be on that beach as well,” Fitch mused. “Then I caught wind of this prisoner exchange, found out it was you. I made sure Colonel Winslow sent me to fetch you.” His smile was back, as greasy as it had been in Grand Pré when he’d spoken of wanting to hunt down the Acadian girls. “I told him what I’d seen. Told him you were responsible for letting all them French folk go free. Told him you should hang for it. Guess what your little friend said? He agreed wit’ me, he did.”
Connor stared at him. The bastard had done it; he’d managed to catch Connor when no one else had. What was worse, Fitch was right: Connor’s actions labelled him a traitor, and he’d hang. The realization settled solidly in his gut and spread through his body as he staggered to his feet. The wound in his back radiated through him, jagged and burning, cutting through all the other pain, but fury drove him forward. Fitch watched with horrified fascination as Connor took two steps toward him, then punched him hard across his jaw. Fitch landed on his back with an exclamation of shock, his nose and lip bleeding, and sidled away like a crab as Connor came after him again. When his back came up against the trunk of a long-dead tree, he scrambled to his feet and jabbed at Connor with his knife again.
“I’ll see you hang!” he shouted.
Using the back of his hand, Connor brushed the weapon to the side, spinning Fitch with the motion. Fitch’s free hand gripped one of the dead tree’s branches and it broke off in his hand, providing him with a second weapon. He swept the sharp branch across Connor’s face, and when Connor belatedly raised his hands in defence, Fitch stabbed the splintered end into the fresh wound on his back. Agony shot through Connor, and he collapsed. In the next second Fitch had leapt on top of him, brandishing his knife again. He brought it down hard, stabbing into Connor’s shoulder, then he yanked it out and raised it over his head, ready to strike again. Connor tried to roll, tried to dislodge his stubborn attacker, but he was weakened by too many injuries, and the pain was too great. Fitch’s twisted face was blood-smeared, his eyes manic, and Connor thought, I’m going to die.
In the next instant, Fitch jerked with surprise and his eyes went blank. The knife dropped harmlessly from his hand as gravity carried him forward and dumped him, lifeless, on top of Connor.
Staring down at Connor was the silent Mi’kmaq he had dragged from the river. Connor hadn’t seen him since they’d come up against André. The hunter wiped the blade of his knife on his leggings, leaned down, and rolled Fitch onto the ground. Connor stared wordlessly up at him, bewildered, and the big man looked back, a smile stretching across his face. As a dark blanket of consciousness closed around Connor and his vision blurred, he realized it was the first time he’d seen the man smile.
THIRTY-TWO
He dreamed he stood on the ship, waves swaying beneath his feet. Near mid-deck he thought he spied grass poking up from between the boards, but when he got closer he realized they were fingers clawing through. He flung the hatch open and the hands burst out, scattering into the air like birds.
The water became the forest floor, and the gentle waves solidified, jarring him awake. Connor blinked, suddenly alert, and tried to make sense of his surroundings. After a moment he realized the Mi’kmaq hunter had fashioned a travois of sorts, and Connor was its passenger. He had been bundled under his own black cloak and tied securely, and judging from the care with which he was wrapped, he assumed the man had bound his injuries as well. The forest canopy bounced above him, the branches like random prison bars. He thought to ask where he was being dragged or how long they’d been travelling, but what answer could the mute have given him? He might as well have been on that rolling ship in his dream.
But something was wrong. The day was cool, yet sweat rolled off Connor’s brow, and the stab wound in his shoulder throbbed with a sinister heat. Panic fluttered in his chest, but he forced himself to be calm. There was nothing he could do. He was either the man’s captive or he was in his care; either way he was helpless to save himself. Lulled by the motion, he let himself melt into the rising heat of his body.
It was near dark by the time he awoke. Voices penetrated the fog in his head, setting off an alarm, and he struggled to understand the unfamiliar words. They seemed to be coming from far away, but faces loomed directly over him, their features confused by a dizzying array of stars. The travois was dragged inside a building, and when his eyes adjusted to the light, he made out the willow braces and birchbark walls, the woven baskets set around the edges; he was in another wigwam. The fear of becoming a slave roared up again, but when he struggled, trying to escape the bindings which kept him safe on the travois, an older woman set a hand on his chest and he stilled.
He was left alone in the sweltering heat, unable to think. Fever had spread through him like a wildfire, and his vision wavered when he managed to hold his eyes open for any length of time. The pressure of a cold, wet cloth on his forehead made him gasp, which made the young woman holding the cloth jump, but she quickly placed it back on his hot skin. Her touch was gentle, the water so cold it had to have come from heaven. He feared he might weep with relief, and the woman seemed to understand. She spoke softly, whispering and humming, treating him as if he were a child. When she brought water to his lips, he choked and coughed, then lifted his head despite its formidable weight and begged for more. Her slender fingers went to his chin, and she folded down the top of the cloak tucked around his neck. He had never known water could provide such pleasure. When his neck had been cleaned of dried blood and grime, she folded the cloak lower.
Then she stopped and pulled her hands away as if she’d been stung. What had he done? What had she seen? She whispered something to herself in the strange language of the Mi’kmaq; then her eyes rose from his chest to his face. He stared helplessly back.
“Where did you get this?” Her French was perfect. Now if only he could understand what she was asking about. When he didn’t answer, she asked, “Do you speak French?”
He nodded, and the fever rose behind his eyes. Sleep beckoned, weighting his lids.
“Then tell me. Where did you get this?”
“Get what?”
She scowled. “This necklace.”
Amélie. She had insisted he take it. He had kissed her . . . “A friend,” he said.
“Who?”
“Why . . . why do you need to know?”
“Because I made it. I gave it to a friend to keep her safe. I need to know if she gave it to you or if you took it from her.”
“She gave it to me. And I gave her my ring.”
“Where is she?” she said urgently.
“I don’t know.” Should he tell her he would give his life to know if Amélie still lived?
She watched him. “On the same night I gave it to my best friend, my Acadian sister, she told me she had fallen in love. And she told me the name of that man. In return, I promised I would keep him in my prayers so he might be safe. I need to know your name.”
He had heard that the eyes were the windows to the soul. If that were true, then this woman’s soul was pleading for his answer to be the one she sought.
“My name is Connor MacDonnell,” he said. “And the woman who gave me this necklace, the woman I love, is Amélie Belliveau.”
Amélie
THIRTY-THREE
“Are you ready for a new adventure, ma chérie?”
Papa looked exhausted. His hair was long enough now that he had
tied it roughly back, but in the late sun the blond curls were grizzled. It made me sad, seeing that. He was not old—barely past forty—but recent events had stolen any remnants of his youth.When I shrugged, he winked. “It could not be worse than what we’ve seen. Come. Let us see what we have inside.”
The cabin door was reluctant, but eventually it gave way with a drawn-out creak. The musty smell of long-trapped air rushed out, making me sneeze. The trapper’s little cabin reeked of abandonment. The remains of a long-dead fire, layered by dust and bird droppings, lay in the hearth. Other than a frail-looking table, a chair, and a rough cot, I saw nothing else. Any furs the trapper may have left had been claimed by the Maliseet. I longed to fling open the door and windows—I found a second one partially hidden behind a moth-eaten curtain—to replace the stagnant air with fresh, but we needed to retain heat until Papa could get a fire going.
Eventually the heat rose, warming the dank walls and bringing comfort to our bodies and souls. When night fell, the fire gave us light—and hope. Sitting before it on the rough floor, huddling with Giselle and Papa as we watched the flames, I thought we might truly survive this.
At last I had work with which I could occupy Giselle. The walls and both windows needed scrubbing, and the single cot was desperately in need of cleaning. In the morning, she set to the work with determination, making me proud. When Papa went to set snares, I sent her to the river with a bucket. When she did not come back right away, I went to investigate. The sun sparkled weakly through a break in the canopy of trees and twinkled off the water, showing me where to look. Giselle sat by the clear, cool stream, the bucket empty, scrubbing filth from her feet. She didn’t look up when I joined her.
“I’m weary of being dirty,” she said with a sigh.
“That must feel good.”
“Take your moccasins off. Sit with me.”
I was impatient to make the cabin a place where we could actually live, but I did as she suggested. When my toes dipped into the water, I gasped, then smiled with pleasure. For the first time in ages, my sister and I laughed together, and when I accidentally splashed her leg, she started to scrub it as well. The trees around us were thick as walls, the birds within their branches calm and vocal. I took off my coat and put it on the ground beside me, then started to untie my skirt.
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