Ghost Fire

by Wilbur Smith

  Corbeil stepped back, breathing hard, his features hard as stone. He adjusted his neck-cloth. “You will not leave New France until I have finished. Do I make myself clear?”

  From the corner of her eye, Constance saw the marble wig-stand back in its usual position on the dresser. For a moment, she imagined seizing it, doing to Corbeil what he had done to Gilyard. She imagined how his face would look staved in, like a barrel.

  But he was strong and she was weak. She did not want to be hit again. She bowed her head, letting more blood drip over her breasts. “I will obey my husband.”

  •••

  Constance did not cry. She sat in her chair with her head held upward until the bleeding stopped, then let the maid sponge the blood off her face. The bruising could have been worse. Corbeil hadn’t driven through with his punch and her nose was not broken. She painted the skin that was beginning to color with heavy make-up.

  She dressed in her finest gown and sent the maid with a message. “Convey my compliments to the governor general, the Comte de Bercheny, and inform him I would be delighted to receive him in my salon. He may come alone.”

  Bercheny arrived half an hour later, strutting through the door like a cockerel. He had dressed in silk stockings, and a fine coat the color of Burgundy. He sat close beside her, and she turned her head away to hide the caked powder that covered her bruises.

  “You afford me a rare honor, receiving me so late.”

  Constance bit her lip. She played with her skirts, twisting the fabric in her hands in obvious distress. “I had to see a friendly soul.”

  Bercheny patted her hand. “Do not fret, my dear. Tell me what troubles you.”

  “You are very kind. Sometimes I think you are the only true companion I have in this colony.” She sniffed, then cried out, “Oh, monsieur, if only I could tell you what is in my breast. But no—there are some secrets a married woman must never breathe aloud, even if hiding them breaks her heart.”

  Bercheny nodded sympathetically. He took her hand between his and stroked it, edging closer so that their thighs pressed together. “If I may presume to read a woman’s heart, madame, I think I know the source of your troubles.”

  “Pray tell.”

  “I will show you.”

  He leaned over, closed his eyes and kissed her—at first tentatively, but rapidly gaining confidence when she did not resist. She let him slip his tongue into her mouth. It had the tart taste of red wine and tobacco.

  His hand pawed at her bodice. She drew away with a little gasp. “Monsieur, I cannot,” she breathed. “I am a married woman.”

  Bercheny wrinkled his nose. “What of it? You know as well as I do that marriage is no barrier to the occasional liaison. My friend, the Marquise de Sologne, tells me that in Paris you were quite renowned for your conquests.”

  “That is not very gallant of you,” Constance reproached him. “I was a widow then. I left that life behind when I married General de Corbeil.”

  “He is a fine commander. But is he everything you wanted in a husband? I have seen the candles in his office burning long into the night. Does he give you all the affection a husband owes his wife?”

  Constance averted her eyes. “He saved me from ruin in Paris. I owe him everything. Please do not persist in this conversation, monsieur. It dishonors both of us.”

  Bercheny’s hand had wormed onto her leg again. It drifted between her thighs, rubbing against her. Constance let herself enjoy the feeling for a moment, then firmly lifted the hand away. “I cannot.”

  “Perhaps I have been too clumsy. But, if so, it is only because love impels me.”

  “Love?” she cried. “Do not speak that word. I am a married woman. I am forbidden love.”

  “Please, madame,” he implored. “Your husband need never know.”

  “No,” she said determinedly.

  “I thought—I flattered myself—you harbored certain feelings for me. Feelings I most ardently reciprocate.”

  She blushed. “Do not mistake duty for lack of feeling. If I were a widow again, everything would be so different.”

  She met Bercheny’s gaze and held it until he could not miss her meaning. His eyes widened, then narrowed into cold calculation.

  “Anything can happen on the battlefield,” he said. “Even generals lose their lives.”

  “Do not say such things. I tremble even to think of something befalling my husband.”

  “Of course. I was speaking in general terms. Your husband is a hero of France, and his loss would be catastrophic.”

  “Where will the fighting be fiercest?” Constance asked.

  “Fort Royal. That is where the British are concentrating their forces, and where we must resist them.”

  “You would need your greatest commander there.”

  Constance leaned so close toward him that he could feel her breath on his lips when she spoke. His ardor left him blind to the imperfections she knew she displayed on her face. “Believe me when I tell you, sir, there are feelings in my breast that no married woman could admit. I know it is a silly thing: a woman must subordinate her desires to duty. But if only circumstances allowed, monsieur, I would give you . . . everything.”

  •••

  As soon as he had gone, Constance went to her secrétaire and wrote a letter.

  The man who took Calcutta, General de Corbeil, will be commanding at Fort Royal. He is responsible for the deaths of many you held dear. If you loved your sister, do not miss this chance to avenge her fate.

  I dare not identify myself, but I assure you we share a common purpose. I enclose this knife, which belonged to a mutual friend, as proof that you may trust me.

  She wrapped the letter around the knife and sealed it. Then she enclosed the package in oilcloth, tied it with string and sealed it again. Finally, she took a fur shawl, slit the lining and hid the packet inside. When she had sewn it shut, she gave it to her maid, along with a purse of gold.

  “Go down to the low town. There must be trappers or furriers who trade with the British. Find one who can take this to Albany.”

  The maid curtsied. She was a sly girl, but utterly loyal since Constance had rescued her from an unfortunate pregnancy.

  Constance stared out of the window at the falling snow with a glass of wine. She had killed one man today, and perhaps signed a death warrant for another. Yet when she lifted the glass to her blood-red lips, her hand was as steady as the marble wig-stand.

  •••

  Winter turned to spring and Theo and Abigail made their preparations. Abigail, who had grown up working on the frontier, knew what they needed, and everything they could do without or make for themselves. In the evenings, she knitted clothes for the growing baby, while Theo carved utensils and tool handles. They stockpiled flour, oats, dried peas and all the other foodstuffs they might need on their journey. Theo still possessed his rifle, though it was difficult to find powder or lead for shot when the army’s quartermasters were patrolling.

  The wagon and the ox team they needed were even harder to come by. It seemed that General Williams had commandeered every vehicle and draft animal in the thirteen colonies. The town was filled with soldiers passing through to the lakes, as the army massed for the coming campaign. One day, Theo saw a company of rangers marching by, tall and cocksure in their new green jackets.

  “Do you miss it, Siumo?” asked Moses. When Theo had told him he was quitting the army, the Abenaki had not blinked. It had never been discussed but it was understood he would accompany them to their new home. His loyalty ran deeper than that of any other man Theo had known.

  “No,” said Theo. “That life is behind me now.”

  Moses burst out laughing. “What is so amusing?” said Theo.

  “You are lying and you do not even know it.”

  “I insist I am not,” Theo protested.

  “Does the hawk stay at home to feather his nest? Does he brood over the eggs?” Moses tipped back his head in mirth. “Mgeso named you well. Y
ou are Siumo, the hawk. The hunt is in your blood.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Theo. “My ancestors chased glory and died young.”

  Moses nodded, as if Theo had only confirmed his point. “And when you speak to your ancestors, do they say they regret it?”

  It seemed they might never leave Albany. One evening, Theo met a Dutchman in a tavern with a wagon to sell. Theo bought it on the spot for an eye-watering price. After the purchase, the days disappeared in a frantic blur of last-minute preparations.

  The morning they were to depart dawned clear and bright. Everything was bustle as they stowed their last supplies and harnessed the ox team. There were numerous delays. As they were about to set off, young Caleb decided he was hungry, and commenced such a howling that they had to pause for Abigail to nurse him. The child soiled himself and needed changing. Abigail remembered she had forgotten a set of her favorite combs in her dresser drawer.

  At last they began their journey. Theo took a final look at Albany. He had thought this would be a triumphant moment, the start of a new chapter in his life. But something inside nagged at him. The night before he had dreamed of Mgeso again.

  Abigail gave him a keen look. “No regrets?”

  “None.”

  He cracked the whip. The wagon lumbered into motion. The going was slow: the roads were rutted and deeply scored by the military traffic. The wagon swayed and bounced with every bump in the road. Caleb, who had fallen asleep, was jolted awake, and made his displeasure known with a great wailing that frightened the birds from the trees.

  “Now I know why the Dutchman was so eager to sell you this wagon,” said Abigail. “It seems to be a contraption for transporting us at the slowest pace, with the greatest effort, in the least possible comfort. The whole thing sounds as if it is about to fly into pieces.”

  No sooner had she spoken than there was a tremendous crack. The wagon lurched and tipped over, spilling sacks and baggage onto the ground.

  Theo leaped from the driver’s box and ran to the back. He swore. The axle had split, and one of the wheels had snapped. It would take hours to move the wagon, let alone find a wheelwright to make a repair.

  “Stay with Abigail,” he told Moses. “I will return to Albany for help.”

  On his way through the town, he passed their old house. A greasy-haired man in buckskin leggings and a hunting shirt was outside, looking through the windows. He had a strange air about him, furtive and dangerous, and a bundle tucked under his arm. It would probably have been wise to avoid him.

  But Theo was curious. “Can I help you?”

  The man turned. Theo noticed how his hand instinctively went toward the sheathed knife in his belt.

  “I am looking for Theo Courtney,” he said. He had a strong, guttural accent that sounded French.

  Theo rested his hand on the hilt of his own knife, though he smiled. “Then you are a lucky man. An hour ago, I had quit this town for good, but now I find myself returned.” And then, seeing the man had not understood: “I am Theo Courtney.”

  “I have to give you this.”

  The man tossed Theo the bundle. Expecting a trap, Theo let it drop in front of him. But the Frenchman made no move to attack. He tucked his thumbs into his belt, watching Theo with an insolent expression.

  Theo picked up the package and slit the cloth wrapper with his knife. Inside was a soft, beaver-fur shawl. “Who sent me this?” he demanded. But when he looked up, the man had disappeared.

  He stared at the shawl, wondering what it could possibly mean. The man had been clear about whom he should give it to. But there was no note, no explanation. And it was a woman’s garment. If he held it close, he could still smell traces of perfume.

  Who was she?

  Absently, he stroked his hand over it. The fur was soft—it must have been expensive—but near the nape of the neck, he touched something solid.

  He cut the lining, felt around and found a package, wrapped in oilskin.

  He opened it.

  •••

  Abigail sensed a turn of events the moment she saw Theo stride around the bend in the road. “Where have you been? Where are the men? What is that look on your face?”

  Wordlessly, Theo passed her the note. He held Caleb while she read it. The baby babbled happily as he snuggled into his father’s chest, unaware of what was happening.

  “What does this mean?” said Abigail. “What is this token he talks about?”

  Theo gave her the knife. Abigail gasped as she recognized it. “The gift you carved for Major Gilyard.”

  “They must have found it on his body. How it came to me, like this —” Theo shook his head. He had thought of nothing else as he made his return, and still could not fathom it.

  “Can it be true?”

  “What she says—”

  Abigail gave him a sharp look. “Why do you think it is a ‘she’?”

  “The letter came hidden in a woman’s shawl. Also, there is an aspect to the handwriting that is—” Theo stared at it. The word “familiar” had been on the tip of his tongue, but that was impossible. “—feminine.”

  “But how could she be so knowledgeable about you? About Calcutta, your sister, Gilyard—”

  “I do not know.”

  Abigail glared at him. The hope in her face heated to anger as she saw his intentions. Behind her, Moses had already started unloading the rifles and ammunition boxes from the wagon. “You promised, Theo. A new beginning.”

  Theo hugged Caleb. He wanted so badly to agree, to make her happy and honor his promise. But he could think only of the ghost fires burning in the swamp, the restless spirits of the unavenged dead. So many he had left behind. Would they find peace, if he killed Corbeil? Would he?

  “You will regret it,” Abigail warned. But he hardly heard her. A voice sang in his head, and at last he recognized it for what it was. His ancestors were speaking to him.

  He knew what he had to do.

  •••

  The salon door slammed open. Constance looked up from the book she was reading to see Corbeil striding across the room. He was wearing his dress uniform, with a face like thunder.

  She raised an eyebrow. “From the noise you made, I thought the English must have overrun our defenses. I quite feared for my virtue.”

  Corbeil paid no attention. “Do you know what stupidity our illustrious governor general has concocted now?”

  “I cannot imagine.”

  “He has ordered me to supervise the defense of Fort Royal in person.”

  Constance closed her book. “But surely that is a great compliment. You said yourself it is the most important theater of the war. The governor does you a great honor by insisting you take personal command.”

  Corbeil shook his head impatiently. “You understand it no better than he does—though at least you have the excuse of your sex. It is madness. I have to direct our war against the English on three fronts. If I commit myself to one, how can I supervise the others?”

  “The governor general is your superior,” said Constance. “You must defer to him—as a wife defers to her husband.”

  A sly tone entered her voice with those last words. Corbeil heard it: his head jerked up. He stared at her, and she made no effort to hide the contempt or delight she felt. Understanding dawned across his face. “This is your doing, isn’t it?” he said slowly. “You think this will be revenge for our quarrel, that you can gamble the future of France in a fit of spite?”

  Constance smiled. Corbeil laughed bitterly. “Why not? It worked with poor Colonel de Mauvières. I was your willing executioner. And now you have tired of me, you think that fat fool Bercheny will do the same to me.”

  He leaned down and held her chin, raking her face with his eyes. “What did you offer him? The same as you promised me? It no longer satisfies you to be a general’s wife. You feel a count would be more appropriate to your station.”

  “I wish to be with a man who honors me.”

  Corbeil shook his he
ad. “You want a man you can twist around your finger. But you will find me a worthier adversary than Mauvières. If I am to perish, I will bring you down with me. You will accompany me to Fort Royal.”

  “The governor general will forbid it,” she answered.

  “The governor general has departed on business to Montréal. By the time he returns, you and I will be happily settled in our quarters at Fort Royal. In summer it is a stinking, fly-ridden swamp—but that should not trouble you. It is where a creature like you belongs.”

  She did not flinch. Even as he hated her, he had to admire her self-control.

  “Bercheny is finished,” he told her. “I have written to the king of how his corruption and avarice threaten our campaign. You want to go to Paris? When I have defeated the English, I will return to France a hero.” He stroked a lock of hair back from her cheek. “When the king receives me at Versailles, you will accompany me. And if you so much as smile at another man—”

  “What?” she challenged him. “Will you hit me again—brave General Corbeil who makes war on women?”

  “I will lock you in a convent for the rest of your life.”

  He opened her dressing chest and pulled a pile of clothes onto the floor. “Come, dear wife. We should prepare for our journey.”

  Obediently, she called her maids to start folding her clothes. She knew when to yield.

  “But who will you find waiting for you?” she said, under her breath.

  Dappled sunlight painted the forest floor. The May air was noisy with the chirrup of birdsong and the hum of insects. In the treetops, branches thrashed where a woodpecker was pursuing its mate. Below, the three men stalking through the trees barely stirred a leaf.

  They were covered with earth and broken twigs. Their beards were like birds’ nests, their faces streaked with mud. The brasswork on their rifles had been scorched black so it would not gleam in the light. They moved in a low crouch, taking slow, exaggerated steps.