by Wilbur Smith
They crossed a narrow stream, taking care not to let their powder get wet.
“You can stop right there,” said a voice behind them. “I have been watching you these past ten minutes.”
The three men stood and looked around sheepishly. They saw nothing.
Theo dropped from the branch where he had been sitting. He wore a moss-green ranger’s jacket and brown breeches, which had blended with the tree trunk. He landed lightly on his feet and strode toward them. “I trust you were more discreet around the French.”
The leader of the patrol saluted. “We finished our scout without being seen. Nothing to report, Captain Courtney.”
Theo nodded. His new rank was a novelty that hadn’t worn off. Every time he heard it, he had to resist the urge to swell with pride. He took his status seriously. He was responsible for the well-being of two hundred men, most of them new recruits, and he felt the weight of their lives as keenly as his own. “You returned the way you came,” he admonished them. “Today it was me waiting for you. Another day, you may not be so lucky.”
The men nodded, contrite. They were raw and had much to learn. Theo would not accept excuses. He had the same high expectations of all his men, from the hardest veteran to the youngest greenhorn, but they did not grudge it. They knew it was because he cared for them. Behind his back, and around the campfires, the stories they told of his exploits grew so tall that Theo would have blushed if he’d heard them.
“Go back to camp and clean up,” he told them.
They saluted again and hurried away. Theo lingered, leaning against a tree, peeling bark off a twig. These snatched moments of solitude were a tonic.
“You can come out,” he said, to no one in particular.
Moses rose from a patch of sassafras. He looked wounded. “Did you know I was there?”
“No,” Theo admitted. “But I knew you must be close. How did they do?”
“Not well enough to know I had followed them.”
“Did anyone follow you?”
Moses bared his teeth in a smile. “If anyone had dared, I would have brought you his scalp.”
“We will lose a man if we’re not careful,” Theo fretted. “The French know this terrain better than we do, and they have many allies. What did you find?”
“As they told you. There is no way through.”
Theo swore. The army had marched up the lake a month ago. It had been painstaking progress: fifteen thousand men trying to cut a road through impenetrable forest. They had ground to a halt before the defenses the French had put in place. On their left flank was the lake, on their right the impassable heights of the bluffs. They were so steep, Theo still did not know if guns were mounted on top of them. But he knew the French had men up there, for he had seen the smoke of their campfires.
The only approach to the fort was between the lake and the heights. The British faced a labyrinth of the most devious and sadistic defenses that military engineers had ever devised. The French had flooded land, felled trees, dug trenches and raised every sort of obstacle, so that the forest became a nightmare of navigation. The rangers were the only men who dared enter it—and even they could not find a safe route through.
“We will not last long if we cannot negotiate the impediments,” Theo predicted. “The first cases of fever have already set in. Our supply lines are long, and we are horribly exposed if the French bring reinforcements. We cannot afford to wait them out.”
He did not admit it was more personal than that. He could not afford to wait. The last night with Abigail had been the hardest of all. She had wept and beaten his chest with her fists, while the baby slept unaware in his crib. In the end, she had accepted Theo must go. “But I will not wait for you forever,” she warned. “I need a husband who thinks of his children, not the ghost of a dead woman.”
He wasn’t sure if she meant Constance or Mgeso. He had never told her about his dream, but he wondered if she had guessed. The thought was like a piece of ice in his heart. Every morning, he woke wondering, Have I chosen right?
Moses looked at him, reading his thoughts as usual. “What do your ancestors say?”
Theo laughed. “They say I will find nothing if I send other men to do my work. I will reconnoiter the terrain myself.”
“The French hate the rangers above all others,” Moses reminded him. “If they catch you, it will be a slow and savage death.”
“Then you had better come, too, to make sure they do not find us.”
•••
That evening, two men slipped away from the British camp. To all appearances, they were Abenaki, dressed and painted for war. If they had been sighted by the sentries, they would surely have been shot on sight.
But no one saw them.
Theo had shaved his scalp and painted it red. He had put the rings in his ears, forcing open the holes that had healed, and a porcupine quill through his nose. He was bare-chested down to his buckskin leggings and moccasins. He had not told his companions, for he did not want his men to see him like that. They knew he had lived as an Abenaki for a year—it was part of his legend—but this was still the army. It would not do for the men to think their captain had gone native.
“How will we find a way through?” Theo asked.
“When you are seeking eggs, how do you find the nest?” Moses replied. “You follow the bird.”
He led Theo into the woods, flitting silently between the trees like a moth. The moon was out, though little light penetrated the forest canopy. But Moses seemed able to see in the dark. He stopped. He had felt a tremor in the earth, the vibrations of a sentry stamping his feet to keep his blood moving. He followed it to a place where they could peer from behind a bush to see a pair of French soldiers standing behind a wooden palisade.
Theo glanced at Moses and mimed slitting his throat. Moses shook his head. They waited, listening to the soldiers gossiping and grumbling. Soon, a light appeared in the forest. A second pair of soldiers arrived, carrying a lantern.
Relieved, the first pair headed back to the fort. But they did not go alone. Theo and Moses followed, as close and dark as shadows. They crossed trenches on log bridges, skirted around earth embankments that had been thrown up, and navigated a maze of felled trees. Once, Theo nearly fell into a pit filled with sharpened stakes. If they had not been tracking the sentries, they would never have found their way through.
The obstacles ended near the edge of the forest. The lights of the fort were clear beyond the trees, but Moses and Theo didn’t take that route. Parting ways with the sentries, they climbed the slope to the higher ground under the cliffs, from where they could survey the terrain.
The lake gleamed in the moonlight. The fort, with its intricate arrangement of bastions and revetments, looked like a spider perched at the water’s edge. From their position, the slope ran gently down to the fort on its promontory, a few hundred yards away. The land in between had been cleared. Some trees must have been felled in the fort’s construction, or for firewood; others had been ring-barked and burned, leaving blackened stumps that pocked the ground, like gravestones.
The burned area made a wide ring around the fort, open ground where the defenders’ muskets and cannon could tear through any attackers, who would have no cover. Closer in, trenches and earth ramparts, lined with sharp-pointed sticks, made formidable outworks.
Theo observed his surroundings. Somewhere behind those sharp-pointed walls, lit by the glow of watch fires, was the man who had been the author of all his misfortunes, the man who had shaped Theo’s fate one death at a time. He had to resist the temptation to forget his army and his mission, scale those walls and hunt down General Corbeil in his bed.
Beyond the fort, a creek cut in from the lake, running up against the rear of the bluffs. Theo knew that General Williams had considered forcing the channel but rejected the idea. It was too shallow for any vessel except canoes and battoes, while the fort’s guns gave the French total mastery of its entrance.
Theo saw a wid
e-bottomed boat pushing off from a landing stage near the fort. Another followed, then a third, their oars making white splashes in the moonlight. From their profile, they seemed to sit low in the water.
“What cargo are they carrying up that backwater?” Theo wondered. “Is there a river that empties into the creek?”
“Only streams,” said Moses. “It goes nowhere.”
The boats disappeared behind the shoulder of the mountain ridge. Theo kept his eyes on the area, waiting for them to reappear where the creek snaked back into view. Ten minutes passed, twenty, then an hour. Still the boats hadn’t emerged.
“Where have they gone?” Theo’s blood quickened, the pulse of a hunter picking up the first trace of the spoor. He did not know where the trail would lead, but he knew it was worth following. “We must go and see.”
“We will have to cross this open ground,” Moses reminded him. “If there’s something they do not want us to find, they will surely keep it well guarded.”
Theo nodded. There was no cover, and no hope of passing unseen in the moonlight. He straightened, touching the unfamiliar hairless skin on his head. “This is why we came in disguise.”
“You came in disguise,” Moses corrected him. “I am myself.”
“Then you have nothing to fear.”
Theo took out a small flask of brandy. He took a quick sip, then poured a good measure over his face, letting it dribble down onto his shirt. Moses did the same. The two of them strode out from the trees.
They were well within rifle range. Theo tensed himself for sounds of alarm, any sign that they had been recognized. If they were lucky, the French might challenge them before they opened fire. If not . . .
“Walk slowly,” Moses counseled.
“I am,” Theo hissed.
“But you walk like a man who wants to run. Relax.”
Theo did his best to follow his friend’s advice. The breeze was coming down off the mountain, toward the lake, so they could not hear what might be happening inside the fort.
No one sounded the alarm. They passed by the defenses and reached the shelter of the forest on the far side. From there, they could see moonlit water sparkling through the trees. A well-trodden path led away along the creek in the direction the boats had gone.
The metallic squeak of oars in rowlocks made them duck down. Peering through the trees, Theo saw boats gliding over the water toward the fort. The boats rode much higher than they had when they set out.
As soon as they had passed, Theo and Moses continued on their way. The path led on for a mile, then emerged from the trees by a small stony cove. Scored lines in the beach showed where boats had been dragged up on shore. They must have been unloaded. But whatever their cargo was, there was no trace on the beach. It had disappeared.
Cliffs rose high into the night above. Theo gazed up at them. “If they have guns at the top of that cliff, there must be a path they use to send supplies and ammunition.”
“It would have to be narrow,” said Moses, doubtfully. Even his eagle eyes could not make out anything in the steep rock face. “Impossible to take by force.”
“Let us see.”
Theo knew he ought to return, but the thrill of opportunity overcame all caution. He had passed the fort without being challenged: he felt invincible.
He ran out onto the beach and started searching the tangled bushes around the base of the cliff for a way up.
“It must be here somewhere.” Theo cursed. The moon had disappeared behind a cloud, making the landscape all but pitch. He did not dare kindle a light.
“We should go, Siumo,” Moses warned.
The cloud drew away, like a curtain in the theater, leaving Theo and Moses exposed to the full glare of the moon. By its light, in the far corner of the beach, Theo saw a flat stone sill, like a stair leading up toward the cliffs. He took a step toward it.
“Halt!” called a voice in French.
Theo’s first instinct was to grab his tomahawk, but he held back. Going for his weapon would have been the last move he ever made, an invitation to the French to open fire.
He raised his hands and turned slowly. “Ami, ami!” he shouted, slipping naturally into the pidgin French of the Abenaki.
Six soldiers stared back. All had muskets raised, trained on him and Moses.
“What are you doing here?” said their sergeant.
Moses affected a haughty innocence. “Chief send us here. Say there are boats need protecting.”
The sergeant relaxed a fraction. He could smell the brandy on the Indians’ clothes and guessed they had got drunk and abandoned their posts. “The supply convoy left half an hour ago. Which tribe are you? Ottawa?”
“Abenaki.”
“What is the password?”
Theo felt the soldiers’ eyes on them. Hesitation would be fatal. “Vive le roi!” he shouted enthusiastically. Moses joined in.
The sergeant nodded. “And your chief sent you here?”
“Yes.”
The sergeant nodded again. Then suddenly: “Seize them.”
Four of the soldiers advanced. Two stayed behind, muskets aimed at Theo’s and Moses’s hearts.
Theo had an instant to make his decision. The soldiers looked tough, seasoned veterans of the harsh frontier. But he and Moses were warriors: in a fair fight, Theo would have backed them even at three to one.
It wouldn’t be a fair fight. The guns made sure of that. The weapons were too far away for Theo to wrest aside, too close to miss. Even if he used one of the soldiers as a shield, that still left the second musket.
A flicker of doubt on the sergeant’s face convinced Theo. They didn’t know. On the one hand, they had found two men skulking about behind their defenses. On the other, they seemed to be Abenaki Indians who spoke French and smelt of brandy. It was confusing—too complicated for a mere sergeant to decide.
And if they took him to the fort, who knew what Theo might discover? He would keep his eyes peeled for gun emplacements, and hope he could escape.
Theo protested but did not resist. The soldiers surrounded him and marched him away at bayonet point.
•••
Constance couldn’t sleep. Every nightmare from her past seemed to have come alive. The fort reminded her of Calcutta: those last days trapped by the besiegers with no way out. She was alone. In Corbeil, she had found a new Mauvières, a jealous brute who kept her locked in her quarters every hour of the day.
All her life she had wanted to be free but, several times now, she had exchanged one prison for another.
She wondered if Theo had received her message. Was he in the British camp beyond the forest? What would he be like? She tried to imagine her brother’s hands carving the intricate designs on the knife she had found but could not reconcile that with the shy boy she had known. How he must have changed.
But what good would it do? She knew the siege was going badly for the British. They had come to take the fort, but it was they who were trapped in their camp. They could not bring their guns into range because of Corbeil’s devious traps. Every day Constance heard her husband gloating over the reports he had from his spies. There were outbreaks of fever; supplies were running short. The British soldiers were mutinous, and the politicians in London would soon lose patience. Victory was only a matter of time.
She could not let that happen. She would not let Corbeil win.
The fort was not so big that Constance could have her own bedroom. She had to share with her husband. He was beside her now, a great dark lump under the sheets. The demands of his work meant he slept only for a few hours each night, but in that short time he was dead to anything.
Constance rose. Wrapping her gown around her, she stole to the door. The sentry started. “At ease, Corporal,” she whispered. “It is only me.”
He was the soldier she had met guarding Gilyard in Québec. Pierre Duchambon had kept silent about Constance’s visit to the prison and did not raise the alarm when faced with the strange coincidence of Gilyard�
��s passing away after her meeting with him. Recognizing his potential, she had subtly arranged for him to be assigned as the guard to her apartments. Grateful to be released from prison duty, and rewarded with regular visits from Constance’s maid, he was a useful ally.
Constance descended the steep stairs and let herself into Corbeil’s office. She lit a lamp. Every surface was strewn with papers. “The fort’s defenses are stone and iron,” Corbeil liked to say, “but its foundation is all paperwork.”
There were hundreds of pages, and she didn’t know what she was looking for. But she trusted her instincts. She could sniff out weakness, like a jackal. And she knew her husband. He would keep his most important papers secure, but always ready to hand.
The top drawer of the desk had a lock. It needed a small brass key, one that Corbeil kept on a chain around his neck even when he slept. Constance had made a duplicate, pressing the key into a wad of wax while he was sleeping. She had given the mold to Pierre, instructing him to produce a second key in case the original was lost. She unlocked the drawer and lifted out the pile of papers inside.
It was dauntingly thick. Again, she trusted to instinct. Four pages from the top, she found a thick document folded in quarters. One glance inside told her it was what she needed.
It was a map, the key to the battle, right there in her hand. She recognized the fort, with its arrowhead corners and octagonal tower, and the defenses around it. Everything was laid out in precise drawings: the hidden paths through the obstacles in the forest; the guns on the ridge; the positions and strengths of the units Corbeil had deployed.
Patiently, quickly, Constance copied the map on to a fresh piece of paper. She worked diligently with the quill, transferring as much detail as possible. This was treason. Corbeil would have her shot, or hanged, if he found out. Her heart beat fast, but her hand didn’t tremble. She would rather die fighting than let him win.
A noise from outside made her catch her breath. How could she explain herself? But she had not been discovered. The sound came from below, outside by the gate. Curious, she looked out of the window.
The postern gate stood open. Through the glassless window, she saw a platoon of soldiers usher two Indians inside and across the courtyard. This was not unusual—the French army’s Indian allies were everywhere. But it was past midnight, and the Indians’ hands were bound.