Rogue's Hostage

by Linda McLaughlin

  Jacques and Alain nodded in understanding.

  De Ligneris turned to his other officers. “See that your men are given eight days rations, and have them ready to march out of here on my orders.”

  Jacques followed Alain out of the captain’s quarters. There was much to do before nightfall, but first he had to make sure Mara was aware of what was happening.

  He caught Alain’s arm to detain him. “I will be with you shortly. Madame Dupré will need time to pack.”

  Alain nodded. “But be quick about it.”

  *

  Mara was sitting behind the desk in the trading post, yarn and knitting needles in her hands, when Jacques burst in. Startled, she jumped up. “What is it?”

  “The English are half a day away. De Ligneris has just given the order to abandon and destroy the fort.”

  Mara frowned and forced herself to concentrate. She had not wanted to face him so soon, but was unable to turn away from the urgency in his tone. Could she not be spared the torment of his presence for even one day?

  “Some of the men will be coming here to pack up what is left of the trade goods. I advise you to stay out of their way.”

  Wordlessly, she stared at him, unable to focus or respond.

  His voice grew impatient. “Madame, are you listening to me? There is no time to delay. Pack only what you can carry yourself. We’ll be leaving soon. Bring the warmest clothing you can find. It will be cold where we are going.”

  She dragged herself out of her stupor. “You mean at Fort Machault?”

  He shook his head. “I doubt we will be there long. Once the guns are sent down river to the Illinois country, de Ligneris has no need of artillery officers. I suspect that Alain and I will be sent to Niagara, perhaps even to New France. And you will go with me.”

  At first, her mind refused to register the significance of his words. “New France?” She heard the faint thread of hysteria in her voice and tried to control her response.

  “Don’t worry. You will be safe with us.”

  She forced herself to mask her fear with a deceptive calmness. “What about the ransom? Gideon must know where to find me.”

  “Any messages from him will be forwarded,” Jacques assured her. “Now hurry and pack. I will return when it is time to leave.”

  Mara followed him to the door and watched him stride across the parade ground toward the ramparts. New France. The word kept repeating in her mind until she was reeling with it. New France.

  Dear Lord, how much farther must she travel? New France was far to the north, and winter fast approaching. She might freeze to death on the journey, and Gideon would never know what happened to her. Would she ever find her way home?

  Numb and bewildered, she stood for a long time, her knitting clutched in her hands. All around her, chaos took over the fort. Everywhere she looked, she saw a whirlwind of activity. Officers shouted orders and the men rushed to obey. Some dashed in and out of the barracks, carrying doors, tables, chairs, slats of wood that had been bunks. Roofs were torn from buildings. Stockades that were no longer needed for defense were cut down. Anything that would burn was chopped up and piled against the wooden palisades of the fort.

  On the ramparts, groaning, sweating gun crews tied ropes around the cannon and hoisted them off their platforms, then dragged them toward the river. She heard Jacques and Alain urging them on, cursing loudly when a cannon slipped off its gun carriage and fell in the dirt. By the time they were done, the parade ground looked as if it had been ploughed by a madman. Furrowed tracks led every which way, and clumps of mud dotted the ground. All was overlaid with tracks of black powder.

  A group of soldiers arrived to pack up the trade goods, and Mara retreated to the living area. There was little for her to do except wait since she had already packed her things, anticipating her freedom. Fool, she berated herself.

  She fought against the certainty that she would never see Gideon again. There was a heavy feeling in her chest, like a millstone crushing the last grain of hope inside her. Her throat ached with unshed tears. She felt vacant, spent, all emotions worn away.

  The future looked vague and shadowy, even more so than her past ordeals. How much could a person suffer without going mad? With a whimper, she sank down on the bed and buried her face in her hands, suddenly overwhelmed by the unrelenting torment of the past few months.

  Stop it, she ordered herself. The important thing was to survive. Blindly, she reached for her knitting, finding in the homey task a mindless comfort, a sense of normality. It was something to cling to while the world fell apart around her.

  *

  Only three hours later, everything was ready.

  Jacques and his men had manhandled the artillery pieces off the ramparts and into the waiting bateaux. The small store of trade goods had been packed up and sent to the nearby Indians as an inducement to oppose the English, but Jacques doubted the gesture would have the desired effect.

  He surveyed the troops lined up in the parade ground. With a final attempt at ceremony, the fleur-de-lys was lowered from the flagpole, and the men marched out.

  The deserted fort was an eerie sight. The remnants of roofs, furniture, and firewood, anything that would burn, were stacked against the log palisades of the fort. He and Alain had left about fifty barrels of spoiled gunpowder in the fort’s magazine. It should make for a satisfactory bonfire, a warm welcome for the enemy.

  Jacques strode into the trading post and through to the living quarters. Mara sat on the bed, humming to herself, her hands busily plying her needles. He frowned, surprised by her apparent calmness. “It is time.”

  She nodded, stuffed the knitting into the pouch by her side, and rose, picking up her belongings.

  “There is space for you in the first bateau. Alain and I will follow in the final boat after we blow up the fort.”

  Her eyes widened. “Be careful.”

  He was surprised, yet touched, by her warning. “I am always careful. I will see you when we stop for the night.”

  She left the room, and he looked around one last time. His gaze fell on a pile of blue material left on the floor by the hearth. The blue silk. He reached for it and came away with a frayed piece. Puzzled, he knelt to examine the material. A chill went through him when he realized the dress had been deliberately slashed to pieces.

  When he pressed the cloth to his lips, his nostrils were filled with Mara’s scent. With a rush, he remembered how beautiful she had looked last night, how delicious she had felt in his arms. How cruelly he had pushed her away.

  Conflicting emotions surged through him—guilt, longing, regret. His selfishness, his stubbornness, had pushed her to take last night’s desperate gamble. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, just to make her stop before he lost all control.

  Perhaps he should have let her stay at the fort and wait for the English. But it was too late to change things now.

  Saddened, he stood and stuffed the scrap of cloth into his pocket.

  “Mara,” he murmured in a choked voice. “What have I done to you?”

  *

  Mara sat in the bateau, facing backwards, staring downstream toward the fort. No one spoke. The only sound was the splashing of the oars in the water.

  The last boat pushed away from the landing and headed their way. Suddenly, an explosion rent the air, and clouds of black smoke poured up from the fort.

  Dry-eyed and defeated, Mara watched her future be destroyed with it. She was beyond pain, just hanging on to survival, but for what purpose, she did not know. Bereft of hope, she buried her shame and anguish deep in her heart where no one could see it. Pride was all she had left, no matter how false it seemed.

  Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. She could almost hear her grandfather’s voice intoning the old proverb. She smiled with sardonic weariness. How ironic that pride alone could survive disaster.

  When the fort was no longer in sight, she turned around to face north—and her uncertain future.<
br />
  *

  Dear Lord, don’t let it be too late, Gideon prayed.

  Fort Duquesne was only a few miles away, and he trod in fear of what he might find there. Or what he might not find.

  Three columns of troops marched steadily through the forest, led by the tapping of a drum at the head of each file. A carpet of damp leaves deadened the sound of their footsteps. A biting November wind blew through the bare tree branches overhead, making them sigh and moan in the lingering afternoon light. Gideon caught a slight whiff of smoke, and his fears grew.

  Late yesterday afternoon, Indian scouts had reported seeing clouds of black smoke from the direction of the fort. Cold, wet, and exhausted after marching forty miles in four days, he had spent a sleepless night, uncertain what the dawn might bring. The defeats of Braddock and Grant were never far from his mind.

  A few miles back, they had stumbled on the dead of Grant’s illfated expedition, left where they lay to feed the scavengers. Gideon tried to ignore the decaying bodies, some partially hidden by the fallen leaves. Monuments to French inhumanity. The cruelty of it infuriated and sickened him.

  At dusk, the head of the column emerged upon the open plain that led to the fort. There was a rumbling from the Highlanders in the middle column when they saw poles set in the ground with the heads of their dead comrades stuck on top, their kilts draped beneath, in imitation of petticoats.

  Fury engulfed Gideon, but it was all in vain—the enemy was gone.

  Aghast, he stared at what was left of Fort Duquesne. In the fading light, it resembled a scene from hell. Thirty chimneys towered out of the rubble of the fort, but not one building remained intact. The French had not left them so much as a foot of shelter.

  The acrid smell of charred wood overpowered his senses. The Destroyed Tower, he realized, just as the cards had predicted. And no Mara.

  In the end, though they were reminded of past defeats, the British were cheated of the chance to even the score. This was no French victory. Not this time, Gideon reminded himself. But it was a personal loss. The campaign was ended, but the fight was not over. Not for him. Not for Mara.

  He wanted to throw back his head and howl like a wounded animal. Instead, he cursed the French under his breath, the ransom they had demanded weighing heavily in his pockets. He feared that Mara would slip through his grasp again. Somehow, he had to find her.

  No matter how long it took or how far he had to go, he would find her.

  Chapter 12

  Quebec, Canada, April 1759

  The journey was almost over.

  Eyes narrowed against the glare off the water, Jacques stared at the approaching skyline of Quebec as the bateau rushed downriver. Perched on the north side of the Saint Lawrence River, the city’s walls and fortifications guarded the way into the interior of New France. Though the British had tried twice, the city had never fallen. But Jacques knew that sooner or later they would try again.

  He glanced at Mara, who sat beside him, huddled in her shawl, shivering slightly. When he put an arm around her and pulled her closer, she burrowed against him. Guilt and regret stirred inside him. She was the reason he had requested a transfer back to Quebec. Since leaving Fort Duquesne, she had been a different woman—quiet, submissive, and obedient.

  To his surprise, he missed her sharp tongue and pointed opinions. All through the long Canadian winter, he had watched and waited for her to revert to her normal self, but it was as if she were a different woman. On occasion, Jacques had been tempted to bait her, but his guilt kept him from doing so. Her state of mind was his fault, after all.

  In the last four months, she had followed him over a route seen by few white men, much less a woman. Together they had traveled by bateau, canoe, sled, and snowshoe. Mara had witnessed the mighty power of Niagara Falls, traversed Lake Ontario, and braved the Lachine Rapids—all without complaining. But also without any sense of wonder or enthusiasm for the places she’d seen, just a wistful remark about how much Emile would have liked to see the falls.

  It had been an arduous journey, and now she deserved some comfort.

  A raw wind off the river threw pellets of rain in his face, and he pulled up the woolen muffler Mara had knitted for him. That was all she had done at Niagara, her needles clicking incessantly until he had thought he would go mad. But something about the rhythmic nature of the task seemed to comfort her, so he’d said nothing.

  Another blast of wind reminded him of how long and severe Canadian winters could be. In this northern country, rivers and lakes froze over completely. There was a wild beauty in it that he used to find exhilarating. Until an equally impervious chill took up residence around his heart.

  The bateau docked at the part of the city called Lower Town, below the cliffs of Cap Diamant. Above them towered the ramparts guarding the government and church buildings that comprised Upper Town. Jacques helped Mara onto the dock and led her down a street lined with warehouses and taverns. He stopped in front of a sign picturing a leering devil with a forked tail.

  “Le Diable? What are we doing here?” she asked, a surprised look on her face.

  “This is home, madame. Welcome to my humble establishment.”

  “Surely you are teasing me,” she said, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

  “On the contrary, you are looking at one of the owners of this fine tavern. My first winter here, I won enough money playing cards to buy a partnership.”

  Her lips pressed together primly. “But why this one? Why Le Diable?”

  He flashed her an unrepentant grin. “All my life, people have been wishing me to the devil. It seemed appropriate.”

  Mara shook her head. “And where am I to stay? Surely you do not expect me to live here?”

  Jacques caught his breath. This was the most life he’d seen in her in months. Perhaps she was ready to come out of her doldrums. “Does it offend your sense of propriety, little Puritan?”

  She sniffed. “It is a den of iniquity.”

  His lips twitched at her disdain. “Must we stand out here in the rain? Come, let me show you around.”

  Mara gave in with as much grace as she could muster. It would do no harm to go inside and get warmed up. Her feet were wet and cold, despite her heavy woolen stockings, and she was beginning to shiver again.

  Jacques led her up a short flight of stairs, opened the door, and motioned her inside a small entry, then into the large taproom. A fire blazing in the hearth on the far side of the room made her realize how chilled she was. Taking her hand, he urged her closer to the fire.

  She looked around the room curiously. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling rafters, providing additional illumination to the weak sunlight coming through the windows. The scent of burning oil combined with wood smoke and liquor. A few customers sat at scarred wood tables, drinking ale or playing a hand of cards. The place was surprisingly quiet, just a low hum of voices in the background.

  She glanced at Jacques who was watching her with an amused expression on his face. “It does not seem too terrible,” she admitted.

  “It is just a tavern, Mara, not a brothel.”

  She felt herself blush at his words.

  “In fact, madame, it is one of the better taverns in Lower Town, in part due to my friend Corbeau.”

  Mara turned to stare at the man who had just spoken. No taller than she, he was grizzled-looking, his enormous gray mustache seeming out of place given his bald pate. Over his linen shirt and brown breeches, he wore a leather apron.

  Jacques chuckled. “Madame Dupré, may I present my partner, Sergeant Victor Charvat.”

  Amusement twinkling in his dark eyes, Charvat made her a bow. “My pleasure, madame. What can I do to make your stay more pleasant?”

  Mara had to smile at the man. There was something infectious about his good spirits. “Nothing, sergeant. Jacques will take care of me in his own fashion, as he always does.”

  Charvat cocked his head at Jacques, a quizzical look on his face.

&nbs
p; Jacques just sighed. “I will explain later, Victor. It is a long story. For now, I want to show Madame Dupré around and get her settled in.”

  Jacques led her out of the taproom and down a dark narrow hall to a smaller chamber. “This is a private room for officers and other gentlemen.”

  The walls of the room were decorated with various pelts of fur, fox and beaver, for the most part. An enormous bear rug lay in front of the fireplace. She stepped around the large oak table in the center of the room, headed for the warmth of the fire. As she held her hands out to warm them, she pondered her situation. How could she possibly stay here? Yet, as a captive, what other choice did she have?

  She remembered Claude Bernard speaking of Jacques’s gaming. Claude had claimed it was the reason he’d been banished to the wilderness. Well, it was one thing for him to live in a tavern, if that was what he wished, but she had no intention of doing so.

  She spun around, fisted her hands on her hips, and tapped her foot on the stone hearth. “I do not wish to insult you or your partner, but my family would never approve, and I am surprised that yours would. Running a tavern seems an odd occupation for the son of an aristocrat.”

  He leaned against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “My mother was a tavern maid.” He laughed but the sound had a bitter edge to it. “I was born under the Sign of the Raven, hence my name. I have merely come full circle.”

  A bastard and the son of a tavern maid. She had known that was why some of the other French officers seemed to hold him in contempt. She felt a sudden rush of indignation on his behalf. A man should be judged on his own merits and not the circumstances of his birth.

  She touched his arm briefly. “There is no stigma in honest employment. I know I would welcome the opportunity to work and earn my keep. Otherwise, everyone will think I am your mistress.”

  A gleam came into his eyes. “That could be arranged.”

  Mara felt her face grow hot again. She should never have brought up the subject. After all, he had been the perfect gentleman all winter. “Stop it, Jacques. You know what I meant.”