by Sara Donati
A look of pure disgust passed over his face as he leaned down to bellow in the butcher’s ear. “Wake up, you great sack of Frog lard! The sun’s long up, innit? Wake up!” A single shove landed Denier on the floor, where he sputtered his way awake while Jones aimed kicks at his legs. He glanced over his shoulder at Pépin, who was watching with a wary expression over his fan of cards.
“If it was up to me I’d let you rot in gaol, the both of youse Frogs. But he says to let you go, and that’s what I’ll have to do.” He spat, barely missing Denier.
Pépin leaped to his feet. “Go?” He shot an astonished glance at Nathaniel and Hawkeye. “Go?”
“Are youse deef as well as stupid?” bellowed Jones, his color flushing to a deeper shade of red. He made a great sweeping gesture toward the door with one arm. “Released! Free! You’ve served your time! Go on now, before I find a reason to keep you here!” He gave the young farmer a push.
Denier scrambled out, but Pépin paused in the doorway, tolerating Jones’s shoves and kicks without flinching.
“We will meet again,” he said. And he was gone, hurried off by Thompson.
Jones lounged in the doorway, suddenly at ease. He grinned, his teeth showing greenish-yellow in the dim light. “He’ll see youse again, all right. On the gallows, and in short order.”
Hawkeye stood. Jones took a step backward, one pasty hand moving to the hilt of his short sword, stubby fingers fluttering.
“Go on, then,” he said. “I’d be glad to save the hangman some work. What, is that a surprise? Don’t tell me you didn’t hear them out there, hammering away?”
There was something going on in the courtyard, a persistent sawing and hammering that Nathaniel had not paid much mind to. Now he wanted to go hoist himself up to the window and have a better look, but he would not give Jones the satisfaction.
It was Moncrieff who spoke first. “Even Pink George wouldna dare hang us without a trial.” His voice had gone hoarse again and he coughed once.
Jones grinned, but his hand stayed on his weapon and his gaze fixed on Hawkeye. “He won’t have to. The governor comes in tomorrow. I expect you’ll swing the day after.”
“I dinna believe it,” muttered Moncrieff.
“Oh, not for you. There’s something else on for you, Moncrieff. Word come in with the post this morning, you’re wanted in Québec. A Crown matter, no less. Luck is with you, innit?”
Moncrieff rose to his feet with some uncertainty, glancing first at Nathaniel and then at Hawkeye, whose impassive expression did not shift in the slightest. Nathaniel had the urge to say something, but before he could Moncrieff had already been herded out the door.
“I wonder what that’s all about,” Nathaniel said, after a long silence.
Hawkeye shrugged, his uneasiness sitting clear on his face. “I expect Carleton finally figured out the connection between Moncrieff and the Earl of Carryck.”
Robbie moved to the window, pulling himself up on the bars with ease, in spite of his size. There he stayed for three long heartbeats. “Holy Mary,” he whispered, and dropped back down to the floor with a thud.
The cell seemed overlarge with three of their number gone so suddenly. They might each have had a cot to themselves, but instead they paced, winding around each other, from the window to the table to the door, and back again. They could not safely discuss the night to come, with Thompson never far away; they had no patience for cards; and the workmen out in the courtyard did not bear watching for very long. Nathaniel reminded himself that Iona was a resourceful woman a hundred times, and a hundred more. With or without Pépin, she would see the plan through tonight.
Robbie was sleeping when a new guard brought them watery soup and stale bread. He was all long arms and hands, not in his full growth yet, with a dusting of dark blond hair on his upper lip. Generally the guards were a talkative lot, but this one just watched them for a few minutes, sharp eyed and curious for all his silence, and then slipped away without a word.
They roused Robbie and ate without talking, stomachs roiling and clenching in protest. When the sun set, Hawkeye lay down, put an arm over his face, and went to sleep. Robbie tried to follow his example, but Nathaniel could tell by his breathing that he was awake, and uneasy. Outside the small window the sky blazed red and gold with the last of the sun.
Vaguely he was aware of the seminary clock striking the hour. At seven the courtyard was mostly quiet; the men who passed through spoke of their suppers and the weather. At eight it was full dark and a light rain had begun to fall. At nine Hawkeye was awake again, his expression as calm and resolute as Nathaniel had ever seen it. They sat in the dark and damp cold of the spring night, testing the weight of Pépin’s candles in their palms, getting a sense of the thin blades inside the wax.
Nathaniel sat on the edge of the cot, facing the door; Robbie stood below the window. Hawkeye took up pacing again, all his consciousness thrown outward into the night. Listening.
The seminary clock struck ten. Nathaniel could hear the rhythm of his own heart, the pulse beating in each fingertip.
The sentry raised his voice in a sleepy challenge at the courtyard gate. A carter with a load of hay. The horse had a loose shoe, clattering over the cobblestones with a hitch.
A minute passed; another. Ten minutes. The carter was telling a story to the guard in a combination of English and country French. In one part of his mind, Nathaniel heard the rise and fall of his voice, but he might have been speaking Latin, for all the sense it made. He was watching his father, as he had watched his father for all his life; just now Hawkeye had the look that came over him when they were on the trail of a deer, when a single false movement would mean going home empty-handed.
Just a few minutes ago there had been total dark, but now Nathaniel realized that Hawkeye’s face was bathed in a flickering light. On the other side of the courtyard, the garrison was on fire.
“Jesus wept,” whispered Robbie, rising to his feet.
The garrison erupted like an anthill as the sentry sounded the alarm. The seminary bells began to ring almost immediately, and across the city others joined in. There was nothing like a blaze to wake up a town built of wood. Soon half of Montréal would come pouring in.
Over the noise they could just hear running footsteps in the hall, buttons and weapons and keys jangling. A new guard appeared at the door, his face as white as his shirtfront as he worked at the lock, a musket in one hand. No more than eighteen, but tall and well built. His gaze flitted again and again to the glow of fire in the small window.
“It would be easier if you put down the gun, son,” said Hawkeye in an easy way. “We won’t rush you.”
With a soft curse the boy dropped the musket and used both hands to turn the key. The door swung open. His Adam’s apple rode the length of his neck as he met their eyes, one by one.
“Iona sends word. You’re to follow me.”
“Luke,” said Robbie, squinting at the boy. “I should ha’ reconized ye.” He made a feeble gesture with his hand, as if to present the boy to Nathaniel and Hawkeye.
“Who is this, Rab?” Nathaniel had never heard of this boy, and there was something strange in Robbie’s expression.
The boy spoke up. “Iona is my grandmother,” he said, and Nathaniel saw Robbie’s mouth twitch. But there was no time to be surprised and less to ask questions.
“We are damned glad to see you, lad,” Hawkeye said. “But where’s the other guard?”
The boy shrugged, calmer now as he picked up the dropped musket. “He felt the sudden need to take a nap. We’ve got to make tracks, there’s no more than ten minutes.”
“Until what?” asked Nathaniel.
“Until they put the fire out or it reaches the gunpowder stores,” said Luke. “If anybody asks, I’m taking you to the lieutenant governor.” He pointed down the dim hall with his musket, and they set off.
They ran with the boy at the rear, his musket pointed at their backs, down stairs that echoed with a hundr
ed shouting voices. In the doorway they hesitated at the sight of the fire, creeping along the north wing of the garrison like a blind animal looking for food. The courtyard was full of smoke and rushing men, dodging the gallows in a ragged bucket line. The hangman’s noose twirled in the wind. Thompson and Jones were on the other side of the courtyard, in the line with most of the guards, some of them in nightshirts.
High time to be away.
In the chaos of so many rushing bodies it took a full minute to get to the side gate and push through. Luke led now. He ran into the city, ducking into a maze of narrow back alleys. Without breaking his stride, the boy stripped off his uniform jacket and the white shirt underneath it to reveal homespun and a leather jerkin. Finally he dodged into a barnyard and pressed himself into the shadows behind a shed.
The place smelled of burning charcoal and roast meat, new manure and earth recently turned for planting. Opposite them the little farmhouse was dark. There was a slight movement at the only unshuttered window: a hand raised in greeting and then nothing. Pépin. The men stood pressed close together, listening.
Five more minutes, and no explosion.
“They managed it, then,” said the boy, with considerable relief. He wiped the sweat from his face.
Hawkeye put a hand on his shoulder. “You took a chance, Luke. Thank you.”
“I wasn’t alone,” he said, barely able to meet his eye. “But you’re welcome.”
Nathaniel said, “Tell Iona thank you, too. We’re in her debt.”
“Most are, one way or the other,” he said. “But you can tell her yourself.”
Iona had appeared at the open door of the barn. She was wrapped in a cloak and carried a small lantern. She gestured to them silently and they slipped inside.
“Iona,” said Hawkeye, when they stood in a circle around her.
“Hawkeye.” Her tone was as cool and easy as always. “Nathaniel, Robbie. I am so very glad to see you well.”
Robbie drew in a sharp breath. “What a daft thing tae do, woman. Ye should ha’ stayed awa’.” In the meager light of the lantern his expression was haggard with outrage and fear.
She looked at him as she might have looked at a raging child, half affection and half impatience. “I have news that couldn’t wait.”
They followed her farther into the barn where the air was damp with the heavy, sweet smells of fresh milk and hay. Two cows shifted in their standing sleep. On the far wall there was a rustling from the pigpen. Nathaniel thought of Pink George, who probably already knew they were gone. He said, “We know about Carleton.”
The brown eyes met his own. “Of course. But do you know about William Spencer?”
Nathaniel thought he must have misunderstood. Prayed that he had misunderstood. “Will Spencer? Here?”
“Who the hell is Will Spencer?” asked Hawkeye, looking between them.
“Viscount Durbeyfield,” supplied Iona. “A man of some importance in England, as I understand it.”
Nathaniel said, “He’s the one married to Elizabeth’s cousin Amanda. A lawyer.” He spoke to his father, but his gaze was fixed on Iona. “Otter was supposed to send Runs-from-Bears, not Will Spencer. What is he doing here?”
“I don’t know exactly,” said Iona. “He didn’t come to me. He went to Somerville and the magistrates to plead your case.”
“Sassenach gentry wi’ their heids tegither,” muttered Robbie. “Lord ha’ mercy.”
“If we’re gone there ain’t any case to plead,” said Hawkeye.
“Listen to me.” Iona’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, her gaze drawing them all in. “The scout who brought this Will Spencer to Montréal from Chambly says that he got off a schooner that came up Champlain. There were other passengers. A white woman traveling with a black woman and children, and a Mohawk.”
Nathaniel’s heart leaped into an erratic rhythm. “Christ above. Elizabeth.”
“And Runs-from-Bears,” whispered Robbie.
Hawkeye grinned. “By God, she’s come up here with Curiosity to break us out of gaol. I don’t doubt they would’ve done it, too, if Iona hadn’t beat them to it.”
“I should have known,” said Nathaniel. “I should have known she wouldn’t stay behind.” And realized suddenly that he had been expecting this news for weeks now. She had crossed the endless forests for him once before.
“They aren’t in Montréal yet,” said Iona. “I’m sure of that much.”
“They’ll be traveling up the Richelieu to Sorel,” said Nathaniel. He glanced into the barnyard, where Luke was keeping watch. He could not see the boy, but he could sense him there in the shadows. “If Will just got in today, they won’t be on the big river yet, not at this time of year. We’ll have to head them off.”
Iona nodded. “There’s a boat waiting for you. Luke will show you the way. No doubt Somerville realizes you’re gone already, so you’d best be off.”
“We’re in your debt,” said Hawkeye, touching her shoulder.
She smiled in the lantern light. “So you are, Dan’l Bonner. I will call that debt home someday.”
“I’m worried that Somerville will come after you,” Nathaniel said, and saw how at the door Luke’s back stiffened. Robbie had a strange look about him, too. But Iona only pressed Nathaniel’s arm.
“Somerville is no threat to me,” she said calmly. “Rest assured. Now you had best change and be on your way.”
“Aye,” said Robbie. “But north instead o’ south. I fear we may nivver see the end o’ Canada.”
To Nathaniel’s surprise, Iona stepped up to Robbie, and although she was half his size he started. She reached up to take his face between her hands. “Don’t talk such rubbish, Rab MacLachlan.” Her voice gentled suddenly, touched now with soft Gaelic rhythms. “Keep your eyes and ears open, mo charaid, or Canada will see the end of you.”
It was good to run again. Luke set a steady pace, weaving through the shadows. They slipped out of the city, circling north to the river, away from the docks where the watch would be alert and edgy after the fire. By now there would be patrols out looking for them. Time and time again Nathaniel put his hands on the weapons Iona had provided, testing the weight of a borrowed rifle, the worn grip of a well-sharpened knife.
With every indrawn breath of the cool night air he felt himself come more alive, his senses waking from a long, unwilling sleep. He would run all night and all day without complaint, run anywhere that took him toward Elizabeth and away from Montréal.
The spring moon was waning, its light further checked by cloud cover, but Luke never hesitated in his course, not until the smell of river water brought them up short. He signaled for them to wait, and then slipped away through a stand of trees toward the shore. Nathaniel calculated the time by the beat of his own heart. If Iona had managed to find them a decent canoe instead of the clumsy bateaux that filled the river, and if the tides were with them, they could be in Sorel tomorrow. He peered into the darkness for some sign of Luke.
A low whistle and they moved, one by one, down to the riverside.
Luke stood on the bank next to a small boat. Behind him was the shadowy outline of a schooner at anchor in the middle of the river.
“Holy God,” breathed Robbie.
“And I thought the best she could do would be a canoe,” said Nathaniel.
Hawkeye gave a rough laugh. “I’d like to know how she managed it.”
Luke pushed his hair out of his face. “It’s the Nancy. She’s waiting for you.”
“Who does she belong to?” Nathaniel asked, wanting to be away but wary of such unexpected good fortune.
“Horace Pickering is her captain.”
All three of them pulled up short. Robbie snorted. “Horace Pickering? The Englishman set tae marry Giselle?”
“That’s the one,” agreed Luke. “I don’t think Somerville’s search parties will bother you on the Nancy.”
The three men exchanged glances, and then Hawkeye stepped into the skiff and picked up
an oar. “We ain’t got much choice,” he said. “But I wish she had told us what she had in mind.”
Their combined weight pushed the little skiff deep into the icy water of the St. Lawrence. Luke sat in the stern, listening to the river with his face turned away, every muscle in him tensed. For all his youth there was a calm about him now, a quiet competence and the sense of a good man in the making. In these few moments of waiting, Nathaniel had time to wonder at it: Iona with a grandson, when there had never been any talk he had heard about her children.
When they had reached the Nancy, Nathaniel shook his hand. “You know where to come looking for us if we can ever be of help.”
“You’re welcome anytime,” added Hawkeye.
The boy looked between them, his expression blank. “I’ll remember that.”
Robbie’s hand closed on his shoulder. “Take care on the road hame, laddie.” He had more to say, but two figures had appeared above them on deck, and from upriver came the sound of oars at work, and men’s voices. With a nod to Luke they slipped onto the Nancy.
10
The village that the French called Sorel and the British called William Henry turned out to be nothing more than a weary spot at the mouth of the Richelieu, a maze of busy wharves and busier taverns, all stinking of rotting fish, mildewed sails, hot tar, and brewing ale. But the sight of the St. Lawrence was so welcome and such a great relief that Elizabeth could forgive the little town almost anything.
The good news was that Captain Mudge’s party had arrived just two days after the ice had broken up and there was a great amount of traffic on the river in both directions, but there was little else to be thankful for. To the captain’s displeasure and Elizabeth’s despair, the schooner that should have been waiting for them, ready to sail, had instead been hauled out of the river for repairs to her hull. Elizabeth listened with only half an ear to the captain’s agent, who told a complicated story of a collision with a whaleboat full of drunken voyageurs; she had already turned her mind to finding another way to Montréal, and that without delay.
In a small place so crowded with sailors and every kind of vessel, she reasoned out loud to Curiosity, this should not be an impossible task. Most certainly they could have found safe passage with one of the Royal Navy vessels—she saw two sloops and a brig—but she could not chance the questions any British officer would ask. Instead she fixed her attention on the Nell, which was unloading a shipment of pitch and turpentine. Elizabeth rejected out of hand the possibility that the Nell might be set to sail in the opposite direction, to Québec: they had had enough bad fortune, and could afford no more. Tomorrow they would be in Montréal, if she had to take up oars herself.