Ghost Fire

by Wilbur Smith

  You must survive. That simple imperative had seen her through the Black Hole, and it would see her through this. She whispered it to herself with every step, over and over, until it contracted into a single vital mantra.

  They left the swamp and started to climb. There was no respite, only trading one kind of hell for another. The stony ground was as sharp as saw teeth, shredding her damp shoes and cutting her blistered skin. Each step was agony.

  Bichot drew level with her. His eyes stripped her bare and he smiled, in a way that revealed exactly what he was thinking. Constance shivered. What if Corbeil tossed her to him, a morsel for his faithful hound? There were whole worlds of misery worse than sore feet.

  The path rose steeply past a cairn and funneled into a narrow ravine. From below, it was invisible. Constance’s hopes faded. There was no way the British would discover this hidden route.

  Confirmation came an hour later when the advance scouts returned. “The pass is clear,” they reported. “No sign of the British.”

  Corbeil clapped his hands together in triumph. “Then we are home and free. We have destroyed one army. Now we shall fall upon Québec and destroy another. The victory will be total.”

  The men cheered. All morning they had marched in sullen silence, stunned by Corbeil’s brutal coup de force at the fort. Many of the men who had died had been their friends. But the shock was passing. They were alive, and the British were beaten. They knew Corbeil was an uncompromising tyrant. That was why he would win.

  They reached the top of the ravine in good spirits. If there was going to be an ambush that would have been the place for it. Now the ground opened out. The summit of the ridge was only a hundred yards away, up a shallow incline.

  The major who commanded the battalion sought out Corbeil. “We should call a halt. The men have been marching for hours without rest.”

  “Not until we are down the other side.”

  The major was loyal to his men, but the look on Corbeil’s face brooked no argument. The major saluted.

  “Why not rest here?” The voice came from an unexpected source. Constance had wandered out of the main column, wincing with every step, and was staring at the forest. A stream babbled out of the trees, its banks lined with blueberry bushes. “There is water for the men, and fruit. If you march them into the ground, they will never reach Québec.”

  The soldiers glanced uncertainly between their commander and his wife. Some gazed longingly at the cool water flowing by. Others wondered why the wife was bound and being led, like a prisoner. Even in her distress, she was undeniably beautiful.

  Corbeil did not hesitate. He strode across to Constance and, open-handed, slapped her across her face. “You think you can manipulate my men against me, the way you manipulated Bercheny? You think you can delay me so the British can catch up? Say one more word and I will gag you.”

  Blood oozed from the corner of Constance’s mouth. Five hundred men had witnessed her humiliation. And still she smiled.

  Corbeil saw it. He paused. There was nothing she could do to him now. He was safe, victorious. So why was she smiling like that?

  He knew she was provoking him to ask. He did not want to give her the satisfaction. But he had to know.

  “What is it?” he said, despite himself.

  She glanced again at the forest. “My brother.”

  •••

  Theo’s lungs were bursting. His legs screamed with pain, and his eyes were red with sweat. He had run along the mountain, knowing that nothing less would give him a chance. He had almost made it in time.

  But he was too late.

  He saw the French column through the trees. They had come out of the ravine, where he might have been able to block them, and were marching over the open ground toward the ridge. He made a quick calculation. There was no way he would be able to get ahead of them before they reached the summit.

  Theo saw a flash of golden hair among the uniforms. He almost cried out in frustration and despair. He pushed back the branch that hid him and leaned forward. He could see Constance, and whether she had noticed his movement, or was scanning the forest in hope of salvation, she was looking straight at him.

  Their eyes met. Theo almost sprang out of the forest, but that would have been certain death. There was nothing he could do.

  And then the column stopped.

  Theo didn’t have time to wonder at his good fortune. He waved to Moses and the men behind him. Only two dozen rangers had made it this far, against five hundred Frenchmen. They couldn’t hope to win. But he had to try.

  “We must climb to the top of the slope,” he whispered. That would give them the higher ground and a modicum of cover. “It is our only chance.”

  Moses nodded. “Go. I will gain you time.”

  There was no other option. The French soldiers were readying themselves to move again. Theo had to get ahead of them.

  A shot rang out from behind him. Moses had opened fire, throwing the French into confusion. It was a brave effort. The French did not take long to collect their senses. They unshouldered their weapons and poured a volley of musketry into the bushes where Moses had hidden.

  Theo broke from the trees and sprinted the last few yards over open ground to the rise of the ridge. Not all the French had been distracted by Moses’s diversion. Some had seen Theo. Musket balls plowed into the ground around his feet.

  Theo was too quick. He crested the ridge and slid down on the loose gravel behind it. In a single motion, he unslung his rifle, sighted it on Corbeil and fired.

  He shouldn’t have missed from that distance. But he had fired in haste: the shot went wide, hitting the officer next to Corbeil. He could see Constance, her fair hair blowing loose in the mountain breeze.

  “Connie!” he shouted.

  Corbeil was holding her. More musket balls peppered the ground around Theo. He ducked. By the time he had reloaded, Corbeil and Constance had disappeared behind cover.

  The rest of the rangers had managed to reach the ridge. There was no sign of Moses. Theo hoped he was safe. The rangers made a loose line along the rear side of the ridge and began a furious barrage of fire.

  The French battalion was caught in confusion. Theo had killed the major who commanded them, and Corbeil had vanished. Instinctively, they retreated from the rangers’ attack, backing toward the ravine where the end of the column was still coming up. Panic threatened to take hold.

  It would not last long. Theo could hear their sergeants shouting, whipping their men into order. On open ground, the rangers wouldn’t stand a chance. They had to force the French down into the ravine.

  “Reload and then fix bayonets,” Theo barked.

  The command was passed along the line. If the men were alarmed, they didn’t let it show. Theo had instilled ferocious discipline in them.

  “Charge!”

  This was the true test of leadership: telling two dozen men to follow you against a whole battalion. No one hesitated.

  A cloud of white powder smoke choked the ridge. All that the French saw was green-jacketed devils storming out of the fog behind a wall of bayonets. They did not stop to count, or to wonder how many men the British might actually have. It did not occur to them that so few men would recklessly charge a greater force. They had not reckoned on British fighting spirit.

  The rangers discharged their weapons, almost at point-blank range, and kept running. The sight was too much for the weary, leaderless French infantry. They broke, fleeing down the ravine with little thought of defense. The few who hesitated felt the full force of the rangers’ bayonets.

  “Find cover!” Theo shouted. The press of men in the narrow ravine was so tight that the French could not physically flee any further. Some slipped on the loose stones and were trampled underfoot.

  The rangers spread out around the mouth of the gully. They were still dangerously exposed, especially if the French realized their true numbers.

  Theo knelt behind a fallen log, reloaded and fired into the fle
eing throng. It did not matter where he aimed: he could not miss.

  Perhaps they might win.

  •••

  Corbeil observed the rout in furious disbelief. How had the British arrived so quickly? How could they have turned the tide with so few men? He had seen them scurrying over the ridge: there could not have been more than two score of them.

  His soldiers streamed down the ravine in flight. The crush of bodies between the narrow walls was all that slowed them: otherwise, they’d be halfway down the mountainside.

  Corbeil stood in their midst like a rock in a torrent. “Stand and fight!” he yelled. “Stand and fight.”

  Men pushed past him, heedless of his rank. But Corbeil would not be defeated.

  “I will execute any man who does not fight!” he bellowed. “I will rip out your hearts and make you eat them. I will slaughter your children and let my dogs take your wives. Stand your ground!”

  His reputation was hard won. The men who heard the threats heeded them. Some slowed and turned, even as the rangers poured more volleys into their rear.

  Bichot fought his way toward Corbeil, beating men to return to the fight with the handle of his ax. Others—many of them evil-faced veterans of Bichot’s marauders—joined him. Screaming, threatening, striking and cursing, they forced their soldiers up the slope.

  The tide turned. The unstoppable force that had sucked the men down now reversed itself, pushing up the hill in spite of the fire coming against them.

  But they were still stuck in the ravine.

  Bichot had organized the front ranks into some semblance of order, using the cliffs and boulders as shelter while they engaged the rangers above. The rate of fire slowed now that the rangers lacked easy targets. The rhythm of battle fell to a steady exchange of sporadic shots, keeping the other side pinned down. It was a stalemate.

  “Form up the men!” Corbeil shouted. “Ten abreast, in one column.”

  With the major dead, the battalion’s senior officer now was a fresh-faced captain from Bourgogne. He looked anxiously at Corbeil. “Monsieur?”

  “We must break out of this hole. Those rangers are too few to resist us if we concentrate our numbers.”

  The captain gestured to the sides of the ravine. “But we cannot make it happen while we are in this deathtrap.”

  “Then we will march up this slope and force our way out.”

  The captain stared. “They will inflict terrible casualties on us.”

  “Not fast enough to save themselves.”

  There was a dangerous madness in Corbeil’s eyes. The captain saluted and began shouting orders that were repeated down the gully. The weary men formed up as best they could.

  “The first ten ranks will load. The remainder, fix bayonets.”

  Corbeil hung back as the men advanced up the slope. He could not see the rangers, but he sensed his soldiers’ panic as the column came into view. The rate of fire increased to a desperate pitch. The men in the front ranks would be torn apart.

  But always there were more to take their place. It was a human battering ram, driven forward by the weight of men behind. The shooting rose to a frenzied crescendo, then ceased almost at once. The French soldiers had broken out. The rangers must be retreating, running too fast to reload.

  Corbeil broke cover to witness his victory. Everything had happened as he designed. French bodies lay strewn around the mouth of the ravine, but the column had advanced. They had overwhelmed the rangers, who were attempting to make a fighting retreat up the slope.

  They had no chance. The French army fanned out, bringing all their numbers to bear. And as they began the charge, Corbeil saw the final proof of his triumph.

  Men had appeared from the trees behind the rangers. Their single locks of hair blew in the wind. They were the Abenaki Indian scouts he had sent ahead to spy out the road to Québec. They must have heard the battle and returned. The rangers were cut off, caught between the Abenaki at their backs and the army pushing out of the ravine.

  Corbeil smiled.

  •••

  For a time, Theo thought he might be winning the battle. The French had recovered their discipline, but they showed little appetite for attack. They sheltered in the ravine, firing at a desultory rate that did not much trouble the rangers.

  Through the smoke, Theo searched for Constance. She must be down the slope. The thought of her in the midst of the fighting knotted his guts.

  She survived Calcutta while you were floating away on a ship, he reminded himself. She can survive this. It was little consolation.

  Moses had not appeared. He was concerned for his friend, but for now Theo put it out of his mind. He felt as if he had been fighting for hours. It could not go on forever.

  If the main British army had heard the battle raging on the mountainside, how many of them had survived the fort’s explosion and would be able to come to support them? Theo could expect no help from that quarter.

  He reached into his ammunition pouch to grab another ball and felt the leather at the bottom. He was down to his last few shots.

  He heard a different sound from the ravine: the tramp of many boots in unison, marching. A line of men appeared through the smoke, muskets in their hands.

  They were walking toward him, lined up like straw targets on a shooting range. What were they thinking? Theo fired, and saw one collapse clutching his bleeding chest.

  No gap appeared in the line. Another man went down, and another, as the rangers took advantage of their opportunity. Each time, the French closed up and kept moving. Theo could see the line behind the front rank—and the line behind. The French had thrown their entire weight into this offensive maneuver. They suffered terrible casualties. But they were advancing, carried forward by the momentum of the men behind.

  The rangers fired as rapidly as they could. There was no time now to wrap their balls in the greased leather patches that gripped the rifling. Accuracy was not a priority: speed was everything. They bit cartridges, poured powder, rammed balls and loosed their shots in a blur. At that range, they could not miss. But they could not halt the advance.

  The bodies of the dead were a gruesome sight at the mouth of the ravine. Trampling over them, the front line of the column came out from the rocky defile. They started to spread out, giving Theo’s men more targets to aim at.

  But it was desperate. In a few minutes, their positions would be overrun and they would be slaughtered.

  “Retreat,” he ordered. “Keep formation.”

  Crouching low, the rangers fell back toward the trees. It was their only hope. In the forest, they might hold off the French, or escape altogether. But they might not make it that far. Coming out on the mountain top, the French had formed a triple line emptying volley after volley of musket fire at the rangers. Theo’s men could not move without braving a hailstorm of lead. The withdrawal would become a deathtrap.

  Theo’s hand scrabbled in the pouch and felt the last ball. One by one, the rangers were cut down. Men Theo had known since the day he had left the Abenaki village, men he had led out of Bichot’s winter trap: he watched them die and could do nothing to protect them. The safety of the forest was far away.

  And then the firing ceased.

  Theo knew he should run. It might be his only chance. But he stayed where he was, crouched behind a boulder. Why had they stopped shooting? Had they run out of ammunition too? Or did Corbeil mean to take him alive?

  His eye caught a movement behind him. He hardly dared take his gaze off the wall of Frenchmen to his front, but he risked the briefest of glances.

  A war band of the Abenaki had come out of the forest. Malsum stood at their head, his painted chest glistening with sweat. The porcupine quills on his leggings gleamed like knives in the sunlight. The French had stopped firing so they would not hit their allies.

  Theo’s spirits sank even lower. Standing beside Malsum, and a little behind, was Moses. They must have captured him.

  Malsum bellowed the Abenaki war cry,
more chilling and fearsome than Theo had ever heard. The men along the line took up the call, so that it echoed across the mountain, like a wild wind. It was the sound of death.

  The Abenaki charged. There was nothing the rangers could do to resist. They were out of ammunition, and most had lost their bayonets. Some drew their knives; others gripped their rifles like clubs. It would make little difference.

  Moses came with the Abenaki as they swept forward. He was wielding a tomahawk. Was it possible he had betrayed the rangers? Or had he seen that the British were doomed, and chosen to rejoin his people?

  How could Theo blame him?

  Theo felt in his belt for a knife. It would be a hopeless weapon. He saw a pistol on the ground, dropped by one of his men. His hand closed on the butt of the gun. It was loaded. One shot left. The gods were giving him a final chance.

  Should he save the bullet for himself, or try to take Malsum with him? He had seconds to decide. The Abenaki were almost upon him. Their war cries were deafening. Moses was shouting at him, gesticulating, shaking his head wildly, but Theo could not hear. He trained the pistol on Malsum, but once again he hesitated. He had him in his sights, he could blow him away in an instant—but what were the words Moses was screaming?

  It was too late. The Abenaki fell upon the rangers with savage howls. Theo threw himself flat on the ground, still searching for Malsum. If he was to die, he could at least avenge Mgeso for his complicity in her death.

  But Malsum was gone. All the Abenaki passed by. They had run straight through the rangers as if they weren’t there.

  Theo turned. It was no trick. The Abenaki were sprinting, yelling their war-cry as they raced toward the French line. Some of the French put up their muskets, but most held fast, dumbfounded. Like Theo, they could not understand what was happening.

  The Abenaki tore into the French, like wolves into a flock of deer. A few shots were fired, but most in such panic that the French hit only their own men. The slaughter began.

  This time, there was hardly any resistance. The French had been marching and fighting all day. They had suffered terrible casualties. Now, betrayed by their allies in their hour of triumph, they caved in. The line collapsed. Abandoning their wounded, their weapons, even the coats on their backs, they fled down the mountain.