Ghost Fire

by Wilbur Smith

  Could they be spies?

  As she watched the soldiers take the prisoners to the jail, an idea began to form. Fearful of being found out, she hastily completed the salient details of the map, replaced the original where she had found it, locked the drawer, folded her copy tightly and tucked it into her bodice.

  “Come with me,” she ordered Pierre, when she reached her quarters.

  The corporal rubbed his eyes. “I am ordered to guard the general’s bedchamber, madame. With you in it,” he added.

  “The general will not wake for another three hours.” Like everything else he did, Corbeil slept with clockwork discipline. “And I need you.” She lowered her voice. “My maid Pascale will be waiting for you when you go off duty. I have heard she will do things for you that would make even the prostitutes of Les Halles blush.”

  Pierre’s eyes bulged to hear a noblewoman speak of such things. By the time he recovered his wits, Constance was already halfway down the stairs. He had to hurry to catch up.

  The guard at the jail was in a surly mood. It was already past the end of his watch and he had been on duty all night. Now he would be there until dawn. The sergeant had gone to fetch the Abenaki chieftain, but who knew how long he would be? And for what? It was obvious the two men were Indians who had lost their way—probably drunk, judging by the stink of brandy on them.

  When Corporal Duchambon came to relieve him, the guard did not question it. He returned to his bed, grateful for a few hours’ sleep. As soon as he had gone, Constance emerged from the shadows. She had borrowed Corbeil’s hat, which she wore pulled low over her face.

  “Wait here,” she said. “Do not let anyone in.”

  “Will the prisoners still be alive when you come out?” Pierre Duchambon said quietly, under his breath.

  She had already gone in and didn’t hear.

  Again, stepping into the prison, Constance felt the shiver of memory. She would suffer it for the rest of her life. But this was nothing like the Black Hole, or even the cell in Québec. The walls were clean and whitewashed, with a barred window to the outside and a beaten-earth floor. The two prisoners sat on stools in the corner, talking in their own language.

  They looked up as she entered. They were undeniably savage: heads shaved but for a single lock of hair, faces bristling with quills and ornaments, their bare skin painted with cabalistic designs. Both were strongly built, muscles rippling through their arms as they moved. In other circumstances, Constance might have enjoyed the sight.

  She hesitated. She had seen Indians in camp and around the fort, but always from a distance. Corbeil disdained them as primitives, even as he recognized he needed them against the British. She had never been so close before.

  Was she safe? Or would they lunge at her and tear her apart?

  “Why are you imprisoned? Are you spying for the British?”

  She spoke in English, abruptly and without preamble. At the same time, she moved forward so she could see the reactions on their faces.

  Neither man would be a fool, and both must be able to control their emotions, but to hear a woman’s voice speaking perfectly accented English, in a French fortress in the middle of the night, was too much of a surprise even for them. Their expressions rapidly turned defensive, their eyes widening. One of the men, Constance noticed, had deep brown eyes and features that startled her.

  A tremor went through her. It was like looking into a mirror, or at a portrait of an ancestor. Surely . . .

  She took another step forward. Fixed on the Indian’s face, she knew she had nothing to lose. Throwing caution to the wind she removed her hat. The fair hair she had piled up beneath it spilled out, framing a face that was no longer in shadow.

  The brown-eyed Indian was staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost. “Connie?”

  •••

  Constance almost fainted with shock. The inner resolve she had spent her life cultivating, her strength of will, her remarkable ability to dissemble and her practiced skill at facing up to the most hostile of situations, all fell away: nothing had prepared her for this.

  The brown-eyed Abenaki leaped up from the stool and embraced her. She stared up into his face, so strange and foreign, yet so familiar. There was everything she remembered—his eyes sparkled, like a glimpse of precious childhood innocence.

  “When I saw that knife, I could not believe it. I thought you were in India,” she whispered.

  “I thought you were dead.”

  She straightened and stood, stepping away so she could see him properly. Suddenly, she burst out into uncontrollable laughter. “Oh, Theo! However did you come to be a Red Indian?”

  “How did you come to be walking free in a French fort?”

  “It is a long story.”

  “So is mine.”

  They fell silent again, staring at each other in wonder. They had so much to say that they did not know where to begin.

  Constance collected herself. She reached inside her dress and pulled out a small folded piece of paper, which she pressed into his hands.

  “You must take this to the British general. It lays out the plans for the fort’s defenses.”

  Theo didn’t look at it. “You can bring it yourself. If you let us out, we can all escape together.”

  Constance hesitated. Nothing was as she expected, and everything was happening too quickly. She knew she ought to be thanking God for reuniting her with her brother against all odds and reason. She looked into his eyes and wanted there to be nothing between them.

  And yet . . . something deep in her soul warned her to move carefully. She told herself it was shock, but that was not the whole truth. The reunion of long-lost siblings might be cause for joy, but it was not easy or straightforward. He was not who he had been and neither was she. She could not simply throw herself into his arms as if the past three years had not happened and trust her destiny to him.

  “If I go with you, the French will know I have betrayed them,” she said.

  “It does not matter.” Theo tugged her arm, pulling her toward the door. “All I care about is that we are reunited. I am married now, Connie. I have a son. Abigail and Caleb. I want you to meet them, to complete our family.”

  “Do you not wish to revenge yourself on General Corbeil?”

  Theo stared at her, hardly capable of surprise any longer. “You sent me the letter?” He thought quickly. “Is he here?”

  “Asleep in his bed.”

  “Then let us go now. We will kill him and make our escape before anyone raises the alarm.”

  Constance felt that the night was moving in ways that did not suit her purpose. She wondered how she could feel so detached from her own brother, the boy she had grown up with. But she had run out of excuses.

  She followed Theo toward the door.

  “Wait!” called Moses. While Constance and Theo had been speaking, Moses had been keeping watch out of the window into the courtyard. “The guards are coming.”

  Theo moved to the side of the door. “We will take them when they enter.”

  “No,” pleaded Constance. “You are locked in a fort with five thousand French soldiers. One shot would bring them all down on us. They will kill you as a spy and me as a traitor. We would never avenge ourselves on Corbeil.”

  Theo paused. He was struck by indecision. Every instinct said he should fight. But he could not ignore the beseeching look his sister was giving him.

  Voices sounded outside the door. Constance could hear the corporal greeting the guards, and insisting they go no further. A bolt slid open.

  “What do you suggest?”

  •••

  Sergeant Bartier had a nose for trouble. If men were shirking duty, if a soldier was taking more than his share of the rations, if the quartermaster tried to cheat the company, Bartier could tell. It was why his superior officers relied on him, and his subordinates feared him.

  He knew something was wrong when he entered the prison. The door had been bolted; the two prisoners sat wher
e he had left them, on their stools at the far end of the room. But why was the general’s wife present? Why had the guard on the door been replaced by Corporal Duchambon, a notorious troublemaker? The hairs on the nape of the sergeant’s neck were prickling in a most uncomfortable way.

  “You should not be in here, madame,” he said to Constance.

  She turned on him with an imperious glare. “Perhaps you would like to share your opinion with the general. He thought they might be English spies and asked me to see if they spoke that language.”

  There were a number of reasons for Bartier to doubt this. He performed a quick mental calculation and concluded none of those reasons was worth disturbing the general for in the middle of the night. “What did you learn from them?”

  Constance gave her most dismissive shrug. “They are savages. They are no more English spies than I am. You should let them go.”

  Bartier felt a prickle of mistrust. “The Abenaki chief is coming. He will be able to vouch for them—or not.”

  He tipped back his head, eyeing Constance with the expression he used for particularly stupid officers. Challenging her to defy him.

  Did he imagine it, or did a look pass between her and the prisoners? Did one give a subtle nod?

  “As you wish.”

  Constance swept out, leaving Bartier alone with the two Indians. He gestured them to their feet. “Up.”

  Theo stood. Events were out of his control. He felt dazed. Almost as soon as Constance had left the room, he began wondering if he had dreamed the encounter. How else could they have been reunited? She was dead.

  The door opened again. An Indian entered, dressed like Theo and Moses with the marks of the Abenaki. He was strong and broad-shouldered, so tall that he had to duck under the lintel. For a moment, his face was hidden.

  When he straightened up, Theo had his second shock of the evening.

  If he had thought he was dreaming before, now he was sure of it. There was no other explanation. First Constance, now—

  Malsum walked toward them with casual steps. He had not changed, except for a few more scars. His nose was crooked, probably from when he and Theo had fought the day Mgeso died. He carried the same aura of menace. The French guards gave him a wide berth.

  “These are the men we found,” said the sergeant.

  Malsum nodded. He circled Theo and Moses, studying them like prey. Theo had not felt so helpless since his first day in the Abenaki village. He remembered how Malsum had tortured his companion, Gibbs, and how long it had taken the unfortunate victim to die. Now it was Theo’s turn.

  Malsum turned to the sergeant. “Leave these men to me,” he said curtly, in French.

  Bartier fought back his misgivings. But his orders had been to check with the Abenaki chief, and that was what he had done. It was a soldier’s duty to obey orders.

  Even so, he wanted certainty. “Are they your men? We found them loitering on the beach below the bluffs.”

  Malsum jerked his head contemptuously. “They are Abenaki. They are under my authority.”

  Bartier gave in. With a salute, he left the three Indians alone in the prison.

  Malsum put his hands on his hips and studied the two prisoners. The expression on his face was impossible to read.

  “So,” he said slowly, to Theo. “I know you. I can see through to your gibbering soul. Ahoma the chicken has become Siumo the hawk.”

  Theo said nothing. He should have expected Malsum to be there. The tribe had always been allies of the French. And Theo had delivered himself up, right into his enemy’s power. He would have wept with frustration, if he had not been too busy thinking of how to save his life.

  “And you.” Malsum turned to Moses. “Siumo is Bastaniak. But you deserted our tribe to fight with our enemies.”

  “Siumo is my brother,” Moses answered.

  Malsum grunted. “Come.”

  He led them across the courtyard, a thick rope attached to their bound hands, as if he was leading dogs to slaughter. A sentry challenged them, but Malsum growled so fiercely at the man that he opened the gate without further question. Theo and Moses followed him out between the great bastions of the corner towers and onto the burned land in front of the fort. The killing ground.

  Malsum halted.

  He was alone and outnumbered. But Malsum had a tomahawk in one hand, and a sharp knife in his belt. Theo and Moses had their hands tied behind their backs.

  Malsum grasped the knife and thumbed the blade. It took a sharp knife to scalp a man, and his was always ready. “Last time we met, you might have killed me,” he said.

  “If I’d known we would meet again like this, maybe I would have,” said Theo.

  Malsum spat onto the ground. “You should listen to the ancestors. They always told me we would meet again. I have waited for this day.”

  He walked behind Theo.

  “You look like an Abenaki,” he said, “but you were always Bastaniak. I never understood how Mgeso could love you.” He ran his hand over Theo’s bare scalp, stroking the single lock of hair Theo had left at the front.

  “She loved me because I loved her,” said Theo.

  “So did I.”

  “You killed her.”

  “I did not kill her, you fool. It was Bichot. Your mind is playing tricks on you. But she was never meant to die.” A sudden change had come over Malsum—Theo had never heard him sound so raw. The words came out like a howl of pain: “I would rather have died a thousand times than live one day with the thought of Mgeso’s death. It was you I wanted dead.”

  Theo said nothing. Bichot and Malsum had abducted Mgeso, subjecting her to the terror of their groping hands and, he was sure, worse violations to her person. Then she had been brutally murdered. For months, his plans for revenge on Malsum and Bichot had been braided into the deepest strands of his being. Yet he saw his adversary’s pain, a despair that came from Malsum’s deepest self. Could this brute know the agonies of loss? Feel the keen, blade-sharp incision of true love? Perhaps there was humanity in his soul . . . or was it all an elaborate performance?

  “Now is the time to finish this,” said Malsum. He rubbed the flat of the blade over Theo’s scalp. With a quick cut, he sliced through the cords that bound Theo’s wrists. Theo was so surprised, his hands stayed in place behind his back even after the rope had fallen to the ground.

  “You spared my life,” said Malsum. “You could have killed me with my tomahawk as I lay unconscious. For that moment, you deemed me worthy to continue living. Now I have returned the favor. And more.” He cut Moses free as well. “Mgeso’s spirit will not haunt me any longer.”

  Theo turned to look into Malsum’s eyes. He was suspicious and tried to divine the Indian’s motives. Could it be true? Was he really free? In the rush of relief and gratitude, he almost wanted to embrace his old enemy. But it would be like embracing a wolf.

  “Come with me,” Theo urged. “The Bastaniak will win this war. They will be generous to their friends, but cruel to those who helped the French. For the sake of all the Abenaki, join us.”

  For a moment, he dared hope Malsum might agree. Then the Abenaki’s face hardened. “I cannot. I must stay with my men.” Malsum pointed into the woods. “The way to your camp is there. Go. Tonight I have spared your life, but if we meet on the battlefield, there will be no mercy.”

  “Then, for both our sakes, I pray we do not meet there.”

  Malsum bared his teeth. “You may pray, but the ancestors will guide us to their own purposes. You know and I know it is inevitable.”

  •••

  Three canoes glided over the lake making barely a ripple. The weather was clement. Under the new moon, they navigated by starlight, while a south-west wind was steady at their backs.

  It was ten days since Theo and Moses had reconnoitered the fort: a week of frantic preparation, and three days’ waiting for the right conditions. The plan of the defenses that Theo had brought had stirred the general into high excitement. “We have them no
w, by God,” he had exclaimed.

  But the problem remained of the guns on the heights. “If the French have a battery up there, they will make mincemeat of our men,” Theo fretted.

  The general studied the map. “It is not marked here.”

  “It must have been copied in haste.” Theo leaned forward. “I know it is there. Send me with my men and I will prove it, sir.”

  “But you cannot scale those cliffs. The only way on to that ridge is the ravine you found in the winter, and the French will surely have it guarded. You said yourself a dozen men could stop an army.”

  “I believe there is another way,” Theo insisted. “A path up the rear side of the mountain from the creek. If I can force it with a company of rangers, we will fall upon the French without warning.”

  “Have you seen this path?”

  “No.”

  “Even if it exists, forcing the heights will be a perilous mission.”

  “I am willing to try it, sir.” Theo knew the danger. But if he was to have any chance of rescuing Constance, they had to embrace it.

  Williams clasped his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. His face was pinched in thought. “If you are willing to hazard your life, then it is worth the gamble,” he said at last. “If the French have guns up there, the fort will withstand us and the war will fail.” He stood and clasped Theo’s hand, holding it fast. “I pray you are wrong, Captain Courtney, but I fear you may be right. If so, fifteen thousand lives depend on you.”

  Theo knew his duty to his comrades. But right now, one life above all obsessed him. Constance’s. She was alive. She was here. At all costs, he must avoid a bloody siege that would see the general’s howitzers launching shells indiscriminately into the fort. Taking the guns was his only hope. Then the French would surrender, and he would be reunited with his sister. I could not save you in Calcutta, he thought. I will not fail you this time.

  He said it again to himself, now, in the canoe, digging his paddle into the water. He forced himself to relax. If he paddled too hard, he would make splashes that might be seen by the watchers in the fort.