“God is speaking through you, Mère Marie Rose. You do what is right.”
Chapter Twenty-One
SOON AFTER MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, JULY 30, 1757
THE WOODS AT THE NORTHERN END OF LAKE GEORGE
SHABA-SHABA-SHABA. The sound of little bare feet on the earth. Taba feet. Shaba-shaba-shaba. Keeping no count of the days and nights, or the difference between them. Only run. When you stop, climb into a tree and sleep. Portion out the hardtack and jerky you took from Kitchen Hannah’s stores. Make it last.
Shaba-shaba-shaba. Don’t make a sound. No little gasps for air, no sucking-in sounds to make the spit come, no matter how thirsty you are. Something feels dangerous about these woods now. Got to get away from whatever is in these woods wasn’t here before. No sound. Just shaba-shaba-shaba. Bare feet flying over the earth. Shaba-shaba-shaba.
Soft black earth. Black night woods. No moon and no stars woods. A path, narrow as ever it can be, but soft and springy. Been here since before Jeremiah and Solomon the Barrel Maker and Six-Finger Sam were bom. They were the oldest people she knew, but Taba was sure this path was older. Shaba-shaba-shaba.
Clemency the Washerwoman had taught Taba most of what she knew about Shadowbrook. Clemency said Taba had been three years a Hale slave, “So don’t you be grieving for your home place no more, child It be time you stop all that.” But it didn’t matter how long it had been. Taba remembered her village and the lake, and the fish she caught that last day. And the slavers. Only mostly she didn’t think about them. Clemency was right about that. Stupid to keep thinking about what could never be changed. Lilce Ashanti slavers and Master John and the things they did to her.
“You got to be smart you gonna survive, little missy Taba. And smart means not thinking no more ‘bout how things was. Just thinking ‘bout how they be. And knowing what the white folks know, and some things they don’t. That way you get to keep the inside-free alive. Right here where it counts.” Clemency touched
Taba’s heart when she said that, but she didn’t feel a nice soft pap that could feed a baby some day. Shaba-shaba-shaba. No soft round mound with a pink circle around the dark baby-suck. She had one pap and one hard, rough lump. It took a long time until she told Clemency how that lump came to her. Then one day while the Washerwoman was putting Taba’s hair into so many tiny little plaits Taba couldn’t count them, she did* Clemency didn’t talk when Taba told her the story, but she had plenty to say when she told the others that night sitting by Kitchen Hannah’s fire. And when she finished, Runsabout said that when Master John got hard between his legs he was a crazy man. Did things no natural man who was right in his head should do or would do. White or black.
Shaba-shaba-shaba. Taba had heard them talk because she was behind Kitchen Hannah’s big fireplace at the time. They didn’t know Taba was there, not even Kitchen Hannah, who had said Taba could go to that sleeping place behind the fire whenever she wanted. Shaba-shaba-shaba. She was smelling a lake smell. She knew there was a lake in these parts. Taba had never seen it, but she had heard the others talking about a lake that used to be Bright Fish Water but was called something else now. Shaba-shaba-shaba.
“Poor little thing,” Com Broom Hannah had said that night. “Too bad not having two paps don’t put him off wanting her in his bed.”
“Ain’t nothin’ gonna put Master John off nothin’ if he don’ want to be put off. Master John, he don’t be a natural man. And he don’ change for nothin’.” Those were Runsabout’s final words. But even if Master John never changed, Taba did.
Shaba-shaba-shaba. She came to a place where there was a big wall inside herself. A high stone wall, big as the walls of the Guinea fort where the slavers kept her until the white men and their ships came. Shaba-shaba-shaba. She had to be free outside, had to be on the other side of that wall. The inside-free that Clemency and the others talked about, that wasn’t enough.
Black as tar here in the woods. Blacker than in the big house cupboard where she hid until everyone was asleep the night Master John had left for Albany. He wasn’t home so she didn’t have to go to his room that night. The women, all except Kitchen Hannah, they slept up in the place they called the long room under the roof, and when Master John wasn’t home Taba could sleep up there too, comforted by the sound of the others’ breathing. But that night she didn’t go to the long room after all the candles were snuffed out and the fires banked. Shaba-shaba-shaba. That night she stayed in the cupboard until it was dark and everyone was sure to be asleep. She knew the others were so used to her not sleeping in the long room they wouldn’t miss her, even though Master John wasn’t home. If she was going to get over the wall, find the outside-free, this was the time to try. Shaba-shaba-shaba.
That night when she crept across the Frolic Ground and headed off to find her outside-free, the only thing she knew for sure was that she wasn’t going the Albany way. Shaba-shaba-shaba. No idea where this way was taking her, except that it didn’t go to Albany and it took her away from Shadowbrook. Shaba-shaba-shaba. Nine sunrises and sunsets. Maybe ten. Could even be twelve. She wasn’t really counting. Besides, it had rained so much and there were so many clouds covering the sun and the moon you could hardly tell when the days came and when they went. One thing she was sure about, nobody was following her. She had the outside-free now. No Master John. That was as free as she needed to be.
She’d come to a village sometime. She could smell a lake and in her home place a lake meant fish so—“Oh!” A small, right-out-loud scream. Squeezed out of her when she stumbled over a rock and fell. Before she could get to her feet and keep running, she was grabbed and lifted and imprisoned in the crook of a strong arm. After she’d come so far. The grief welled up in Taba so big and so fast she thought she’d drown in it, drown in all those tears she dare not cry.
“You must be stark raving mad, lassie. Dinna you ken there’s soldiers and savages in their hundreds prowling this forest?” The words were whispered right into her ear, but Taba couldn’t understand them. Whoever her captor was, he didn’t speak like anyone she knew in her home place or here.
The girl kept trying to squirm out of his grip, struggling with more strength than Hamish Stewart would have thought possible for such a wee thing. He held onto her nonetheless—head down, body tucked firmly under one arm, the way he’d heft a bale of oats—and pressed back into the hidden cave that gave him cover and a vantage point. The bairn made a hissing sound and tried to beat on his thigh with her fists. Hamish clamped his free hand over her mouth and held her tight with the other, then lifted her so he could press his lips to her ear again. “Quiet. Otherwise the pair o’ us will finish up wi’ no hair and boiled for broth.”
The lass struggled a few seconds more, then calmed some. Black as a lump of coal, she was. That’s why she’d got this far with no painted savage behind her swinging a tomahawk. And thank God for thick clouds covering the moon and the stars. Might be my hair would na still be on my head if it had na been such dreich weather these past few days. Has to be this wee gel’s a slave from Shadowbrook. Running away, from the look o’ it. God’s truth, she chose a bad direction to run in.
Hamish had been many times in these woods. He knew the lay of the land so well he could see it in the dark. Fort William Henry was less than a league distant; he’d discovered this hiding place several months before, and taken refuge in it earlier that evening when he spotted an advance scout of Canadians and savages circling behind the fort. He’d toyed with the notion of speaking to one of the Canadians, explaining that he was a Catholic and a Jacobite, that he was on their side. But talk, he’d realized sometime since, would not get him off this hilltop. He’d simply have to wait and choose his moment to make a break for freedom.
With the wee gel in his charge he had to think again on what was to be done. The weather was changing. Hamish felt wind in his face, fierce and sudden, blowing in off the water and clearing the clouds as if a great broom were sweeping the sky.
Moments later a round s
ummer moon had risen above the trees and lit the land and the lake and the entrance to Hamish’s hiding place, which was formed by an outcropping of boulders at the edge of the flat field where the fort’s garrison grew beans and maize and cabbages. God’s truth, e’en if you were staring straight at the rock face, you wouldna ken the cave was there. Not unless you tried to wedge yourself between what seemed like a narrow fissure in the granite, the way he had one day because it was pelting hale and e’en a tiny bit o’ shelter seemed better than none. The grotto was beyond the crack, six strides in length and three in width. Not much, but in some circumstances, enough.
Hamish moved deeper into the cave, glancing down at the girl still tucked under his arm. She wore a calico frock and her black hair was a mass of tiny plaits. “Listen, lassie,” he whispered, “if I take my hand away will you promise na to shout or scream?” He barely breathed the words, spoke them slow and separate so she’d understand. “You’re safe wi’ me, lass. And not safe out there.” He jerked his head to indicate the forest and the fort and the lake. “Do you ken?”
Taba nodded. She didn’t understand his words, but his tone was kind. Maybe he was what Runsabout called a natural man. Yes, he was a natural man. She knew it in her bones.
Hamish put his finger over his Ups. He felt some relief when she nodded. Still he hesitated a moment before releasing her from his tight grip and setting her on the ground. When he did, she stood where he’d placed her. Dinna move and dinna make a sound. Thank God, lassie, whatever else you may be, you’re na a fool. Because heaven as my witness, if you were mad enough to run I’d let you go. Choose to die, lassie, and you can die alone.
Two seconds went by. Three. Hamish held his breath. Finally he exhaled and crouched down, motioning to her to squat beside him. There was bright moonlight now; he could see the fort to his right and beyond it, across a marsh, an entrenched camp on a hill called Titcomb’s Mount. The Sassenachs had made the camp to protect the wide military road they’d built through the forest. The road connected Fort William Henry with Fort Edward, ten leagues to the south. The camp overlooked the lake, and if the French attacked, that’s where—Sweet Mary in Heaven and all the Blessed Saints, protect us.
Hamish stared at the wash of moonlight on the water and hurriedly blessed himself, trying to hold back the vomit his churning stomach wanted to expel. God’s truth, he’d rather a thousand times face another Culloden Moor than what he was looking at.
The wee lass sucked in her breath. Hamish put his arm around her again, more for comfort than capture this time. The wind that blew away the clouds had stirred ruffles of whitecaps on the lake, but they were no deterrent to the massed canoes floating toward the fort, each one filled with naked savages painted for war. Mother o’ Heaven, there were Indians as far as he could see. He’d heard it said there were two thousand o’ them gathered at Fort Carillon t’other end of the lake. Sure to Almighty God, every one was on Bright Fish Water this night.
The bateaux of the French garrison came into view behind the canoes, some moved by paddles, some by sail;, many roped together for strength and stability. They rode low in the water, almost sinking beneath their cargo of heavy siege guns and hundreds of uniformed French regulars. Hamish tried to count the total number of craft and gave up when he passed two hundred and fifty. Since war was declared in May of ‘56, the French and their Indian allies had won nearly every battle. The Sassenachs werena likely to reverse the trend this time. They were facing an armada.
The fleet floated toward the fort, then halted and held steady just out of cannon range. It was a maneuver of breathtaking skill, as if a wave had rippled backward and been arrested before the crest. Hamish glanced at the fort. He detected no motion, but their lookouts would have seen what was coming and by now the entire garrison would be under battle alarm. Bloody heretics they were; still, it was hard not to feel some pity. He knew there to be twenty-five hundred men in Fort William Henry. Redcoats—the Thirty-fifth Foot, whose officers had brought their families, maybe a hundred women and children—as well as Yorkers, and militiamen from New England and New Jersey. Some forty rangers as well; woodsmen sent to scout, and to teach the redcoats a trick or two about fighting in the wilderness. God help them all, the force on the lake had to be at least three times that number.
The rangers must ken as well that no escape through the forest was possible, that the woods were full of Canadians and their Indian allies. The sutlers going back and forth between Albany and the fort peddling their wares, trading as much in talk as in combs and corn and musket balls, said the rangers had been sent by Quentin Hale. Hamish got the same information from Annie Crotchett. These days she sold her favors to as many redcoats as locals, given the numbers of ’em camped in the hills around the town, and just last week Annie had told him the Red Bear had been summoned to London, no less. To tell their bloody lordships how to make war like Indians, as if the Sassenachs needed any training in savagery. The blood rose in Hamish, reminding him of his hot hatred of all things English, but it cooled when he looked from the fort to the lake. He was seeing the makings of a slaughter. Sweet Savior in Heaven, he’d not have thought there could be so many painted barbarians in one place.
Four piercing notes from a horn rolled up the hills one side o’ the water and down the other. The strangeness o’ the thing made drops o’ cold sweat form on his skin. A French horn in these American woods. He half expected the skirl o’ the pipes next. The horn sounded a second time. In response the Indians in the canoes began beating their drums and whooping and screaming. Those in the forest behind the fort replied with shouts and drums of their own.
Hamish put his hand on the lass’s shoulder. Her whole body heaved with every breath she drew, but she made no sound and it was plain she dinna mean to bolt God alone knew how she’d got here through a forest bristling with white men and red, all intent on dealing death, but it was fitting that it was he who’d caught her, not some howling savage. The gel was bound to be Shadowbrook’s property. And Shadowbrook, he reminded himself, magnificently, unbelievingly, was his. Pinned between two halves of a war he might be, but by Christ Almighty, he was at last the laird. And this wee lass, like everything else on the Hale Patent, belonged to him. Now all he had to do was stay alive to claim his prize.
THURSDAY, AUGUST 9, 1757
FORT WILLIAM HENRY
Days and nights filled with the scream of cannon fire and musket fire and Indian whoops and curses hurled in French and English, And death.
In all of the civilized world it was agreed that however badly the defenders were outnumbered, as long as a fort’s walls and bastions were intact, honorable surrender was not possible. By the time the sun came up on the tenth day of the siege, the top of the bastions of Fort William Henry, the ones facing the French guns, had been entirely shot away.
At noon that day the front gate of the fort opened and a white flag was raised. A drummer beating a solemn tattoo marched ahead of a red-coated lieutenant colonel on horseback A musket ball had shattered the Englishman’s left foot. Despite that, he was the best man for the job. His French was flawless.
Montcalm’s tent was a large marquee of three poles, with walls that reached above a tall man’s shoulders and elegant campaign furniture. The general was joined by half a dozen of his most senior officers, five Indians in the full battle regalia—warbonnets and the like—that marked them as chiefs, and a handfid of translators. In deference to the wound of the Englishman, everyone sat. There were not enough of the hastily unfolded leather-covered chairs to accommodate all. The Indians squatted at the fringes of the meeting.
The Englishman’s name was Young. He and Montcalm did the talking. Quiet, courteous speech, no need for bluster, because both men knew the battle was over and the English had lost. Fort William Henry had fewer than seven hundred soldiers fit for duty. Three hundred had been killed since the engagement began, the rest had fallen to an epidemic of smallpox raging since mid-July. All the English cannon and most of their mortar
s had burst from overuse or been disabled by shot, while the whole of Montcalm’s thirty-one cannon and fifteen mortars and howitzers were intact, now entrenched, and ready to open fire together. Up to now only some of the guns had been in action, and that portion of the French firepower had been almost more than the English could resist. Facing the entire battery meant surrender was the only option. That’s what had decided the vote taken among the fort’s officers earlier that morning.
The marquis de Montcalm had no interest in prisoners. The harvest had been poor in Canada this year and the year before, and the policies of Intendant Bigot and his grande sociéty had made a bad situation horrendous. Montcalm had barely enough food to feed his own men and dole out a bit to the Indians. “You have fought bravely, monsieur. I offer you the honors of war and safe passage to Fort Edward.” Young nodded in acknowledgment of Montcalm’s compliment. “In return,” the Frenchman continued, “for eighteen months parole.”
Generous terms. The defenders of Fort William Henry would be allowed to leave with their colors flying and in possession of their small arms and their personal effects. For their part, the British and the colonials must give their solemn word not to fight against the French for a year and a half. “We will take the fort at once,” Montcalm continued. “Your garrison will go over the ravine to the entrenched camp and spend the night there. At first light tomorrow a detachment of my soldiers will escort you to Fort Edward.”
It was a journey of some three leagues. “We have many sick,” Young explained. “They are not fit to cross from the fort to the camp. The journey to Fort Edward would be impossible.”
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