Shadowbrook

by Swerling, Beverly

“Fog,” Corm heard someone say as the news spread from the decks of the ships to the waiting crowd. “Did the English in, the fog did. Only managed to capture one of our ships.”

  “And that only by lying.”

  The story circulated of how the officer aboard the French frigate Alcide had called out to the approaching English ship Dunkirk, “Are we at peace or at war?”

  “And this pig English captain, he shouts: ‘La paix, la paix!’ That’s how he got close enough to attack the Alcide. They are all liars, les Anglais.”

  “But he told the truth; he had no right to attack. We are at peace.”

  “Do you think so?” The speaker was a fisherman. “This does not look like peace to me.”

  Thanks to the loss of the Alcide, the arriving force was made up of slightly fewer than six thousand men, led by a general Jean-Armand, baron de Dieskau, who had already served with distinction in Europe. He was to be in charge of all things military in New France. With him was a new governor-general to rule in all civilian matters, Pierre de Rigaud, marquis de Vaudreuil. Vaudreuil had been born in Canada; he could be counted on to understand how things were here in the north.

  So, Monsieur le Roi, Cormac thought, official peace there may be, but you are definitely showing your saber. Are you then the white bear? It was hard to think of Louis XV as any such thing. They said he was ruled by his mistress, the exquisite Madame de Pompadour, and that she arranged for other women to satisfy his prodigious sexual appetites while she involved herself in the affairs of state. They said that Pompadour was the true ruler of France. Ayi! How could he know that the white bear was not a female? Had not Bishkek first thought the bear might be Pohantis?

  The Québécois were still arriving at the dock. Cormac could make out a cluster of Jesuits come down from their hilltop fortress, and not far away, though separate from the black robes, Père Antoine the Franciscan. Of Nicole or any other nuns dressed as she had been, there was no sign.

  In most Poor Clare houses there was a room called a parlor, divided by a curtained grille so the nuns could receive guests while not exposing themselves to the outside world. The convent of the Poor Clares of Québec was too small and too poor to have a parlor. But since the ending of the Council of Trent in 1563 a confessional had been obligatory for administering the sacrament of penance to women. The one that served the Poor Clares was built into the grille behind the altar, a small and narrow double-sided box with two doors. The one on the nun’s side could be opened only from the cloister. The one in the public chapel was so cleverly crafted that the door could not be distinguished from the wall unless one knew it was there.

  Once inside the box, penitent and confessor were separated by a partition that had a tiny square grille at eye level. The confessional was the only place in her convent where the abbess could appropriately speak with Pére Antoine. “It went well?” she asked.

  “Perfectly,” the priest assured her. The wooden grille between them lacked a curtain, but Père Antoine was careful to look only straight ahead and the abbess had lowered her black veil so it covered her face. “The townspeople were careful not to disturb her,” he said. “And Soeur Stephane comported herself exactly as she should.”

  Mère Marie Rose sighed with satisfaction. “She is almost too perfect. Sometimes I think that it is too great a gift, to be given such a perfect vessel of sacrifice. I am not worthy.”

  “Nor am I,” the priest agreed. “But it is not for ourselves, remember. It is for Holy Church, and the Order, and for the salvation of Indian souls.”

  “Oui, mon Père. That is why I was so worried when this demand came from His Excellency. To send her outside three times a week … Who knows what corrupting influence might—”

  “There will be none,” Antoine said firmly. “It is the work of God, this order from the bishop. Soeur Stephane will have repeated chances to face the temptations of the outside world and refuse to give in to them.”

  “Much strength will be required to do that.” In those moments when she had occasion to open the cloister door—however legitimately—did not Mère Rose herself sometimes give in to an unfitting curiosity about life beyond her cloister walls? The good God alone knew how much He asked of those who left everything for his love. “We must pray very hard to support her in this trial.”

  “Indeed. But perhaps we should do more than pray. I have been thinking …”

  It was hot and airless in the cramped wooden box. And her hips were beginning to ache with kneeling in the restricted space. “Oui, mon Père?”

  “Perhaps it is time to introduce the litlle sister to the discipline.”

  Mère Marie Rose did not immediately reply. It was not customary to require such a rigorous penance of a novice. In the Rule of the Poor Clare Colettines a nun was not to take the discipline until she had made her first vows. In matters of interpreting the Holy Rule for her daughters, the abbess had ultimate authority. None but the Pope himself could overrule her in some things, or question her in others. It was a great honor, but also a source of constant tension. Abbesses were the only women in the Church who did not submit to men always in all things.

  A slight cough from the other side of the box broke the silence. “Only if you think it wise,” Antoine said. “I defer to you in all things to do with your daughters, of course.”

  It was not only the Father Delegate who must be considered in this matter. The bishop could easily have been given enough altar breads to see him through the weeks of his novena. It was at His Excellency’s insistence that a fresh supply was to be delivered three times a week. He was testing her, reminding Mère Marie Rose that every bishop was a king in his own diocese, whether or not he had permitted the establishment of a house of religious who answered only to the successor of Peter in Rome. “I will think about it,” Mère Rose said. “And I will pray.”

  “I as well,” Antoine promised. “But this matter of the trips to the château of the bishop, they are not, I think, anything for us to be concerned about.”

  Corm watched the alley all day on Tuesday but Nicole did not appear. On Wednesday, shortly before noon, the monastery door opened and she stepped into the street. How could he not have recognized her instantly? Now that he had, Corm was struck by how much Nicole was herself even in these strange clothes with her face veiled. He stayed well behind until she had cleared the alley and the road beyond it and started up the hill along the broad road known as the Côte de la Montagne. Then gradually he began closing the distance between them.

  “Mademoiselle Crane …”

  At first she did not register that the quiet voice was calling to her. She no longer thought of herself with that name.

  “Nicole … It’s me, Cormac Shea.” Her shoulders stiffened and she paused and half swung in his direction. “No, don’t turn around. Keep walking. Up ahead five strides there’s a stand of fir trees. Go in there. Look as if you mean to relieve yourself.”

  This was the part of the journey that was most isolated, a stretch of road with no houses, not even cobbles, only hard-packed dirt beneath her feet. There was no one in front of her to see her disappear into the copse that was now just ahead. But behind her? No. Cormac Shea would not have spoken if there was any chance they were observed. She had trekked through the wilderness with him long enough to know that.

  The fir trees were at hand, Nicole pulled her skirts tight to her and stepped off the dirt road onto the fallen needles that covered the earth beneath the trees. The copse smelled of urine and she saw a couple of suspicious little mounds.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle. I am glad to see that you got what you wanted.”

  He looked as she remembered him. Straight dark hair slicked back and tied behind his head, his face bronzed by the sun except for the white scar. “It is you,” she murmured.

  “Did you expect an imposter?”

  She gave a slight shake of her head. “No, not really. I knew your voice.”

  “Oui, après tout …”

  “Après tout
,” she agreed. “But no thanks to you. You broke your word and left me behind.” Oh! why had she said that? Now she had the sin of resentment to confess. Until this moment she had committed no sin and need tell no one of meeting Monsieur Shea. “Why are you here? Is it a secret? You must tell me?”

  “Why would my presence be a secret?”

  The arrival of the troops and of the new governor and Dieskau the great general had penetrated even the cloister of the Poor Clares. The nuns had spoken of these things the evening before during recreation. “There is talk of war. We are beginning a perpetual novena to Our Lady of Victory. If you—”

  “You pray for French success?”

  “Of course. So the Holy Faith may be proclaimed. The Indians must have the Gospel preached to them, Monsieur Shea—” Nicole broke off. Last night in her cell she had not been able to stop herself from thinking of the many things Quent had told her about the Indians. Père Antoine and Mère Marie Rose and all the authorities of the Church said that if the Indians died without baptism they could never enter heaven. For herself, she could not truly believe that. The Mohawk chief who had convinced Quent to take her to Québec—surely he was a good man who deserved heaven. It could not be his fault that he did not know that Jesus Christ was God. Would le bon Dieu penalize good people for their ignorance?

  “Look, Mademoiselle Crane, I—”

  “You must call me Soeur Stephane now. That is my name in religion.”

  “Soeur Stephane, then. I didn’t come to argue with you about the afterlife. It’s this one that concerns me. Quent brought you to Québec, didn’t he?”

  She nodded. “Oui.” She could not speak his name aloud. If she did it would burn in her mouth all day. The way it burned always in her heart. She had added that to the reasons for her life of penance, that her beloved, though a heretic Protestant, might be allowed to enter heaven.

  “Where is he now? I must find him, it’s urgent.” Corm could feel Memetosia’s deerskin medicine bag around his neck, beneath his hunting shirt.

  “I do not think he is still in Québec,” she said. “It’s June. Monsieur Hale brought me here last September.”

  Cormac was startled. Somehow he had made himself believe that everything was coming together, that the answers he sought were almost available to him. Finding Nicole here meant he would find Quent close at hand. As for the arrival of the French troops at the same time, it was all a sign. Just as Kekomoson’s dream and the appearance of Philippe Faucon had been a sign.

  Nicole glanced anxiously up at the sliver of sky between the branches of the evergreens. The sun was almost directly overhead. “It is almost noon. They expect me at the bishop’s château.” She reached into the pocket of her habit and withdrew a small box. “Altar breads. For His Excellency. I must go.”

  Noon. Marni would be coming in from the fields about now. She would come back to the house and take a cold drink because the work had made her thirsty. And if he were there they would strip off their clothes and ring out a cloth in rainwater and bathe each other beside the fire. Then they would lie down on his sleeping mat and she would give herself to him and—

  Nicole knew just from looking at him that he was very far away. What did that mean? What did any of this mean? She didn’t know. “Monsieur Shea, please, I must go.”

  “How do you know Quent isn’t still in Québec? Is his father still alive?”

  “I do not know about the elder Monsieur Hale. He was alive when I left. But—” She broke off. Monsieur Shea knew nothing about the renegades attacking Shadowbrook. “I must go now. Truly. But on Friday I will be making this journey again, at the same time. I will meet you here and try to tell you more.”

  “You promise? You must promise me, Mademoi—Soeur Stephane.” All the answers were waiting for him. He had only to pull the threads together and the pattern would be revealed. Then he could go back to Marni.

  “I promise,” Nicole said.

  He left the copse first, whistling softly a few seconds later to tell her it was safe for her to come out into the road. Nicole continued on her way up the hill, with her head down and her hands clasped demurely at her waist, and the white veil swinging softly around her shoulders.

  Chapter Seventeen

  FRIDAY, JULY 9, 1755

  THE OHIO COUNTRY

  THE QUIET WAS deadly. The flying column had crossed the Monongahela and come upon relatively open country. They were, Quent realized, in an Indian hunting ground. Probably Lenape, possibly Shawnee. In either case it was a part of the forest where the underbrush was burnt off regularly to provide better accessibility to fodder and so attract more game. Braddock had been riding at the column’s head, but Quent couldn’t see him now. He turned, looking for the General, and spotted him trotting his horse rearward along the line of march, issuing orders as he went. The precise formation of the two regiments tightened in his wake. Officers called out orders and the drums beat faster. In response the soldiers picked up their pace.

  Fort Duquesne was six leagues away. In country like this, for the flying column, three hours ahead. Possibly four. After so long and such a hellish march, the men were heartened by the nearness of their objective. Quent could feel their spirits rising. They were sure that after a siege they would take the fort, because Braddock said so. And to a somewhat lesser extent, so did Washington. Quent was a hell of a lot less sure. He raised his glance and searched the sky. Still no birds, not even a lone crow circling overhead looking for carrion. He studied the trees on either side, trying to see deep into the forest. Nothing. He heard no small animals scurrying, only the rhythmic thump of the drums, beating in unison, measuring the march. Both regiments carried their colors, the banners hanging Ump in the hot, still afternoon. But there were watching eyes. Quent could feel them.

  He was starting to move deeper into the forest so he could scout the right flank when Scarouady came up beside him. The Iroquois had been to the rear, checking on the column’s end. “The women are just now crossing the river,” he told Quent. Meaning the column’s tail was a league or so behind its head. Satisfactory. Except for the unnatural silence. Scarouady felt it as well. Quent could hear it in his voice. “These Cmokmanuk warriors,” he demanded irritably, “can they not walk without the war drums?”

  “Not and keep together.”

  “And our great war chief says they must stay together.” The Iroquois Half King spat on the ground to show his disdain for Braddock’s ideas.

  Quent started to say something, then stopped. Another of the Iroquois—a Cayuga who moments before had snaked off to scout the left flank—was coming toward them, crouching and moving as rapidly as he could. Quent felt the prickles begin at the back of his neck “Hanio! Aiesahswatenien!” Look! We’re under attack.

  Both the Half King and Quent dropped to the ground at the same moment. The other Iroquois braves did the same. Quent raised his head to look for Braddock. He was still on horseback and trotting along the margin of the march, but now he was going forward, heading for his customary place at the front. Washington was beside him. Jesus, God Almighty. “Colonel Washington! General!” Quent shouted. “We’re surroun—”

  The first arrow was aimed straight for Braddock. He was saved only because at that moment he turned to look for the source of the shouting voice. His horse wasn’t so lucky. A musket ball took the animal out from under the general. Washington leaned down and offered his hand to Braddock, who took it and hauled himself into the saddle behind the Virginian. The two men pounded for the column’s head.

  There was a storm of arrows now and musket fire. There were war whoops, bloodthirsty screams that caused fear even in Uko Nyakwai, the Red Bear. God knows how the men felt who had never heard them before, and who had spent the last few weeks brooding on stories of Indian brutality and torture. Quent knew the only way to fight the fear of battle was to issue your own scream of challenge. “Ahi! Neyezonya!” He bellowed the Potawatomi war cry as he loaded the long gun.

  Braddock and his officers
were shouting commands that were mostly lost in the tumult. “Keep together! Keep them together. Bugler, sound the colors!”

  The officer nearest Quent, an East Anglian he’d had an ale with most evenings since the march began, was urging his men into the parallel lines that in theory would allow them to deliver crushing volleys of musketry into the enemy ranks. “We can’t shoot ’em if we can’t see ’em, sir,” a young American recruit protested. “We need to—” The boy’s words were cut off by a musket ball to his chest. In seconds the officer’s head had been blown apart and not one of his men still stood.

  Quent crawled through the grass, pulling himself forward with his elbows, stopping every once in a while to fire at something he’d seen move among the trees, then pausing to reload. Braddock had found another horse. He was everywhere, continually trying to keep his men in close formation. “Stand your ground, boys. They can’t defeat us as long as you stand your ground. Bugler, sound the colors!”

  A boy with a bugle ran forward to stand beneath the banner of the Forty-fourth Foot and blew the notes that summoned the scattered forces to rally around the regiment’s flag. Quent watched those who tried to obey being picked off by arrows and musket balls coming from the cover of the trees. Moments later one of them got the young bugler.

  Quent shimmied his way along the ground until he was near enough for Braddock to hear him. “General! The men have to break ranks and take cover in the long grass and behind the trees!”

  “Nonsense! Get out of my way, damn you, Hale! Keep together, men. You know what to do, now is the time to do it!”

  Sweet Jesus! Quent felt the tall grass around him moving, alive with men using it for cover. It was the Virginians. He could identify them by their blue coats, and by the fact that they knew enough to get themselves into the woods and under cover. Washington didn’t go with them. He remained at Braddock’s side, in the direct line of fire. Quent saw the young colonel’s horse shot out from under him. Washington snatched the reins of one that was riderless and sprang into the saddle. “Stand your ground, men!” Echoing Braddock’s order and his confidence. “They can’t beat us if we stand our ground!” The soldiers were desperately trying to follow orders. The result was to force them into an ever smaller square, an ever more defined target.