Samuel murmured, “‘When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee. . .’ Lord, we need Your help.”
But would He help them? Could they even ask it of Him, as He was a God of truth, and they had used deception in their plans? Surely both French and English claimed to be on the side of right, both nations beseeched God for help. Creator God, I don’t know Your will. Catherine shoved her right foot to the side of the bateau, leaning left to straighten herself. Just help me do the next right thing.
“Aim for the sloop.” Samuel pointed. “I see lantern light on deck. Both of you, swim for the light and tell them what we know. Gaspard, they’ll protect you, don’t worry. And don’t wait for me, I’ll be slower. Just head for the light. Don’t splash about and draw attention, and the lookouts won’t even notice.”
“Sam.” Catherine caught his eye, willing her confidence to pour into him. “I can do this. We all can.”
The bateau was breaking apart beneath them. Cold water surged about her waist, and she gasped at the shock that sliced through her. The flour sacks began to sink, but the barrel merely tipped and bobbed.
She reached out for it. “Stay with the barrel.” It had started to drift away on the current.
“Swim for the light. I’ll be behind you. Go now.” Samuel lunged into the river to grasp the barrel’s rim.
The pins in her hair dislodged, and her braid tumbled down, floating like an eel on the river’s surface. She whipped it behind her, then tucked the hunting knife inside her dress. With her toes, she peeled her moccasins off her feet, filled her lungs with air, and slipped into the river. A quiet splash told her Gaspard had done the same.
Her dress ballooned about her legs as she submerged. Cupping her hands, she reached over her head, then pushed down in an arching sweep. Her arms would be her oars, propelling her through the water.
Something yanked her hard from behind, and she jerked backward. Air escaped her lips too soon. Kicking, Catherine made for the surface to take another breath.
But she could not see any light. Had clouds completely covered the moon, or was she swimming the wrong direction? Panic triggered. Seaweed twined about her toes and ankles. Her limbs tingled with cold as she tried to calm her mind and body.
She would float. She would still herself and rise to the surface on her own. Wouldn’t she?
The pressure built in her chest, ribs screwing tighter and tighter over her burning lungs. Slowly, she waved her arms above her head until her fingertips broke the surface. With a few more kicks, she felt the air on her face and gulped it into her lungs.
Something pulled her back under. She was caught, being dragged down.
Her hair. Someone was pulling her by her braid.
Samuel? But it couldn’t be him; she had seen him grip the barrel. Was it Gaspard, in a panic that outmatched hers? Her thoughts pitched and yawed as she clutched the thick rope of her hair and strained to yank it free.
It wouldn’t give. The river that had carried her so far now wrapped around her. The water turned colder, darker. All she could guess was that she was anchored to the bateau, her braid somehow caught between the splitting planks or tangled in an oarlock.
Catherine pulled in a mouthful of water. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t breathe, could barely think. She would drown with air just a few feet away.
Desperately, she fumbled to bring the knife outside her dress and pull it from its sheath. Fingers struggling to keep their grip, she brought blade to braid and sawed through it. Feeling her plait unraveling and her body floating free, she dropped the knife, mustered all her might, and flailed up to the surface.
Breaking through, she coughed and sputtered while treading water. She turned until she saw the light on the ship’s deck, fully expecting to hear a challenge shouted from atop the cliffs. Before the lookouts had a chance to inquire, she swam.
An oval of light wavered on the river beside the sloop, swinging one way and the other. With the last of her strength, Catherine pushed herself toward it.
“Man overboard!” The call thrilled through her, as did the clatter of a rope ladder being let down over the edge.
Chilled and shaking, she climbed with ungainly movements, her sodden dress tripping her steps. Hands came under her arms and hauled her onto the deck.
Catherine pushed her hair away from her face. Vaguely, she registered that the men were exclaiming that their catch was a woman. She interrupted them. “There are two more men out there, a British provincial escaped from captivity, and a Canadian deserter. You need to hear what they have to say.”
Footsteps clambered and more light swung over the deck to search. Catherine went to the rail and looked for Gaspard and for Samuel, who was already haunted by rivers enough. Pulse sluggish from the cold, she rubbed her hands together and fought her rising dread.
Water streamed from Catherine’s dress and hair, puddling at her feet. Somehow a blanket now covered her. Except for the growing tightness in her chest, she had no measure of how much time had passed as she watched and waited.
“Go get them.” The words burst from her as she clutched the arm nearest hers. “Get in a flatboat and find them.”
“No need, there they are.” A light snapped over the bobbing barrel, then found Samuel and Gaspard lunging from it toward the sloop.
Catherine turned and sank to the deck, hugging her knees to her chest. The ladder creaked as both men scaled it. By the time they had been heaved over the edge, she had recovered enough to greet them each with a welcoming hug.
“You made it,” she said, voice serrated from the ordeal. “We did it.”
“Nearly.” Samuel turned to a redcoat officer and stood at attention, soaking wet and winded as he was. “Sir, we have urgent intelligence to report.”
“Not here,” replied the officer. “Follow me. But do wring out a bit first, won’t you? Then meet me belowdecks, the three of you. Let’s see what kind of fish we netted tonight.”
Catherine translated for Gaspard. Both he and Samuel stood shivering until a sailor handed them each a blanket to match hers. The wind drove the chill even deeper. After briskly rubbing their legs with the blankets, Catherine, Samuel, and Gaspard were taken down a narrow set of steps that was more like a ladder than stairs, then into a small, dimly lit cabin.
The officer from the deck stood behind a desk. “I’m Captain Hugh Watkins, and this is my ship. Sit, for you’re about to collapse as it is.” As they complied, he tented his fingers before his belted waist. “Who are you, and what news do you bring?”
Samuel gave his name, rank, and regiment, along with a brief history of his capture and captivity. “Sir, with all due respect to General Wolfe’s previous attempts to attack Quebec, I may know how to finally make it stick. What you need is an access point, and if we can attack before the water freezes, you don’t need to wait until spring.”
Catherine quietly translated this for Gaspard.
Watkins narrowed one eye. “Curious timing. Ah, young lady, do I understand that this red-haired fellow does not speak English? Then leave off your translating. A deserter he may be, but who is to say he’s not a spy? In fact, I’d rather he wait outside. Clooney!”
A sailor stepped inside the cabin and saluted.
“Clooney, you will take the Canadian to the galleys for some victuals. I daresay he won’t refuse them, judging by the looks of him. A wet rat would weigh more.”
Catherine explained to Gaspard as he was being removed from the cabin that he’d have a chance to eat. The door clicked closed behind them.
Watkins circled back to his desk and sat, drumming his fingers atop its polished surface.
Samuel leaned forward, water dripping down the side of his face. “You said my timing is curious. How so?”
“Wolfe has planned another attack. For tomorrow.”
Surprise flared over Samuel’s face. He leaned back in the chair and clutched its arms. “Where will you breach the city�
��s defenses?”
Cringing, Watkins made a seam of his lips before responding. “He won’t say. He only says to be ready at a moment’s notice.”
“That’s—” But Samuel caught himself before voicing the ridicule written on his face. “I hear the general has been ill.”
Watkins laced his hands behind his head. “You heard correctly. Some say he wants a last jab at the French because he believes he’ll die before spring. But he refuses to tell even his leaders what the plan is.”
Catherine looked at Samuel. “Perhaps if he knew what you do . . .” She allowed the thought to drift and snag Watkins’ interest.
“I don’t expect I could see Wolfe myself,” Samuel said, “but what I have to share can be heard only by your most trusted men.”
“On with it, man, or dawn will be upon us and we’ll miss our chance,” Watkins said, his voice taking on a more authoritative tone.
“The French generals suspect we are going farther north to lay waste to the country and to destroy the ships and craft we find there. From what we learned in Montreal and at Cap-Rouge, General Montcalm insists that the bulk of the British army is still below Quebec.”
Watkins’ expression did not change. “So far, this is nothing extraordinary.”
Samuel pressed on. “There are three obstacles between Wolfe and the city. First, the Quebec Promontory is its own geographical defense—but the French are so certain of this that it’s barely manned at all. Second, the city wall stretches across the east end of the promontory, and third, Montcalm’s army will not be moved. But a landing at Anse-au-Foulon is the solution to all three. The Foulon road is rugged, but if it can be scaled in secret, you’ll overwhelm the outposts at the top.”
Watkins unrolled a map on his desk, weighted the corners with a snuffbox and timepiece, and hovered above the lines and curves.
Samuel rose. “Sir, at Montreal I met another British soldier who had spent months imprisoned here in Quebec. He reported that Quebec’s principal defense on the land side is a wall of masonry only three or four feet thick. It was designed to deflect small arms and can hold out for only a matter of days. Bring the fight to the Plains of Abraham using Anse-au-Foulon as your access point, and victory will be all but yours.”
The ship rocked and creaked. Watkins planted his feet wide and crossed his arms. Then, stroking his chin, his attention swiveled from Samuel to Catherine. “And why are you here? Do you have something to add?”
“My name is Catherine Duval, and I served as his guide,” she began. “But we chanced upon more information at Cap-Rouge that will prove critical to your plan. You’ll think it hard to believe, but Samuel and Gaspard can confirm it.”
Eyes round and unblinking, Watkins was hooked. As she told him what they had learned at Cap-Rouge about the wheat convoy, red blotches mottled his neck.
“Let me see if I understand correctly,” he said. “The fleet of bateaux carrying the wheat for Montcalm’s army is six miles distant at Cap-Rouge. Their plan is to sneak it by, under our very noses, the night of the twelfth.” He consulted his timepiece. “By Jove, we are a few hours into the twelfth right now. So they mean to come tonight. And our attack is planned for the following morning, the thirteenth. But in order to keep quiet, all the French lookouts along the shores have been instructed not to challenge the vessels. To just let them go by unquestioned.”
“Precisely.” Samuel folded his blanket and set it on the chair. “Seems like a fine time to move British flatboats, doesn’t it? On the one night they won’t be challenged?”
A knock sounded on the door, and Clooney brought Gaspard back in. “Come morning, I’m going home, aren’t I?” he asked Catherine as soon as he saw her. “I’m so close. I can’t wait any longer. Will you ask them?”
Before she could respond, Watkins cleared his throat. “I’d like for the deserter to confirm the story. Clooney, you understand French, don’t you? Stay and translate what this man says. Mademoiselle Duval, you just rest.”
She sat back in her chair and watched, unperturbed that Watkins didn’t trust her translation. With such a story, he was right to exercise caution. Let Gaspard and Clooney tell the officer exactly what they’d already said.
At the end of it, Watkins seemed interested but not satisfied. “The river will get crowded, don’t you think? If both French bateaux and British flatboats take to it on the same night, headed for nearly the same spot?”
Silence hung thick in the room. Gaspard blinked too quickly, and his hands began to shake. If Watkins didn’t know that he suffered from lack of drink, he might assume Gaspard was nervous. Or lying.
But Watkins pinned his attention to the map, measuring with ruler and squinted eye. The river was wide, but that was no guarantee the bateaux would keep to their own courses. Even if the lookouts didn’t challenge any vessels, the bateaux pilots were bound to realize there were far more boats on the river than their own number. No, it would never work to all travel at once.
“If it helps,” she ventured, “the plan from Cap-Rouge is to start by ten o’clock. The British could stagger their launch times with that.”
“Better yet,” Samuel said, “cancel the order from Cadet for that wheat. Just don’t tell the lookouts the plan has changed. The bateaux will stay at Cap-Rouge, and the British flatboats will glide right on by.”
Catherine scanned the faces in the room. “Can you do that? Forge an order and deliver it in time without arousing suspicion?”
For the first time since they’d arrived, a small smile curled Watkins’ lips. “This is the Royal Navy, my dear. You’d be surprised just what we can do. I’ll go to General Wolfe myself. Crane, we’ll get some rations in you, as well, and then you and Fontaine will come with me. Mademoiselle, our ships are not suited to accommodate a woman. I’ll have Clooney give you a bite to eat and row you across to our camp at Point Lévis. You can stay with the nurses until it’s safe for you to go home.”
At the door, Samuel turned back and squeezed Catherine’s hand. “Thank you,” he said.
And then he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When morning came, Catherine awakened to white canvas walls billowing around her. She’d been delivered before dawn to the quarters of a woman named Eleanor, who was the head nurse at the hospital here at the camp. Eleanor wasn’t present now, however, leaving Catherine alone with her thoughts. Samuel and Gaspard were foremost among them, but she couldn’t guess where they were or whether she’d see them again. As for what General Wolfe had decided to do, she supposed that would be clear soon enough.
The tent flap snapped in a breeze, and sunlight flashed onto the faded quilt over her legs. She felt for the knife sheath about her neck and found a white cotton nightdress. Then she remembered that she’d lost her sister’s knife in the river. Her hand went to her head and stroked down to the end of her hair. Unbound, it stopped at her shoulders, where yesterday it had gone to her knees. She’d been so focused on other things last night on the sloop that she hadn’t fully registered until now what the river had taken from her.
She rose slowly and picked up a hand mirror from atop a folding table. The ends of her hair fell crookedly over her shoulders. Spying a sewing kit in one of the crates, she borrowed the scissors and trimmed the strands into a straight line. Cutting her hair the first time had not been a symbolic act, and neither was this. But as Catherine stood in a British camp on French soil, she could not help but sense that she had cut more than just her braid.
Rain fell on the roof of the tent until the pattern sounded like the gentle rush of a river. A glance at the empty cots reminded Catherine that outside this small space, women were working. She quickly dressed in the gown Eleanor had loaned her, though the English style, like the French, had several steps and layers. All were front-lacing, however, which told her that Eleanor likely got along without a maid. The chemise and petticoats were worn thin but clean. The gown was a russet-colored round gown, the very color of a Canadian autumn, to which Ca
therine added a sensible lawn fichu. She did not bother to pin the lace cuffs inside the elbow-length sleeves. She was sure she looked like a changeling, neither French nor Mohawk, especially with her hair so altered, and still not quite English either.
She tailed and twisted her hair until it began to coil, then flipped it upside down and pinned it to her head. To her surprise, she found herself praying as naturally as she breathed. Creator God, create in me a clean heart, one that shows loyalty to You above armies and empires and allies. In truth, she did not know what that meant, but she asked God to show her that, too.
The ground trembled beneath her. Cannon fire drowned out the purring of the rain. Between the roars, musketry rattled and popped.
The battle was here, now. Confusion shuddered through her. It was too early, wasn’t it?
Her gaze landed upon an apron folded neatly inside a crate. Without hesitating, she unfurled the faintly stained linen and tied it about her waist. Let others do the fighting. Catherine would join the women nursing in the hospital. She would serve the suffering, regardless of their cause.
When she stepped out of the tent, it was as one entering a different world. Situated on a wedge of land on the south shore of the St. Lawrence River, Point Lévis was stuffed with white tents and bristling with batteries, which pounded Quebec’s Lower Town. Only twelve hundred yards of river separated the cannons from the city. British ships arrived from the east, soldiers poured onto the beach and reloaded onto waiting landing craft pointed west, and the Union Jack flew high above them all. Flatboats arrived from the west, and wounded soldiers were carried off them. It was that stream of broken men that Catherine followed into a church.
Beneath a soaring ceiling, whose columns converged to point to heaven, rough planks had been laid atop the backs of the pews, and several severely injured men lay atop them. Other soldiers sat in the aisles, backs against the wall. More than twenty white-capped, aproned women worked among them. Catherine shuffled through drifts of sawdust that had been thrown over the stone floor.
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