Council of Fire

by Eric Flint

  “Or it is an omen.”

  “My dear Marquis,” the Chévalier de Lévis said. “We are soldiers. Whenever we go to battle there is the possibility that it could be our last day on this earth. If we let ourselves be chased by omens and haunts, we will be consumed by them.”

  “So you don’t . . . ”

  “Really. Do you believe in omens? I wonder what His Eminence the bishop would say about that.”

  “What he says about everything, François. Which is not very much.”

  “If you want to take something as an omen, tell me what you make of this much-heralded comet. If we had a clear sky—which we never seem to do—we could gaze upon it. The common folk fear it, but it’s just a . . . well, it’s just something in the sky, whatever it is. Once in a lifetime, and then it’s gone.”

  “Strange that it should come now, in this critical time.”

  “It was predicted, non? Every, what, seventy-six years it comes into the sky once and twice, and then disappears into the dark, not to be seen again by the same eyes. At least I don’t expect to see it again.”

  “Assuredly not.” Montcalm looked out at the St. Lawrence again as it rushed below. “And I don’t expect to see Candiac again either.”

  “Melancholy ill becomes you, Monsieur. Especially when you are to meet with the governor.”

  “I suspect he does not hold with omens either.”

  “I do not think I would mention it, Monsieur.”

  “No. I do not think the subject will come up.”

  The governor was waiting for Montcalm and Lévis at the Intendant’s Palace, a rambling old structure in the Lower Town. Regrettably, it meant that the meeting would also include the presence of François Bigot, the intendant of New France. If there was one man in North America whom Montcalm detested more than Vaudreuil, it was Bigot—not just for his scarcely-disguised venality, but for his physical presence.

  Montcalm sometimes thought that he might rather face a concerted cavalry charge than to stand close to Bigot. He suffered from a disfiguring affliction: what was called ozène, a sort of infection of the nose; he was constantly dabbing at it with a lavender-scented handkerchief, but the odor penetrated the cloying perfume. It was unpleasant enough that the Marquis avoided the odious little man as much as possible.

  The Intendant’s Palace was damp and chilly as the two men walked through the entrance. A servant was there to take their hats and walking-sticks and beckon them toward the stairs. Montcalm found Vaudreuil at a large table, with Bigot hovering close by. He could smell the man’s perfume at a distance and did his best not to wrinkle his nose.

  “So good of you to come on short notice, Monsieur,” Vaudreuil said, offering the slightest of bows. “I require your advice.”

  Montcalm looked from the governor to the intendant and back. “On what subject?”

  “There appears to be some sort of panic among the savages. They view the transit of the comet as a particularly evil omen.”

  “It was viewed as an evil omen in London and Paris in 1682, and I am sure each other time it has passed near to the Earth. What of it?”

  “You seem to take the matter lightly, Marquis,” Bigot said, dabbing his nose. “Surely the participation of the natives is critical to our strategy.”

  “That does not mean I listen to everything they say. And you know well, Monsieur Intendant, that they often do as they please regardless of what I say. But say on, Governor. What do they make of this omen?”

  Vaudreuil seemed to be contemplating his response, and Montcalm remembered the question he had asked Lévis on the fortifications. Do you believe in omens?

  “You know that their shamans perform what they call ‘medicine,’ in which they make an augury for the future. One of them—an Onondaga, I believe—made some dire predictions which were repeated to a courier de bois. The ones he particularly made note of were that the comet—the ‘broom star’—would ‘come to earth,’ leaving a path of death and destruction; and that something, or someone, would extinguish a council fire—whatever significance that might have.”

  “Did the ranger say those precise words? The Council Fire?”

  “Something to that effect, yes.”

  “Is he still in Québec? I would like to ask him myself. If he heard those words, Governor, it is an ill omen indeed. I can imagine why the natives were so upset.”

  “I fail to understand,” Bigot said.

  “Obviously,” Montcalm said, which drew a sharp look from the intendant. “If the man spoke of the Onondaga Council Fire, then having it be extinguished is highly significant. You are native to New France, Governor: you must understand.”

  Bigot arched an eyebrow; Montcalm glanced back at Lévis, who said nothing and kept his face impassive.

  “Our native allies to the south—the Six Nations—are centered on the lands of the Onondaga, Monsieur Intendant. There a fire is kept continuously burning at the Onondaga Long House. It is the place that the various tribes and chiefs bring their burdens and their disputes. If the fire went out it would portend the end of their confederation.”

  “We might deal more easily with them in detail,” Bigot said. “Their bargaining power would be reduced.”

  “Some of them would defect to the English,” Montcalm snapped back, almost adding, you idiot. “And even those who were still our allies would be unreliable. It would be a disaster.”

  “It is no more than a primitive omen, Monsieur,” Vaudreuil said. “It means nothing.”

  “I am not so sure. And you are not sure either, Governor, or you would not be taking my time to discuss it. The English must have heard the same rumors and will act accordingly. Now is the courier de bois still in Québec?”

  “I really have no idea.”

  “Then I shall go and see. If this is the substance of his report, we should be very concerned indeed.”

  The storm came in the pale, overcast morning, like a bank of fog that rolled westward up the St. Lawrence, first wrapping itself around the lower town and then drifting upward along the cliffs to Vieux Québec.

  The Marquis de Montcalm was walking along the landward-facing wall that overlooked the plateau west of the old city, the so-called Heights of Abraham. They were apparently named for a riverboat pilot of the last century—for his good works, or some such thing, he was granted the valuable tract beyond. The name had become enshrined in local geography.

  He stopped for a moment to imagine what a battle might look like there. Assuming an enemy army—a British army—could somehow make the ascent from the river, they would have to deploy out there, crouching behind the hillocks and the gradual rises. Infantry only, of course—there’d be no horsemen and certainly no cannon. It would be muskets and bayonets . . .

  The fog drifted across where he was standing. Not the usual damp fog that was native to Québec, but a pale, almost luminescent one that carried the slightest odor of . . .

  . . . Of gunpowder, Montcalm realized. It smells like a battle.

  From across the plains, he thought he heard gunfire and shouting . . . and the rolling thunder of artillery.

  They’re firing on us, Montcalm thought: the Austrians have us in their sights, and we’re in a bottleneck. This is not where we are supposed to be—and Maillebois must know it. We were to deploy to the north of Piacenza.

  They found out. Somehow Count Browne must have found out what we were doing and moved against us . . . and now they have our range.

  We will have to charge them. The only way out is through the Austrian lines. The only way . . .

  The fog swept across the battlefield, and Montcalm led the Bourbon cavalry against the Austrians. There was no way but forward.

  The sun peeked through the clouds of the setting sun, and a shadow crossed them. Montcalm looked up to see Lévis standing over him, bending down slightly, looking concerned.

  Montcalm blinked. “Bin ich jetzt in Verhaftung?”

  “I’m sorry . . . Monsieur, what did you say?”

/>   He looked around him. He was reclining—quite comfortably, actually—against the bole of a large tree. In the near distance, across uneven, rolling hillocks, he could see the landward wall of the old city of Québec. Not Piacenza . . . Québec . . . and it was not 1746, but rather 1759.

  No, he thought. I am not a prisoner. That was long ago.

  “Why am I here, François?”

  “I would ask you that question myself, Monsieur,” Lévis said. “No one has seen you in hours. I have looked all around the Old Town, and down in the lower town . . . and no one has seen or heard from you since mid-morning. I was a bit worried.”

  “Monsieur Chévalier,” Montcalm said, getting slowly to his feet and brushing off his clothing, “I have been a soldier for His Christian Majesty for most of forty years. I fought in the Polish war, against the Austrians—”

  “I remember, Monsieur; I have been in service about as long. They took you prisoner at Piacenza. Verhaftung.”

  Montcalm looked at him curiously. “I hadn’t realized you had much command of German, François.”

  “You asked me a question in German just now, Monsieur.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  Lévis looked away, the sunset light etching his profile.

  “Did I ask you something in German? Why would I . . . ”

  Piacenza, Montcalm thought. I was back at Piacenza—I was leading the charge against the Austrian cavalry . . . and at the end of the day I was a prisoner of the Austrians.

  “Can you tell me what happened today?”

  “It is . . . hard to say. But one thing is certain: if you look at the sky—” he pointed upward. “The comet is gone.”

  Chapter 3

  One word over and over

  Lands of the Six Nations

  The night of the Change had been still and cold, with no hint of the coming spring. But still, there had been something so odd that no one, not even the oldest among those at Canajoharie, could remember anything like it. A wind swept across the settlement, bringing with it a strange fog that seemed to contain dancing lights—it came and went in less time than it took the moon to climb from between the tall trees to above them. The next day the shamans and many of the women reported evil dreams—of lands rising from the water, and the scourging of the people by ancient, terrible creatures . . . but the sun still rose in its usual place and people went about their usual tasks.

  Brant and his stepson sat on two tree stumps, watching the white stranger converse with another warrior. The white man seemed nervous, looking around as he talked.

  “What do you make of that?”

  “He’s a soldier,” Joseph said. “He stands straight and has his hands ready.”

  “I wonder if Tiyanoga knows that.”

  “He went with the war-band last year. He would see the same things I do.”

  Brant stretched and yawned. The stranger noticed the movement, his eyes darting toward the two natives sitting on the stumps. But he did not otherwise react.

  “He’s not dressed as a soldier, but rather as a trader. I wonder why.”

  “No single soldier would come into the Mohawk lands,” Joseph said. “Neither British nor French trust us . . . not to be savages.”

  His stepfather laughed at that, and again the stranger’s glance went to them.

  “Let’s see what this trader has to say for himself,” Brant said, standing. His stepson joined him, and they walked to where the conversation was taking place.

  The white man turned his attention completely to the newcomers. He looked around and noticed that there were several others nearby, watching the exchange.

  “I think I would best be on my way,” he said in English—but it bore an accent that suggested that it was not his native tongue.

  “I think our Tekarihoga would like to sit with you, Brother,” Brant said. “So you will remain with us for a while.”

  The man looked up at the sun, well into the afternoon. “I have far to go before dark—”

  Brant laughed. “A trader who does not wish to trade? No, you will stay.” He gestured at the little crowd that had gathered. “Too many to fight, and you cannot run fast enough—my son has the feet of a deer and will catch you. You will make the right choice to sit and smoke a pipe with us, won’t you?”

  “I am a Scottish trader from Albany,” the man said, sitting cross-legged in the house of the Tekarihoga, the chief sachem of the Canajoharie. A small group of other warriors, including Brant and Joseph, sat in a circle, listening carefully.

  The sachem took a long pull on his pipe and handed it to the white man. “You are not a clever liar, Brother.”

  The man held the pipe for a moment before drawing on it, then letting the smoke escape his mouth. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You are neither trader nor Scottish man. You are French, and a soldier.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because my eyes and ears are open. Why are you here, French soldier? This is far south for one such as you to come, and no trader moves on without trying to do business. Yours is a poor disguise.

  “Tell me the news. We may have traveled the warpath with the British last summer, but their war-bands had strong arms and legs but a weak head. We watched them die, and then we went home to wipe away the tears of those families who had to mourn their own dead. So we mean one Frenchman no harm, even for sport.”

  The man who called himself George—or Georges—took a few moments to consider, then spoke. “I was a soldier at the place you call Ticonderoga, in the fort we named Carillon.”

  “War-bands of our people were there. Go on.”

  “Some days past there was a strange cloud, like a shining fog. It passed over the fort and down into the valley, and soon after . . . things began to happen.”

  “What sorts of things?”

  “We began to hear music. The bagpipe mostly: that strange instrument the Scotsmen—”

  “The real Scotsmen,” Brant said, and the Mohawks laughed, as the white man reddened slightly.

  “The one the Scotsmen play as they march,” Georges continued as the laughter subsided. “Even though there were no enemy soldiers in the valley we could hear the bagpipes play. And then we began to see them: spectres or shades, rising from the mist; ghosts of those Scotsmen who had charged the abatis last summer. Even in daylight we could make them out. Some of them had huge gaping wounds from bayonets or musket balls—some had no heads, some had heads but no faces . . . ”

  His voice trailed off, and the horror was obvious in his face.

  “I thought the white men did not believe in ghosts,” the Tekarihoga said. “Does your Christian book not say that everyone goes either to the Plentiful Country, or into some pot of boiling fire to be cooked forever for the pleasure of the Great God? There is no place for ghosts.”

  “I know what I saw, honored one,” the white man said. “They are still there. You can look for yourself.”

  The Tekarihoga nodded. “We will, we will. So you ran away from the ghosts?”

  “. . . Yes. We all did.”

  “What do you mean, you all did? Are there no more servants of the Onontio at Ticonderoga then?”

  “No. It is abandoned. No one can stand the sights or the sounds—the bagpipes, and the ghosts of the Scotsmen repeating one word, over and over.”

  “And that one word?”

  “Abercromby.”

  A party of Mohawk warriors—the sachem Karaghiagdatie and two young warriors, Tiyanoga and Joseph—traveled by canoe and by foot for three days to reach the French fort. It would have taken a white man far longer, but they did not know the woods and roads like the natives. As they moved toward the sunrise, there was a feeling of dread on the ground and in the air that made them shiver. Of the three, Joseph was the most sensitive: he was a born tracker, who as much felt as saw the signs on the trail, and the closer they came to the French fort the more it affected him.

  When they reached the lake, they could see no
smoke rising from the chimneys of the fort. It seemed that the French trader who had come to Canajoharie was not the only one who had abandoned Carillon . . .

  And when they pulled their canoes onto the shore, they could see the ghosts by the hundreds milling around the base of the hill.

  Chapter 4

  The keepers of the house shall tremble

  Aboard HMS Namur

  In the Atlantic Ocean

  If he had been able to sleep that night, Admiral Edward Boscawen might not have survived the experience. Of such things is history made; the whim of chance, the roll of dice on the backgammon-board, the choice of this path rather than another.

  But sleep had not come that night and he instead found himself on the quarterdeck of HMS Namur, bound for the roadstead of Toulon, where he would command the squadron charged with bottling up De la Clue’s fleet and preventing its escape from the Mediterranean into the Atlantic. It was a post with distinction, but not without its perils; after all, not two years since, a colleague—Byng—had been hanged on his own deck for being less than ardent in his pursuit of the enemy.

  Boscawen accepted the assignment without comment or complaint. Hawke would have made his displeasure known—but Boscawen was not Hawke. Brilliant as he was, the man had a pernicious skill in raising his fellows (and his superiors) to anger.

  The province of the quarterdeck is customarily sacrosanct, a private refuge for the master of a vessel. A captain, or an admiral, would hardly expect to be disturbed in his contemplations save in the case of some weighty matter that could not be handled by subordinates. But Admiral Edward Boscawen was unusual among his peers, and his crew knew it; thus, when he heard the polite clearing of a throat, he was not surprised or upset. He turned from his contemplation of the ocean to see Francis Perry standing at the top of the stair. The boatswain immediately saluted.