Chapter Twenty-Four
Gaspard was one more thorn in the briarpatch of Catherine’s concerns. For now, at least, he was feeling better after drinking the rum, and using his good arm on the rudder as she rowed on the Saint-François River toward the St. Lawrence. Samuel insisted on rowing, too, but the stiffness of his frame suggested that more than a sore shoulder troubled him.
“I’m not any happier about our guest than you are,” she said to Samuel. “But what do you suppose would happen if we release him?”
“Oh no. Not yet, you don’t,” Gaspard interjected. “I told you my parents are outside Quebec, and if that’s where you’re headed, I’m along for the ride. You don’t tell anyone I’m a deserter, and I won’t tell anyone you’re spies. Look, if none of us hold a flag for King Louis, that means we’re on the same side now, right?”
Resting his oar in the oarlock, Samuel challenged him. “Quite a loose interpretation of loyalties.”
“It makes sense though, doesn’t it?” Gaspard said. “It’s only fair. Then we both get what we want. That business with the lookouts—I wasn’t betraying you. I was buying time, which you would know if you hadn’t interrupted.”
Catherine leaned forward and pulled back with her oar. “There are rules to this game, Gaspard. You play the role we give you, at a moment’s notice, and you play it so well you convince us both. If we bid you be silent, make no sound. If you play the captor in order to get us past patrols, make us believers.”
Samuel jabbed a finger at the militiaman’s chest. “Try to harm either one of us or give us any reason to doubt your intentions, and we’ll bind you up, discard you like so much jetsam, and be all the more swiftly on our way.” With a firm double pat to Gaspard’s knee, he resumed rowing.
The young man had little to say after that, and Catherine was more than content with the quiet.
As soon as they reached the St. Lawrence and turned northeast, the river broadened into Lac Saint-Pierre, an expanse twenty-one miles long and six miles wide. Too wide for Catherine to see the opposite shore. White egrets stood on spindly legs in the shallows, and great herons soared overhead, long necks folded, wings slow but sure in their flight.
Miles passed. Gaspard distributed modest rations from Fawn’s pouch, and as Catherine ate and rowed, she replayed the events of the last day in her mind. They were painted in a palette of crimson and grey, a shocking contrast to the riot of autumn shades surrounding her now. Scrubbed clean from the rain, the sky doubled its blue on the water. The broad satin sheet stretched before them, trimmed near the shore by maples turned saffron and scarlet. A gust of wind stripped leaves from their branches and sent them cartwheeling across the water, where they swirled in the eddies made by their oars. She drank it all in as though nature’s tranquility could be stored up and savored later.
After finishing his portion of dried venison, Samuel broke the silence. “Tell me again what Fawn said.”
At once, the peace she’d sensed drained away. Stifling a sigh, she repeated what she knew. “Two British men claimed to be Amherst’s emissaries and were escorted by six Mohicans.”
“In French, please,” Gaspard called. “If I’m going to play a part, I must be privy to the information.”
He had a point, and Catherine acquiesced. “The Abenaki would not hear them, but took them prisoner and delivered them to the French at Trois-Rivières. If they had listened, what do you think the British men would have said?”
Samuel pulled his oar through the water. “If they were truly sent by Amherst, my guess is that it was an overture of friendship, or at least neutrality. Amherst is still at Crown Point, but when he sends men north, which I’ve no doubt he will do, I’m certain he’ll want assurances that the natives will not harass them on their way to fight the French.”
A hope deferred for the British general. Whatever qualms Joseph had about Mohawk alliances, the Abenaki clearly knew which side they were on. It was no surprise, given their history of attacks on New England.
“Amherst received an answer, but not the one he wanted. What do you suppose he’ll do now?” she asked Samuel.
Early afternoon sun caught on his blond hair. “If the emissaries were unharmed, he may try again. If they were tortured or killed, the attempts will cease, and the Abenaki will be a sworn enemy.”
“Odanak is a long way from Crown Point,” Catherine mused.
“It is. That distance, especially with the coming winter, likely only makes the Abenaki more confident that Amherst’s army can’t touch them there. British raiders have never reached that far before.”
“Does that mean they never will?” Catherine asked.
Samuel paused before replying. “You’re thinking of Thankful and your sister and brother. I’ve seen too much and lived too long to promise you they’ll be fine, but I know worrying won’t protect them.” He paused again. “We can’t protect the ones we love. Only God can, and sometimes He doesn’t.”
Catherine stared across the water. “That fails to comfort me.”
“Your comfort is not my concern.”
She matched Samuel’s stern expression. Beyond him, Gaspard rolled his lips between his teeth, raised his eyebrows, then looked away, whistling.
Her irritation simmered at both men. “That’s obvious, Samuel, or you’d never have insisted I bring you on this journey.”
His shoulders sloped downward. “I won’t deny it. But aren’t we all at risk every day, for no reason at all? Illness, an accident, hunger? God can keep us safe on an ordinary day, or not. He can keep us safe in war, or not.”
A moment passed before Gaspard spoke. “Well. It’s been some time since I’ve confessed or prayed, but if I get a vote, I vote for safe in war.” Bowing his head, he crossed himself. “Or at least safer than we have been so far. One bullet through my arm is enough for me. I am sorry, by the way, about Joseph.”
“Thank you, Gaspard,” Catherine replied.
“Be glad you still have your siblings,” Gaspard went on, the levity gone from his voice. “If I could talk to Augustin just one more time . . . well. I’d give a lot to be able to do that. I could usually tell what he was thinking just by looking at him. A squint meant suspicion. A smile meant he was nervous, and a squeeze to the back of his neck with one hand meant his patience was coming to an end. He gets that—he got that one from our father.” Shrugging, he adjusted the steering oar to help straighten their course. “Your siblings are harder to read.”
Catherine silently agreed with him. How could she explain the little boy who had matured into her most loyal guardian? The sister who had grown more distant as years went by, at least until fairly recently? “Most of the time I understand them, but sometimes they do surprise me.”
“I haven’t figured the three of you out,” Gaspard admitted. “Are you very close to them?”
Pulling at the oar, Catherine increased the distance that separated her from her brother and sister. “Not close enough.”
“Trois-Rivières is just up ahead.” Catherine tightened the ribbons binding her braids into a knot at the nape of her neck. After Lac Saint-Pierre narrowed back into the goose neck of the St. Lawrence River, it was only a short stretch to this point.
“It’s the halfway point of our journey, isn’t it?” Gaspard asked. His freckles blended into sunburned cheeks. “We should see more lookouts from here on out.”
The smell of burning coal and hot metal announced the foundry before they neared it. On the opposite side of the river, high on a bluff stained champagne pink with the evening sun, the walled city stood.
“That must be where the British emissaries are being held.” Samuel pointed to a French frigate anchored at the port, the name Atalante emblazoned on its stern. With the sails rolled tight against the masts, the wind rattled through ratlines and snapped the French flag high atop the crow’s nest. The sides of the vessel bristled with cannons below a deck that held precious few men.
On the shore, a French cavalryman paced on his mou
nt, his coat a smear of blue with red collar and cuffs. For an instant, Catherine’s pulse skipped. But as he was watching for British warships, a single bateau would not command his attention. Unless Captain Moreau had alerted the cavalry to look for them.
But there was nowhere to go but forward, right past the frigate.
“Do not speak,” Catherine murmured to Samuel. To Gaspard, “Remember the plan.”
With a purposeful but unhurried pace, she pulled the oar through the river. The frigate was more than five times the length of the bateau. Even its shadow smelled of the prisoners kept belowdecks. Deeply in and deeply out she breathed, willing herself to remain calm. She was a Canadian citizen, after all. There was no reason she should not be here.
“You there!” The voice pinched. “Bonjour, mademoiselle and messieurs! Yes, you in that tiny bateau! What are you about?”
She twisted to see who spoke. A French sailor hailed them from the frigate deck.
“Those men should be with their militia unit!” His white neckstock strained above waistcoat and breeches of huckleberry blue.
“Bonjour! We’re following the convoy to Quebec,” Gaspard replied, pointing a thin finger. “You must have seen it pass through here, loaded with food. We’ve come from Montreal.”
Shadows hovered just beneath the sailor’s tricorne hat, obscuring his eyes but not the curious tilt of his mouth. “Up you come, the lot of you,” he ordered. Sun glinted on the silver buckles of his shoes and the musket barrel in his hand.
Stones fell to the pit of Catherine’s stomach, but a bateau could not outrun a frigate.
Children ran up and down the docks as she paddled close enough to throw a line over a piling. Samuel climbed out and secured it, and Catherine added trade items to a beaded pouch slung across her body. When she stepped out and onto the dock, Gaspard beside her, the sailor was marching toward them already, the heels of his shoes clipping across the wooden planks. He gripped Samuel’s right elbow.
“Don’t!” Catherine reached out to stop him from pulling. “His shoulder was dislocated a few days ago. This man is my captive, ransomed at Montreal after being taken at Fort Saint-Frédéric as a prisoner of war. He belongs to me.”
The sailor rubbed his thumb over the cleft in his chin, eyeing Samuel from his cropped hair to his moccasins. “And this one?” He appraised Gaspard, whose hair was tailed in the common fashion. “What’s your business?”
If Gaspard harbored any qualms about being discovered a deserter, he didn’t show it. “I was detached from my unit to help oversee the wheat harvest on the Montreal Plain. I worked under Captain Pierre Moreau while there, but stayed behind to recover after a little skirmish with some natives.” He tapped the bandage on his arm. “We couldn’t delay the convoy on my account, though. Now that I’m on the mend, I aim to redeem lost time. I’m rejoining my unit, and this man is a carpenter. His skills could be useful to us in ship repair and many other things. And so, if you please . . .” He flourished a hand toward the river in a perfect blend of nonchalance and confidence. A magnificent performance.
The sailor grunted. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.” He squinted at Catherine with closely set eyes. If the lines framing them could be read like the rings of a tree, she’d guess he had nearly three decades.
She placed a hand on her hip. “Do you have any idea how much money it cost to ransom a captive with a trade? Do you have any idea what I can make off him? I’m not letting my investment out of my sight. I’ll let him serve, but he’s coming back with me when the task is complete. Besides, I’m their guide to get there. I’ve plied these waters as a porter in the fur trade and know the way better than they do.” Lifting her chin, she crossed her arms. In her buckskin dress, she knew she looked the part.
The sailor looked east. “The convoy of schooners you mentioned passed by not long ago with the last of the wheat and flour. But those brigs will never be able to sneak past the British gunships. I heard they’re gathering a fleet of bateaux to transfer the cargo downstream.” He cast a glance toward Catherine’s vessel.
“And we shall meet them there,” Gaspard improvised. “We are to rendezvous during the transfer.” Truly, he was so skilled at deception, Catherine wondered if he might deceive her, too. Or if perhaps he already had.
“So you’re to help with that, eh?” The sailor chewed the inside of his cheek, then swore. “Habits,” he muttered, “but when there’s no tobacco to chew, it makes for a painful experience. You’d think that if they keep bread from a man, they would give him something else, wouldn’t you?”
Catherine clutched the strap of her shoulder bag. “Surely the schooners dropped off some of the wheat here first.”
“No, mademoiselle, they did not. No bread, no wheat, no flour. It all goes to Quebec. But you know what we do have here? Shoe brushes. We may die of starvation, but we’ll do it with mighty clean shoes and spit-polished buckles.”
Catherine took in the sailor’s gaunt frame and his shining black leather shoes. “I helped harvest that wheat. If it were up to me, you’d have your share of it, and that’s the truth.”
“I’m sure it is.” He studied Samuel once more. “You know, we have two of your friends in irons, and it’s lucky they’re alive at all.”
“The emissaries who tried to reach the Abenakis?” Gaspard proved he’d been paying attention.
The sailor laughed shortly. “That’s what they call themselves. A likely story. They were caught in plain clothes. No uniforms. We could shoot them as spies, and still might.” He tugged the sleeve of Samuel’s green shirt. “You look like one of them rangers to me. Rogers’ Rangers. Those famous short-haired, green-frocked wilderness soldiers, n’est-ce pas?”
“Well, he isn’t. As I said, he’s my captive, and we best be on our way.” Before the sailor could say anything else, she reached into her pouch. “Since you did not receive the wheat you deserved, please accept these gifts instead.” She presented him with small mirrors, eating utensils, and a bag of chewing tobacco. “It’s too much for one man, I grant you. But surely you have friends who might be willing to trade for some of these items? And now, we’ll be on our way.” Satisfied they had reached an understanding, she, Gaspard, and Samuel returned to the bateau, while the sailor watched.
Not until they had rowed well out of sight of Trois-Rivières did Catherine begin to relax. This time, she sat in the stern so she could steer.
“How’d I do?” One hand on his oar, Gaspard tipped a canteen to his lips, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I was good. So good, I can’t imagine how you could have done it without me. Trust me now? Finally? Because that story was very like the one I meant to tell the lookouts before you stopped me.”
“You did well.” A downy feather carried on the breeze and drifted into Catherine’s lap. She rolled it between her fingers for a moment before tossing it overboard. “But he took you for a spy, Samuel. We escaped by the skin of our teeth.”
“And came away with intelligence we can use.” Seated in front, Samuel spoke in a tone both low and intense. “The schooners need bateaux. Those large ships were useful for transporting masses of grain in bulk, but you heard what the sailor said. They can’t possibly sneak by British gunships. They’ll need to transfer the wheat into bateaux for the last leg of the journey. Bateaux just like this one. Gaspard may have been telling the truth when he said we would meet them.”
She adjusted her grip on the weathered oar so the splitting wood would not bite her skin. “We’ll never reach them in time.”
“But if we do—”
“We won’t. And if we did, you’d be in the center of suspicion again, this time with more than just one sailor to placate. My trading and Gaspard’s talking will only go so far.”
Gaspard scanned the shoreline. “From here to Cap-Rouge, the lookouts will be multiplied far beyond what we’ve seen so far.”
“How many?” Samuel asked. They skirted a small island thick with pine trees, and the wind w
hispering over them carried their scent across the water.
The bateau rocked gently as Gaspard shifted his weight on the center seat. “I don’t have a number for the stretch from here to the mouth of the Jacques-Cartier River. But between the Jacques-Cartier and Cap-Rouge, I heard there are eight hundred and twenty.”
“How many miles is that?” Samuel asked.
“Twenty. With so many men, if they are stationed on both shores . . .” She divided them in her mind by half, then by miles, then feet. “That’s a lookout every two hundred sixty-four feet. Can that be right?”
Samuel sliced an oar through the water and pulled. “Aye, I figured the same. That’s a lot of nervous fingers on triggers.”
Favoring his injured arm, Gaspard continued to row. “I admit I’m not eager for that. But my home is north of Quebec.”
The violence of their last encounter with lookouts loomed large in Catherine’s mind. Arrows, bullets, screams, and smoke. Bright Star burying bodies. Joseph’s ruined limb, and Thankful with his blood on her hands.
A wave of Canada geese flapped loudly overhead, their V-shaped formation undulating against a mottled blue sky. How unconcerned they were with the plights of men, who drew invisible lines on land to claim it, who starved and killed and died to shift those lines around.
Catherine waited for the geese to pass. “Our best chance is to stay together. The river is wide. We’ll stay away from the shores and time our voyaging carefully. If we’re questioned, Gaspard can supply the same answer he gave the sailor.”
Pulling his oar in for a moment, Gaspard rummaged through the remaining supplies until he found the empty jug of rum he’d already finished. He tipped it upside down, shaking it over his open mouth, and caught two drops on his tongue. Groaning, he returned it to the vessel’s floor. “Just as well. When I get home, I’ll get there sober, saints preserve me. I must get to my parents, empty-handed though I’ll be.”
For the first time, Samuel regarded Gaspard with a glimmer of understanding. “I know you lost a brother. I lost mine, too. We all want to get home to the family we have left.”
Between Two Shores Page 26
