“Was there a hawk in your dream?” Cormac asked eagerly. “And a white bear?”
Kekomoson shook his head. “None of those things. Only the sun and the white wolf.”
Bishkek nodded with satisfaction. “I have been telling my bridge person son that it is time for him to go. Before the end of the Leaf Falling Moon. Back to where he—”
“In my dream,” Kekomoson interrupted, “it was as I told you. The wabnum was racing in the sun-coming direction.”
“East,” Cormac said. “Not south. Not toward Shadowbrook.”
Kekomoson shrugged. A bridge person was a good thing for the People to have. And this one remained part of the village, a true son of the Fifth Fire. But a bridge person could be of little value if he stayed on one side of the bridge. “In my dream the wabnum went in the direction of sun-coming,” he insisted.
“It is settled, then,” Bishkek said. “Before the finish of Leaf Falling Moon you will go in the sun-coming direction.”
“That way leads only to the ocean,” Cormac muttered glumly. “Maybe I should drown myself.”
“Be sure and take Memetosia’s gift with you,” Bishkek said as if he had not heard. “I do not want to be responsible for this thing that has no reason to be here.”
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 21, 1754
THE COLLÈGE DES JÉSUITES, QUÉBEC
The panels that lined the walls of the Provincial Superior’s study had been brought from France. The wood was oak from the Ardennes forest, the carving the work of the talented ébénistes of Reims, the cathedral city of the province of Champagne. Louis Roget, Monsieur le Provincial, was from Reims. His family claimed descent from the holy bishop St. Remi, who in the fifth century baptized Clovis, first king of the Franks. There were Rémois counts as well in the lineage of Monsieur le Provincial, and no small amount of customary Champagne intrigue. As for Philippe Faucon, he’d been brought up in the court at Versailles where his uncle was Master of the Mews, and both his uncle and his father trained the king’s hunting falcons. He’d long since learned that men, and sometimes women, had claws as sharp as any hawk. He wasn’t surprised to discover that there were secrets hidden in the oaken woodwork.
Once before today, while he was rubbing the finest beeswax into the wood—on his knees, as a penance for returning late from one of his sorties into the countryside to sketch—the panel depicting the second of the Seven Sorrows of the Blessed Virgin had suddenly moved aside. Where the Flight into Egypt had been, there was now a framed view of the place in Québec Lower Town occupied by Père Antoine, the Franciscan priest, and two doors away the hovel that served as the monastery of his cloistered Poor Clares. In itself the incident involved no sin, but Philippe had spent much time examining the mechanism and marveling over its intricacies. That was what he had confessed to Monsieur Xavier Walton the fellow priest who regularly shrove him of his sins.
Walton was an Englishman who, following a long tradition, had left his schismatic country and joined the Society of Jesus in France. Xavier burned to return to his homeland and be martyred, and mourned that while it remained against the law to practice the Catholic faith anywhere in Great Britain and Jesuits were certainly not welcome in London, the days of public martyrdom at the Tyburn gallows were past. To make up for being born too late to be hung, drawn, and quartered, Xavier was rigorous in his observance of every penitential detail of the Jesuit way of life. But stickler for the Jesuit Constitutions though he was, he hadn’t seen grave error in the tale of the moving panel and Philippe’s interest in the mechanism. “It is only a sin to question the wisdom of our superiors, Philippe.”
“But I do not. I was simply interested in how clever the thing was.”
“Very well.”
Philippe detected a hint of a chuckle in Xavier’s voice, Eh bien. Earnestness was part of his nature. Other people often found it amusing.
“Put the whole thing out of your mind, Philippe. Ego te absolve …” And by the awesome power granted him at ordination to forgive in the name of Jesus Christ the Son of God, Xavier Walton had made the sign of the cross over his brother priest and absolved him of any sin there might have been in the business. Philippe had truly put the incident out of his mind. More or less. As much as he could He was careful not to disturb again the Holy Family’s Flight into Egypt when it fell to him once more to polish the wood paneling in the private apartments of Monsieur le Provincial.
Today was the third time since the great spring feast of Pentecost that the duty had been assigned to Philippe. “You will do the entire job on your knees, Philippe. And a few Paternosters might help the state of your soul. Obedience is the first virtue of a member of the Society.”
But he had obeyed. He had burned the sketches. Six months’ work, seven series of pen and ink drawings following the cycle of growth of various indigenous Canadian herbs, from the first wakening of early spring to the rich harvest of autumn, all ashes as his superior had commanded. His fault had been to utter a mild protest. “I’m told the king expects to see them, Monsieur le Provincial.”
“Then the king must bend the knee to the will of Almighty God.” As interpreted by the Provincial Superior of the Jesuits of New France, the voice of God to all his sons and, the Jesuit superior was convinced, to Madame de Pompadour and Louis XV. “You are too proud, Philippe, of these little pictures you make. A vigorous session with the beeswax is sure to be salutary.”
Please, Blessed Mother of God, Philippe prayed, make me more humble. And please, if it be the will of your Divine Son, grant that Monsieur le Provincial does not forbid my drawing altogether. He rubbed harder on the wings that covered the face of an angel kneeling in adoration before the Divine Throne. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis …” The angel unfolded his wings.
Sacré Dieu! Philippe had to remind himself that the thing wasn’t a miracle, only the talent of the Champenois woodworkers. Behind the angel’s wings was a large, velvet-lined box. Lying in plain view was a letter written in an assured, clear hand. Pompadour has decided. Dieskau and his troops arrive in early spring as soon as the St. Lawrence thaws. He is to bring seventy-eight companies of regular soldiers, equivalent to eight British regiments, which is six more than they’re sending with Braddock. Until then the diplomats continue to make mealy-mouthed talk of peace and—
Philippe dropped the polishing rag and made a hurried sign of the cross, then shoved hard against the angel’s wings, putting all his weight behind the move. The wings folded back into place. “… sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua …” The words of the Our Father tumbled out of him in an urgent flood. Thy will be done, but don’t let it be Thy will that I must confess to seeing that document, mon Dieu.
It was not a sin, Lord. I did not seek to open the panel, I merely followed instructions to rub with vigor. I committed no sin, Lord. I have nothing of which to accuse myself. “Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâce …” Aves rather than Paternosters. The gentle Mother of God would know what was in his heart.
By the time Louis Roget returned, Philippe was on the other side of the room. “Eh bien, Philippe, tout est bien?”
“Oui, Monsieur le Provincial, tout est bien.”
The Jesuit Provincial leaned close to the angel covering his face in adoration and studied the delicate carving. The single strand of his own black hair was gone. He had lain it along one of the grooves in the folded wings, wedged in well enough so the act of simply polishing the wood would be unlikely to dislodge it. That would only happen if the hidden spring were triggered and the wings unfolded. So, Philippe my so conscientious artiste, now you know almost as much as I do about the plans being made in Versailles. And will you, I wonder, go running to your confessor? Alors, you must. Your scruples will permit nothing else. And what will the Englishman tell you? More important, what will he do with the information?
The Provincial rested his chin on the tent made of the fingers of both his hands. Xavier Walton will use whatever he is told for the good of his own
country—but the good of England as he sees it. Which means he must side with Catholic France if there is to be another war, not with heretic Britain. Eh bien, that much is simple. The rest? For the moment I am not entirely sure how I will use the fact that Philippe Faucon has clandestine knowledge of the plans of the French navy. And that I know this, but he does not know that I know it. And all this was achieved while ensuring the spiritual well-being of those entrusted to me by Almighty God. Truly excellent.
There was a chess game set up in one corner of the room. The pieces were made of ivory and basalt and carved to represent the Christians and Moors of fifteenth-century Spain. Louis Roget always played both black and white, choosing each move as if he were totally invested in winning for whichever army he represented at the moment. This game had been in process for over a week. The Moors had only two pawns, a bishop, the rooks, and the king and queen left, and their king was in danger of being placed in check. Roget castled. The reversal removed the Moorish king from immediate danger, but sacrificed his queen. White’s response was swift and decisive. Knight to knight seven. The Moorish queen was captured. Roget swept her from the board, then took the Christian white knight with the rook of the black Moorish king. The balance of the game was entirely changed. More thought was required.
The lightest touch opened the panel that let him gaze down on the Franciscan living quarters in the lower town. Poor Père Antoine. He was alone in Québec, with no brother priest of his own order to shrive him of his sins. The diocesan priests were few, and most of them were stationed in remote districts outside the city. And their penances were not, perhaps, muscular enough for an ascetic like the Delegate of the Minister General of the Friars Minor. In the normal way of things Antoine made his confession to a Jesuit. Particularly when a grievous fault weighed on his conscience. As it had only a few days before.
“Pray bless me, for I have sinned.” There was a small curtained grille between penitent and confessor, but he had recognized the Franciscan’s voice as soon as the first words were uttered. Normally that box was used by Xavier Walton, but the Englishman was ill that day and the Provincial had taken his place. Given how agitated the penitent sounded, he might have come even if he’d known it would be Louis Roget listening to him bare his soul. “I have lived for over a month with the knowledge that I have … that I may have betrayed Holy Church.”
“Indeed? How did that occur?”
The Franciscan did not reply quickly. No doubt he recognized the voice of the Jesuit superior. Still, the seal of the confessional was perhaps the most solemn burden a priest carried. The Jesuit would be unlikely to commit the mortal sin of betraying that seal. “I saved the life of a man who is a heretic, and worse, an enemy of truth and the Gospel.”
“All life is precious in the eyes of Almighty God. Even the lives of heretics. It is not for you to judge. How can saving even such a life as that be counted as a sin?”
“Because this man opposes the mission of the Church.” Roget permitted himself a glance at his penitent. The Franciscan’s head was bowed, and his shoulders sagged with the weight of his sin. He would not make less than an honest confession “The man I saved will do everything in his power to oppose us. He is a Protestant heretic, and if he has his way the Church will not be permitted to preach the Gospel to the Indians of the Ohio Country.”
“I see. And how were you responsible for aiding this man’s evil mission?”
“A heathen savage was prepared to shoot him. It seemed to me that I could not be witness to a cold-blooded murder, that I could not watch the heretic die with the sins of his heresy still on his soul and no opportunity to repent and save himself eternity in hellfire. I shoved the killer, just enough to spoil his aim.”
The Jesuit took his time before speaking. He was administering a sacrament, acting in loco Jesu Christe. But for Your greater glory, Lord. I cannot betray the seal, but I can seek the knowledge necessary to advance Your most holy cause.
It was October and winter was upon them. Roget could see his own breath in the church air, but he could see as well the sweat beading on Père Antoine’s forehead. “Who were these men? What were you doing in their company?”
“The man I saved is known as Uko Nyakwai, the Red Bear.”
“Quentin Hale? The American coureur de bois?”
“Yes.”
“And the would-be murderer?”
“Lantak, the renegade.”
A pause, then, with not even a hint of sarcasm, “I am sure you were present for the purpose of trying to convert both the heathen and the heretic to the True Faith.”
“As God is my judge, that is my ultimate aim in all things.”
“If that is the case you have nothing to regret. Only perhaps that you do not sufficiently trust in the guidance of the Holy Spirit. In penance for that say fifty Paters and as many Aves. And in the name of our most holy Lord Jesus Christ, I grant you absolution. Ego te absolve in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti …”
In his study, the memory of the confession emboldened Roget He stretched out his hand. Black bishop takes white pawn. White queen takes black bishop. Alors, échec et mat in two moves. There could be no escape. The Christians had won. He tipped over the Moorish king. Then he went to his desk and rang the bell that summoned one of the lay brothers.
“You called for me, Monsieur le Provincial?”
“Yes. Please tell Monsieur Walton I wish to see him.”
A few minutes later the Englishman stood before his superior. “You sent for me?”
“I did. You are a surgeon, Xavier, is that not correct?”
“It is, Monsieur le Provincial. I studied with the English Company in London before I went to France and joined the Society.”
“I see. And did you ever actually practice surgery? Before becoming a priest, I mean.”
“For a short time, Monsieur le Provincial. A year, perhaps a little less.”
“A year. And are you any good, Xavier?”
“As a surgeon?”
“Of course.”
Walton had little idea what they were talking about. Everything the Provincial was asking was already known to him. “I am not the finest surgeon in the world, Monsieur le Provincial. But neither am I the worst. Perhaps we should say ‘competent.’”
A typical English answer. “You never wanted to come to Québec, did you?”
Xavier was startled by the sudden change of subject, but he recovered quickly. “I wanted to do whatever my superiors commanded me to do. They sent me here.”
“But it wasn’t what you really wanted, was it? You wanted to be sent back to England to say Mass in secret in the dark of night, and hide in priest holes, and eventually be captured by the heretic king’s soldiers and sent to martyrdom at Tyburn Hill. Is that not so, Monsieur Walton?”
“There have been few martyrs made in England in recent years, Monsieur le Provincial. The English believe their Protestant heresy so well entrenched that they have far less fear of the True Faith. They mostly ignore Catholic priests these days, unless the prohibitions against the Faith are openly flouted.”
“Hmm … Yes, that’s what I hear as well. Still, it’s martyrdom you’re after, isn’t it, Monsieur Xavier Walton?”
“If God were to judge me worthy, I—There are many opportunities for martyrdom here. Before we convert them, the heathen savages have methods every bit as efficient as those of the soldiers of the English king. Monsieur le Provincial knows that better than I do.”
“Indeed, Xavier. I know most things better than you do. And as far as you are concerned, I speak with the voice of Almighty God. Is that not so?”
“It is absolutely so. If I have done anything to make you believe I thought otherwise—”
“No, no. I know you are a loyal Jesuit, Xavier. It’s why I’m sending you to the American colony of Virginia.”
The Englishman could only sputter in disbelief: “Virginia! But … I did not know … It never occurred to me … I never heard …”
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“Get to the point, Monsieur.”
“… that we had a house in Virginia, Monsieur le Provincial. That comes as a complete surp—”
“We have no house in Virginia. It is an English colony, and as you and I have just been discussing, the Catholic faith is forbidden wherever England rules. No, no, my son. I am not sending you to Virginia as a priest. I am sending you as a healer. A surgeon. It is my belief, Xavier, that you will do a great amount of good in Virginia.”
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1754
PORT MOUTON, L’ACADIE
The French called this land l’Acadie. It was Nova Scotia to the English, and Chignecto in the tongue of the Mi’kmaq, whose land it had been before the Europeans arrived. By whatever name, it was the easternmost point he could reach. Cormac had come to the edge of the world.
The ocean, dark and forbidding, pounded the shallow beach, kicking up white spray that reached ever higher on the incoming tide. The tang of salt was in his mouth and the cold nipped at his nose and fingertips. Behind him was a carefully tended field, its boundaries marked by a high, rounded ridge of grass, interrupted at regular intervals by wooden structures that appeared to be sheds of some sort. Cormac had never seen any fields quite like them.
A pair of brown and white cows stood a little distance away, intent on the last of the late autumn grass, paying him no mind. Beyond them, just visible in the gray of the dwindling afternoon, was the steep pitched roof of a Cmokmanuk house. No smoke, but he didn’t have the feeling the place was deserted. The ghosts of thousands of warriors roamed this ground. Anishinabeg since a time too long to remember, then the Europeans. Nowhere was the land hunger between the French and the English more apparent and more vicious than here on the outer rim of this, their New World.
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