Ghost Fire

by Wilbur Smith

  But Corbeil had been a cautious lover—so tentative, in fact, that she had had to coax him into her to bring him to his climax. Afterward, he had lain over her, shuddering with such deep breaths she feared he might have suffered a seizure.

  “I have desired you since the moment I saw you in Calcutta,” he murmured in her ear. “When I saw you at the marquise’s ball in Paris, I thought God had answered my prayers. And when you came to see me and begged my help against Mauvierès, I believed that all your adventures had been ordained by Providence to bring us together.”

  “And now you possess me,” she had whispered to him. “You are all I want and all I need.”

  She had lain awake, long after he had fallen sleep, pondering the implications of what he had said.

  The honeymoon had been short-lived. She did not doubt that Corbeil adored her, but the needs of the army occupied his every waking moment. Aboard ship, he spent hours with his aides in the great cabin, reviewing the details of the coming campaign. When they arrived in New France, the demands on him had doubled.

  “I do not see anything heroic in your work,” Constance said, one evening. “All I hear about are supplies, commissaries, rations and ammunition.”

  “The British outnumber us,” Corbeil explained. “Pitt, their prime minister, is sending ten battalions to America, but our king’s ministers will not commit the men I need to face them on the battlefield. Our best strength is our forts. So long as those hold firm, the British cannot advance. That is why I must do everything I can to ensure that they are well supplied, and that their defenses are in good order. I will seek to lure the British on to our guns, then destroy their proud army.”

  The passion in his voice made her shiver. “Why do you hate the British so much?” she asked. She had been married to him for six months, but she had never dared ask the question before. It had stood like an invisible obstacle between them, never acknowledged but always present. In his behavior toward Constance, Corbeil was courtesy itself, attentive and loving. But when he spoke of the English, he reminded her of the caged tigers she had seen in the merchants’ gardens in Calcutta.

  “I don’t hate you, and you are from that infernal island.”

  Corbeil stared out of the window at the frozen St. Lawrence River. “When I was growing up, there was a girl in our town called Julie. Her father owned the estate. My father was merely a clerk. But we were friends. We played together barefoot in the orchards around her house. She had fair hair, like you, and skin as pale as milk. I was in love with her. She said she loved me too. But of course I had no fortune.”

  “What happened?”

  “I joined the army. It was the only way I could use my talents to gain the rank that would satisfy her father. It turned out I had a talent for soldiering: I prospered. When I was promoted to major, I asked for her hand in marriage and her father agreed.

  “But soldiering took me far from home. I could not bear to be separated from my bride, so I took her with me. She lived with me in my quarters at a village near the Rhine, called Dettingen.” He said the name with special emphasis, as if Constance should recognize it. “You have heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “There was a battle there. A British army had marched down the Rhine to invade France, but we outmaneuvered them. We cut their supply lines, blocked their line of retreat and lured them to a place where our army was waiting. We called it ‘the mousetrap,’ and they walked straight into it.”

  He had a distant look in his eyes, as if he could see it in front of him.

  “Everything was arranged for a glorious victory. King George II himself led the British forces. Imagine if we had captured him. We would have won the war that day, and Britain would have been at our mercy.”

  “What happened?”

  “Our fool of a commander attacked too soon. His haste meant we could not bring our cannons to bear. The British counter-attacked into the gap he had left, and our line broke. Our army was routed. The village where we had our headquarters was overrun.”

  His voice shook. The memories brought anguish flooding to his face, but he went on: “Julie should have retreated with the army. In the confusion, she did not know what to do, and I was not there to tell her. She waited for me to come and rescue her. But I was too late.

  “By the time I got there, the British soldiers had been through the village. I am sure Julie begged them for mercy, but they did not give it to her. When I found her, I barely recognized her. The things they had done—”

  Constance tried not to shudder. “And that is why you hate the English?”

  “The English believe they are born to rule. They want to own the world. They do not have romance in their heart, only rapaciousness and greed.”

  Constance looked away.

  “The first time I killed an Englishman in battle, I thought of Julie.” A rare smile spread over his face. “I think it is the happiest I have ever been.”

  “And now you have an English wife.” She laughed, trying to make light of it. Otherwise, she would have wanted to scream.

  “Our hearts have a way of making fools of us,” mused Corbeil. He stroked her hair, pressing it against his face. “When I first saw you, you reminded me so much of Julie that I knew I had to possess you. I look back at how destiny brought us together, first in India, then on the other side of the world, and I tremble. However much I despise the English, I love you. But, like two sides of a sword, when I think of your countrymen, all I want to do is murder them.”

  “You sound like my brother,” said Constance. “He was desperate for revenge. But when his chance came, he fled like a coward.”

  A dangerous shadow clouded Corbeil’s eyes. “I promise you, I will never flee the battlefield. Not while there is one Englishman left to kill.” He turned to the window again. A horse-drawn sledge was gliding up the frozen river, toward the harbor. The animals’ feet were muffled against the cold, while a closed cabin had been built on the runners to protect the passenger. A squadron of dragoons trotted behind.

  “Our new master,” announced Corbeil. “The Comte de Bercheny, the governor general of New France. He has just arrived from Paris.”

  Constance rose. “He will want to see you at once. I will leave you to your meeting.”

  “Stay.” A lifetime in the military meant every word that came out of Corbeil’s mouth sounded like a command. “I would like you to be here.”

  “Must I? I am sure you and he will speak of nothing but enfilades and Monsieur Vauban’s principles of fortification.”

  Corbeil frowned. “He is the governor general of New France. My future prospects—to say nothing of the coming campaign—depend on his good opinion of me. He will appreciate a woman’s company after the rigors of his journey.”

  “Then I shall be charm personified,” Constance promised. “If only it will help you get a posting back in Paris.”

  Corbeil looked surprised. “Why would I want that?”

  “You have spent half your career in these far-flung outposts of our empire. India, Canada—is it not time to lead a more comfortable life, somewhere more civilized?”

  “But this is where the war must be won. The English know that, even if our own king’s ministers cannot see it. If we defeat the English in their colonies, we will throttle their trade and bring them to their knees.”

  Anger flecked his voice. Constance knew better than to argue.

  Corbeil kissed the top of her head. “I know you would prefer the lights and gaiety of Paris. But this is my duty. This is what you were given when you married me, for better or for worse.”

  “For better, always for better,” Constance murmured. But she did not meet his eye.

  •••

  On first impression, the Comte de Bercheny confirmed all of Constance’s misgivings. He was the wrong side of sixty, with sagging jowls and a bright red nose. The buttons on his waistcoat were fighting a losing battle to contain his massive belly. He walked with a limp, which Constance identified
as the symptom of gout.

  Corbeil saluted. “May I present my wife, Madame Constance de Corbeil?”

  Constance extended her hand. Bercheny took it in his pale paw and raised it to his lips. “Enchanté,” he breathed. He bowed low, still holding her hand and staring into her eyes. The effect was of an overgrown gargoyle. “Believe me, madame, in Paris they still speak of your beauty.”

  Constance giggled. “Monsieur, I am sure you exaggerate.”

  “I assure you, I do not.” He still hadn’t let go of her hand. “You must find colonial life very dull after France.”

  “I grew up in India. I am used to the far reaches of the world—though not, I must confess, to this cold.”

  Bercheny’s deep-set eyes widened in delight. “Then we have something in common. I grew up on Île de France—Mauritius, as the English call it. This damnable cold—forgive my language, madame, but it is necessary—will be the death of me.”

  “We must suffer it for the glory of France,” said Constance, dutifully. A smile played at the edge of her lips.

  Reluctantly, Bercheny let go of her hand and turned to Corbeil. “You are neglecting your wife,” he scolded him. Corbeil flushed. “As governor, I cannot allow such a crime. Bring us wine and let us talk of hot places to warm our spirits.”

  “Alas, my wife has an engagement,” said Corbeil, brusquely. He ushered Bercheny toward a table strewn with maps. “Soldiers’ talk bores her, and I have much to explain to you about how I plan to trap the English.”

  “Of course,” said Bercheny. “We will have our conversation another time, madame.”

  Constance curtsied. “I shall look forward to it.”

  As she left the room, she noticed Bercheny’s eyes followed her.

  Theo fell through the clouds longer than he had thought possible. Wind whistled in his ears, his body accelerating at a terrifying rate. He could not see the ground approaching.

  But when he hit, it was softer than he had expected.

  By some miracle, he had missed the jagged rocks that protruded at the bottom of the cliff and landed in a hollow between them. Wind-blown snow had filled it to the brim, while the high rock walls had kept it shaded and cold. Theo sank into almost six feet of snow and still did not touch the bottom.

  He had a split second to rejoice that he was alive. Then the hole he had made in the snow began to collapse in on itself. Snow cascaded over him, freezing and suffocating. He would be buried alive.

  Lunging and crawling, flinging his arms wide to distribute his weight, he floundered out of his cocoon. The snow was like quicksand: with every movement he seemed to sink deeper. Snow filled his mouth and nose.

  At last his flailing hand touched something solid. He was so numb with cold he barely felt it, but he managed to bend his frozen fingers and get a purchase. He hauled himself onto solid ground and lay there for a moment, dazed and hardly able to believe he had survived.

  His body ached all over, he had no food or weapons, and he had not eaten since the morning. But there was no time to rest. Shouts sounded from the clifftop, distant and hidden in fog. The French could not have seen what happened—but they might come looking for his body.

  Theo set off down the mountainside.

  Finding his bearings in the fog was impossible. He stumbled downhill, veering as much as he could toward the brightest part of the mist. If he headed south and west, he might eventually get back to the sledges they had left at the creek.

  For the first time that day, luck favored him. He had reached the bottom of the slope when he saw a small pile of stones. It was the cairn they had made to mark the entrance to the pass. From there, he found the trail they had followed from the lake.

  Hope gave him new strength, but he had many miles to cover. His clothes were soaked from the snow, and his limbs felt soft and heavy as lead. Night fell. Unable to see the way, and terrified of getting lost, he made a rough shelter from branches and curled up inside. The night lasted an eternity, but he barely slept. When dawn came, his body was stiff and bruised. He forced himself onward.

  Theo walked all day. Staggering forward, unable to see further than the next step, he didn’t realize he had reached the lake until he noticed sand underfoot. He collapsed on the ground, listening to the ice cracking and groaning.

  Men emerged from the trees and ran to him. Theo did not know if they were friend or foe, until he saw Moses’s anxious face leaning over him. “Praise God and all the ancestors that you are alive,” said the Abenaki. “We feared there was no hope.”

  Theo reached up and embraced his friend. “I feared the same for you.”

  Later, they might dwell on what they had lost. Now there was no time. “How many men have we?” Theo asked.

  “Those you see.” Moses pointed to the bedraggled group huddled at the edge of the creek. There were seven—four who had escaped with Moses, and three who had stayed behind with the sledges because they were too weak for the march. It was a wretched return on the fifty brave men who had marched out of Albany.

  “Were you followed?” Theo asked.

  “No,” said Moses. “But they will come looking for us.”

  Theo didn’t doubt it was true. He had cheated Bichot of his prey, and the Frenchman would not forgive him. He would find where Theo had fallen and realize he had escaped alive.

  He was in no condition to move. “We will lie up until dark,” he decided. “Gather our strength and wait for the moon to rise.”

  “The ice is thin, Siumo,” Moses warned.

  “Then it is lucky we are thinner.”

  •••

  Bichot peered over the edge of the cliff. The fog hid the bottom and hushed any sound of impact. The Abenaki-Englishman named Siumo had vanished.

  A less cautious man would have assumed he was dead. But Bichot had not survived so long in the wilderness by leaving anything to chance. The scar on his head was a reminder of what happened if you dropped your guard, even for an instant.

  He knew these mountains well, every notch and groove. He knew the cliff was not as high as it might appear, and that snow sometimes filled the hollow at its base. He reckoned a man might survive the leap.

  He would not attempt it himself. There were other ways of catching his prey. If the Englishman or any of the rangers had survived, they would have to navigate the long trek back to the lake.

  The hunt was up. Bichot would follow them, corner them, and spit them like deer. He would skin them alive and take the hides back to his masters in Canada. They would shudder, but they would pay good solid gold. Bichot would enjoy seeing those French gentlemen squirm at the knowledge of their hypocrisy. They depended on men like him to keep the frontier safe from the English, even as they kept the blood from their own hands.

  He lingered a moment on the edge of the cliff, searching the mist for clues. He was unsettled that this one-time Abenaki warrior had suddenly been reincarnated as a ranger. He remembered what the young man had said to him the first time they met. There had been purpose in those words that rang with the truth of destiny.

  I will whisper it into your ear as the tip of my knife slides into your heart.

  He shook off the thought. Fate was good to Bichot, and putting Ahoma in his power was one of her little gifts. It would add spice to the hunt.

  “Gather our forces,” he ordered. There was no point in giving the English too generous a head start.

  He heard a sound from the corpse on the ground. One of his men knelt beside the fallen ranger and put an ear to his mouth.

  “He is alive.”

  Bichot stared at the ranger. He kicked him hard with the toe of his moccasin, drawing a grunt of pain. The eyes flickered open. “So he is.”

  “What shall we do with him?”

  Bichot crouched. He stroked his knife over the man’s forehead. “What is your name, worm?”

  The prisoner gritted his teeth, gathering his strength to spit out the words: “Major William Gilyard, of His Majesty’s First Independent Company
of Rangers.”

  Bichot swore. He stood.

  “Send him to Québec.” The new general from France had given orders that any captured officer ranked major or higher was to be interrogated by him personally. It deprived Bichot of his prize, and of the pleasure he’d have had in flaying the man’s secrets out of him. He felt cheated.

  It did not matter. He would soon have other prisoners to entertain him.

  •••

  Moses made a meal with the supplies they had left on the sledges. Theo had not eaten in two days, but he forced himself to chew slowly and take modest portions. He could not afford to make himself sick. Then he curled up in a bearskin. He did not think he could sleep—his body was coursing with danger and urgency—but the next thing he knew Moses was shaking him awake. Stars were out, and a thin moon lit the sky.

  “It is time.”

  They strapped on their skates and left all but one of the sledges. One of the men, a Connecticut farmer named Judd, had suffered such severe frostbite in his toes he could not walk, so they lashed him to the sledge with their remaining provisions. Even the cool of the night hadn’t stopped the thaw. Meltwater pooled on top of the ice, spraying up behind their skates in thin streams. The ice creaked and shifted under their weight. With every stride, Theo feared it would break.

  Then he forgot that danger. Glancing back, he saw lights by the creek where they had left the sledges. There were many men carrying pine resin torches.

  Shouts told him they had seen the fleeing rangers. Soon the torches ventured out on the ice. Theo tried to skate faster, but he was exhausted, and his pursuers were strong. Sleek as wolves, they glided down the moonlit lake after him. However hard Theo pushed himself, they were gaining on him.

  “Leave the sledge!” shouted one of the rangers. “We cannot outrun them if we are laden down.”

  “We will not leave Judd behind.” Theo knew what Bichot would do to anyone who fell into his hands. “I would rather die on the ice.”

  “Then you may get your wish, Siumo,” said Moses. He pointed ahead and to their left. More torches had appeared. Men were running along the shore, heading to a point that protruded far into the lake—within rifle range. Theo and the rangers would be caught in a pincer between the men on shore and those behind.