Council of Fire

by Eric Flint

  “Shall I take some of those who did so?”

  “I daresay they would be the most unreliable. Of course, I am not a military man, so perhaps your judgment in this matter is better than my own.”

  Perhaps your judgment . . . Lévis had felt like striking the governor with his fist but had thought better of it.

  Instead he had given a salute and departed the Intendant’s Palace, to assemble his company and to locate couriers de bois who could transport them across Lac St. Sacrement to the fortress that had been abandoned a few weeks earlier.

  He took a dozen of the hardiest, most stalwart-looking soldiers who had come back to Québec to tell of the apparitions at Carillon. Only a portion of the garrison had even come to Québec—at least half of the men had scattered elsewhere—and Lévis’ choices weren’t from the best; but he wanted to have some people who had experienced what they were about to see.

  Spring in New France is a tug of war. Nature wants to display her riches and beauties everywhere, while the cold hand of winter wants to strike them down. In the best of circumstances it becomes an uneasy truce; cool, crisp sunny days and chilling, frost-filled nights taking their turn until well past the solstice time. Lévis’ company dressed for the cold: there was no particular need for crisp parade uniforms or ceremonial attire. Instead they dressed like their guides—homespun and buckskin, fur vests and stout boots. Anyone observing the group would likely not take them for soldiers in service to the king of France.

  It took ten days overland to reach the head of the lake, carrying their bateaux with them as they moved through the forest. Lévis was amazed at how the trackless wilderness yielded to the knowledge and experience of the couriers de bois, following trails and paths that he never would have been able to find. Still, when they emerged from the woods and put their boats in the water at the north end of Lac-Champlain, all of them breathed a sigh of relief.

  On the first night ashore, Lévis sat with his adjutant, a young officer named Olivier D’Egremont who had come to New France the previous year. His was a typical story—third son of a minor nobleman, with no land or title waiting for him in the home country, obtaining a commission and service in North America as a way to make his own fortune.

  “This is a beautiful country, Monsieur,” D’Egremont said, leaning back against the bole of a great old tree at the corner of their camp.

  “Isn’t it? A shame that we may have to give it over to the English.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t think I needed to explain why. There are ten Englishmen for each Frenchman, D’Egremont. They have control of the seas, and are finally—finally!—ready to make the commitment to fight us here on land. The loss of Louisbourg was just the beginning—there is more ahead.”

  “Then what is this about?”

  Lévis smiled. “Which ‘this’?”

  “This expedition, Monsieur. If we are bound to lose, why bother to reoccupy Carillon? Especially given the stories . . . ”

  “What have you heard?”

  “I . . . ” D’Egremont smiled. “I have been listening to the men who left Carillon and came to Québec. They have some interesting stories.”

  “They haven’t spoken a word to me. They—they scarcely meet my eyes, to be honest.”

  “They are ashamed, Monsieur, and it is hard to blame them, since they abandoned their post. But it is also hard to blame them for having done so in the first place.”

  “There was talk of ghosts. What do you make of that?”

  “I am not a father, Monsieur, but I am an uncle, and I have watched my older brothers and their wives in dealing with their children. When there is a dispute among them, they ask each to tell their story in private—and then the adults compare what is said. I would believe that much of what our men say is a fabrication, except that each of them tells the same story: what they heard, what they saw.

  “What I don’t understand is how this could possibly be happening. There are folk tales of ghosts—but this seems more than that, and more frightening than that. What do you make of this?”

  “Something has happened, D’Egremont. The marquis thinks that it might have to do with the comet, which has now disappeared from the sky; but that does not truly explain how there could be ghosts in the woods and monsters in the lakes. I confess that I am at a loss. I will be interested in hearing what the marquis has learned when he returns.”

  “And when we return.”

  “That depends on what we find.”

  “Do you have any idea what it might be?”

  “I hesitate to speculate. But I know that the governor would like us to find nothing, and that seems unlikely.”

  Approaching Fort Carillon and the town below it brought back memories for Lévis. The previous summer had been a great French victory in which he had taken part, commanding one flank against the British army that had come up to besiege the fort—but it was more a result of the needless slaughter of the enemy’s troops, hurled against the bastion without even the benefit of artillery. As a Frenchman, he could rightfully thank God for a stroke of fortune that halted the enemy’s threatened advance toward the heart of New France. But as a soldier, he decried the loss of life among the brave soldiers ordered to their deaths by an incompetent general.

  The fort was still there; the banner of His Most Christian Majesty still flew over it. But from his vantage, at the front of one of the lead bateaux, Lévis could see that the lower town was lifeless—indeed, it was shrouded in a low-hanging mist that was a stark contrast to the sunny vista and crisp air out on the surface of the lake.

  And in the mist, there were human figures moving to and fro, and even at a distance they could hear the occasional skirl of the Highland bagpipes, providing an additional eerie aspect to the scene.

  He had two of the Carillon veterans in his boat, and though they sat upright and rigid he could see the terror in their eyes. The scene troubled him as well, but Lévis knew that he could show none of it; he was the commander and, as such, could show no fear.

  Still, it was hard to keep a calm face as his bateau came close to the dock where three ghostly figures stood, awaiting the boat’s arrival. The figures were substantial, but not completely opaque: the town’s buildings could be seen behind and through them. All wore the distinctive Highland dress, and each bore the evidence of having sustained terrible wounds. One had a face with a gaping hole—probably a musket-ball discharged at close range; the other had a horrible chest wound, visible through his tunic; and the leader had a round bullet-hole directly above his left temple—the shot that had felled him.

  Before Lévis’ boat bumped up against the dock, the leader lifted his left hand; his right arm hung at his side, the sleeve empty below the elbow. A breeze kicked up at just that moment, blowing into the faces of the Frenchmen.

  “This is no longer your place,” the man said in English, of which Lévis had a good command, unlike most of the men who accompanied him. “Turn back, while you are still able.”

  “I have not come this far to turn back,” Lévis replied. “I am François de Gaston, Chevalier de Lévis, and I am here in the name of the governor and intendant of New France, and His Most Christian Majesty Louis, King of France.”

  “I know who you are,” the ghost replied. “My name is Major Duncan Campbell. Your men killed me and mine here, in this place, last summer. I saw you on the battlements, on the French right flank. You were a prominent target,” he added, touching the bullet-wound on his temple. “But your marksmen were more proficient than ours.”

  “I am unaccustomed to speaking to dead men,” Lévis answered. “Major Campbell, your time on this earth is done. You . . . died as a soldier, in service to king and country; as a fellow brother of the sword, I honor your sacrifice. But you must yield to the living.”

  “And why should I do that?”

  Lévis was unsure how to answer. “I ask in return,” he said at last, “why your spirit is unquiet.”

  “Abercromby,” Ca
mpbell said, and Lévis—and the others in the French boats—heard the name echoed, over and over, from out of the mists. “Abercromby. The general who ordered us to our deaths. We seek our revenge against him. Bring him to us, Chevalier, and we shall retire to the Beyond and give you back this cursed place, for all that it does you good.”

  “Abercromby.”

  “Aye. Tell the British commanders that if he does not come to us, we will come to him, and nothing shall stop us: not wall, nor musket, nor cannon.”

  “What about an ocean? We understand that General Abercromby was recalled to England. He is not here any longer, Major Campbell. It is not possible for you to exact your personal revenge here in the New World.”

  The expression on the face of the shade of Major Duncan Campbell did not change as he said, “Abercromby is gone.”

  “Back to England. Unless you are prepared to cross the ocean—”

  “That is not possible, Chevalier. That route is closed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is all the world there is now, Frenchman. You should go back to your land and tell your governor and intendant that news.”

  “This land is our land as well.”

  “No, Chevalier. It is not. This land belongs to us. The unquiet spirits of those who died here, killed by the cruelty and incompetence of a Sassenach general who sent the Highlanders against your fortress. But it is your fortress no longer.”

  “My governor will not welcome this news.”

  “I have no dispute with you, Chevalier. But do not doubt that I—and my many, many countrymen—will fight you if you come ashore. We can hurt you . . . but we are beyond hurt.

  “But . . . ” Campbell looked aside at his two companions, then back at the Frenchmen. “But you are a fellow soldier, and a man of honor. You ceased to be an enemy when I ceased to draw breath. Out of respect, we will permit you to go safely to the fortress above and take down your flag. You can take that back to your governor and explain to him how you came by it. But you may not reinvest Carillon—that the Indians call Ticonderoga—nor can the English, and neither can the natives. As long as we remain in this world, this place remains ours.”

  “You . . . will guarantee my safety.”

  “Yes. You only. Your soldiers remain on their boats.”

  “I would like to take my aide,” Lévis said, gesturing toward D’Egremont, who stood in a bateau just a few feet from the dock.

  Campbell hesitated for a moment and then said, “Agreed. But you will go up to the fort and return by nightfall; after that I cannot speak for the other Highlanders. Their pain and resentment run deep, and they may not forbear by night what is ordered by day.”

  Lévis and D’Egremont walked in silence through the deserted lower town; later Lévis would remember it as the strangest, most eerie experience of his life. Ghostly figures watched their progress, sometimes quiet, sometimes murmuring something inarticulate or indistinguishable. The bagpipe sounds faded in and out as they walked up to the open gate to the fortress proper.

  When they came into the place des armes, where no Highlander was in sight, Lévis turned to D’Egremont.

  “You have some command of English.”

  “I had a tutor,” the young man said. “He taught me dancing and English. Beastly language, but my father thought it might come in useful.”

  “And so it has. How much did you understand of my conversation?”

  “Enough to make my knees shake, Monsieur. But I am here.”

  “Good man.” Lévis squinted at the sky; the sun was visible from here, clear of the mists below, and it stood at midafternoon. He did not want to stay much longer than necessary, but there was at least time to take a look around.

  “Are you going to take the flag and return?”

  “I think that I am left with no other choice, D’Egremont. Even if I believed that there was anything that could damage or destroy ghosts, I don’t think most of the men would stand and fight.”

  “Why did you bring me along, Monsieur?”

  “I wanted at least one other person to see whatever I saw, to corroborate my story. It will be difficult enough for them to believe as it is. Come on, then. Let’s get the flag down and make our way back.”

  On the highest bastion of Fort Carillon, with all of Lake Champlain and the vista of the New York wilderness spread out before them, the two French officers slowly lowered the flag that had flown over the fortress since it had been erected a handful of years earlier. When it came into their hands, they carefully and respectfully folded it in the correct manner, so that it was a small blue triangular bundle with the Bourbon fleur-de-lys marching across it in gold.

  “We will be the last of His Majesty’s soldiers to take in this view, Monsieur,” D’Egremont said, leaning on the battlement in front of him.

  Lévis was not sure he could see that deeply into the future. Instead of answering his young aide, he merely took in the view, wondering about what Campbell had said.

  This is all the world there is now, Frenchman.

  Looking down at the bundle he held in his hands, he tried to imagine what that meant.

  Part III:

  Concentration

  May, 1759

  It is not so easy for a bellicose nation to turn its back upon war.

  —Sir Charles Saunders, Memoirs, 1778

  Chapter 18

  Every place will have its haunted past

  New York

  George Baker wanted to pace. It was his quarterdeck, damn it, and it was one of the few places aboard Magnanime that he actually could walk any distance without exchanging salutes, ducking his head or running into something: rank had its privileges.

  But it would not do to turn his back on a Prince of the Blood, even if he was of an inferior naval rank. That was especially true when he was asking permission for something that, truthfully, he could have chosen to do without Baker’s consent.

  “You don’t need my permission, Your Highness.”

  “I know that, Captain. But it seems inappropriate for an officer and gentleman to choose a course without at least consulting his senior.”

  “My seniority is tenuous at best, especially now.”

  “I actually would have thought the opposite.” The young man allowed himself a slight smile. “If England is now no longer part of the world we occupy, I don’t see why we should be treated any differently. Of course, what I want to do flies in the face of that pragmatism.”

  “I don’t think General Amherst will have any hesitation in dealing with you as befits your rank, Your Highness. Whether England is a few weeks’ or a few years’ sail away, you are a prince of the realm—and that counts for a great deal.”

  “He is more than twice my age, Captain Baker. He was a soldier with my grandfather when I was soiling my small-clothes. What’s more, his country needs him.”

  “Your country needs you as well, Prince. In fact, it needs you very much—and I am very concerned that you might be exposed to unnecessary danger.”

  “From General Amherst?”

  “No, no—good God, not from the general. But these are the colonies. Untamed lands, unruly places. We were told what is going on in Massachusetts-Bay as a result of the event, but who knows what awaits us in New York?”

  “Salem is a singular case—the witch-trial events linger on—”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but every place will have its haunted past. New York had a revolt against His Majesty’s Government at about the same time as the witch trials: a man named Leisler led it. He was executed for treason. And less than twenty years ago, about the time Your Highness was learning to walk, New York suffered a violent slave revolt. What if the—what if the event has stirred up memories from those events? Who knows what awaits us in New York? I am hesitant that Your Highness’ person should be subjected to such risks.”

  “So I am to be kept safely aboard Magnanime, away from all danger? How do you propose to carry that out, Captain? It is neithe
r practical nor sensible.”

  Baker did not answer. He resisted the temptation to turn and pace, but instead stared past Prince Edward out at sea, where the southern coast of Long Island lay against the horizon.

  “I beg your pardon, Captain,” the prince said. “It is improper for me to speak thus to my commanding officer.”

  Baker couldn’t decide what made him more uncomfortable, the junior officer’s tone or the prince’s apology.

  “As an officer under my command, General Amherst has no reason to take your counsel—or, indeed, even to receive you. But as Prince Edward of England, he cannot fail to do so. As it is necessary for him to be impressed with the earnest of our situation, you are much more important in the latter role than in the former.

  “I grant permission, of course,” he said. “And while I would prefer that you and General Wolfe meet with General Amherst aboard Magnanime for your own safety, I agree that since you are my junior officer, you could not represent the Crown properly without going ashore.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me for that, Highness. From what little I know of General Amherst, he will not take kindly to being summoned.”

  If it had been up to him—as he had said at various times, in the appropriate company—Jeffery Amherst would rather have been holding a plough at his family’s estate at Riverhead than receive all the honors that had been given him in the New World.

  By the limited standards of America, New York was fine enough. One of the great “cities,” along with Philadelphia, Boston and Charles Town, but a world away from London or even Bristol or York. It was scarcely more than a town, compared to Paris or Madrid or even Edinburgh. But it was his headquarters; he had spent the winter here, trying to pick up the shattered pieces of the 1758 campaign, which—other than their triumph in the Maritimes—had been an utter disaster. He had come to that conclusion after touring the battlefield near the French fort of Carillon the previous October; Abercromby had made a hash of what should have been a straightforward campaign—he had not only failed to take the key strongpoint, he had wasted good, capable men in doing it. Scots, admittedly, not the most reliable sons of the Empire, but hard, veteran soldiers all the same.