“I spoke with the Canadian pilot, sir, when the rangers first brought him to us. And last night, I took one of the small boats and—”
“And who, pray, was master of the Three Sisters when you were off in a small boat?”
Cooke nodded toward his ship, lying a ways upriver. “The same master who cares for her now, sir. As ably as any man I know.”
Wolfe wasn’t interested in the rivalries of the seamen. “With respect, Admiral, might we hear what this officer has to say?”
Saunders nodded.
“I can take us through, sir,” Cooke said. “At least I’m fairly certain I can. I’d like to try if you’ll permit it.”
“What about the depth?” asked another of the masters who had been summoned to this council of war. This one had command of HMS Goodwill, a third-rater with only eighty guns, but still a draft greater than any merchantman. “I have it on reliable authority that no ship drawing more than—”
“The draft is adequate for the Goodwill, sir. I promise you.”
Saunders looked at him, trying to decide if he dared trust him. In God’s name, how could Cooke know so much more than the rest of them? He couldn’t be more than thirty. Sailed on merchantmen until a few years back, and only had four years in the service. Too damned young for command, whatever those fools at the Admiralty thought. “Even if the draft is sufficient, Captain Cooke, do you not think that the French are expecting us? We will be fair game for—”
“I see no evidence that they’re expecting us, sir.” Out of the corner of his eye Cooke caught sight of Wolfe’s nod. He was flooded with courage. “Let me try with one ship for a start, Admiral. If she gets through, we can bring the others. I can do it, I’m quite sure.”
Holy God Almighty, Quent thought. He really does think so. “A suggestion, Admiral. If I’m permitted …”
“Ah yes, Mr. Hale. The native voice. Go ahead, man, tell us your suggestion.”
Quent thought of Nicole, of how close she was and how much danger she might be in, and swallowed his bile. He jerked his head toward the Cross of St. George flying from the masthead. “Take down the English flag, sir, and fly the French. It should allow you to get close enough to answer any enemy fire with your own.”
“Devious, you Americans,” Saunders murmured. “Is it Indian-style to approve of sailing under false colors?”
Hell take you, you insufferable bastard. As if the same trick hasn’t been employed a hundred times by your precious Royal Navy. “Indians don’t have flags, Admiral. That’s why they use war paint and tattoos to identify themselves.”
“Are you suggesting my sailors should—”
“It’s an excellent idea,” Wolfe interrupted. “A French flag. Just until we get through La Traverse. I believe we can dispense with tattoos and war paint.”
Saunders looked at his other officers. Everyone nodded assent.
The admiral decreed that HMS Goodwill should make the first attempt. Wolfe insisted on being aboard; Saunders went as well. At the last minute Quent was invited to join them; a whim of Wolfe’s, no doubt. The man seemed always to want him around, rather like a charm insuring good fortune, but at the same time appeared to despise him.
They took up their positions on the quarterdeck. “You have the helm, Captain Cooke,” Saunders said. “For the duration of the passage,” he added, feeling the barbed glance of the Goodwill’s actual master.
“Aye, sir.”
To Quent’s eye Cooke didn’t seem unnerved by either the scrutiny or the difficulty of the task. Saunders hadn’t said what would happen if he faded, but it didn’t need saying. If Cooke survived a shipwreck, he’d be hung from the nearest yardarm as the man who had caused it. On the other hand, not likely any of them would survive a shipwreck in waters this turbulent. Summer it might be, but even from the triple-decked height of the Goodwill’s topside Quent could feel the chill rising off the river.
Cooke armed himself with a quill and a sheet of paper fixed to a board, and pressed into service one of the young powder monkeys—a boy of eight who during battle ran flannel-covered cartridges of powder from the stores to the guns. The lad’s job this day was to follow Cooke about with a pot of ink. “Helmsman, steady as she goes,” the young captain called out. The journey had begun.
Two sounding boats traveled with them, lying off each side and hoisting different color flags to indicate the channel, but mostly it was Cooke’s instinct that guided their passage. In the heart of La Traverse the current reversed itself and flowed upstream, or so it seemed. The river was a seething, heaving mass of entrapment, a place of unending turbulence. Despite that, Cooke would spy one particular ripple and call out a change of direction. “Helmsman, half a degree to port!” To Quent, even to the other mariners, the ripple had looked no different from any of the others. “A ledge,” Cooke would murmur, making note of it on the chart he was drawing. “Rock, not mud or gravel. Extreme danger.”
“In Christ’s name,” Quent asked, “how do you know?”
“I smell it,Mr. Hale.”
Quent sniffed. “I don’t smell a damned thing.”
Cooke chuckled. “When we land the troops, Mr. Hale, you will know where the infernal Indians are and what they have in mind. I won’t smell anything then. And—Helmsman! Larboard a degree! That’s where the channel is, not straight ahead, by Christ!” More marks quickly drawn on the evolving chart.
The passage was a zigzag and not wide, but deep enough. When the Goodwill drew level with the lower point of the Ile d’Orléans, they struck the French colors and hoisted the red and white St. George’s Cross. It didn’t seem to make any difference. No one opposed them and not a shot was fired to prevent their progress. Sixty English ships went through La Traverse in two days. Forty-nine were warships, the rest were transports carrying in addition to their crews eighty-five hundred soldiers and the provisions and ordnance they required to place under siege the Citadel of Québec, the fortress city of New France.
Chapter Twenty-Six
SATURDAY, JUNE 28, 1759
QUéBEC UPPER TOWN
“EH BIEN, MES amis, les Anglais sont arrivés.” Vaudreuil’s announcement was entirely unnecessary. Four men were gathered in the Chateau Saint-Louis: the governor-general and three guests: Pontbriand, the bishop, Intendant Bigot, and Louis Roget. They knew the English had arrived. All Québec knew. They had tried using fire ships to burn them out, and le bon Dieu had sent a fierce squall that wrecked two of their frigates. Neither served to drive them away. Wolfe’s army was encamped on Ile d’Orléans, facing the town from less than half a league across the river.
“Fewer than nine thousand, I’m told.” His Excellency the Bishop of New France was well looked after by Bigot, nonetheless he was rail-thin and his eyes were surrounded by perpetual dark circles. The bishops before him had spent more time in Paris than in Québec. Pontbriand had tried to do his duty by remaining here, but ever since he had permitted Père Antoine to bring his Poor Clares, things had gone from bad to worse, or so it seemed. Cloistered nuns devoted entirely to penance … surely such women should bring blessings raining down from heaven, not English warships that mysteriously found their way through La Traverse.Alors, such things were in the hands of le bon Dieu. “You have twice as many men, do you not, mon Général?”
Montcalm shook his head. “Not quite, Excellency. If your figures are accurate—”
“I have them on superb authority, mon Général.” The bishop stifled his sigh. His priests were a constant worry. Many of them were Canadian firebrands who too often put country above Church. He had instructed them to remain neutral whatever happened. He might as well have commanded the tides to flow in reverse. “I am informed by a patriot on Ile d’Orléans,” His Excellency murmured.
Montcalm shrugged. “If the patriot can count, and if there are not still more fighting men aboard the ships, then yes, we perhaps outnumber the English. Still …” He had sixteen thousand men, but fewer than half were French regulars, troops he could rely
on. Most of the rest were Canadians. Montcalm had seen boys of fifteen in his camp alongside men of eighty, all burning to defend Canada. God help them if a battle actually came.
“How many Indians?” Vaudreuil asked.
“A thousand perhaps.” Montcalm was busy studying his fingernails.
“So few! I thought—”
“The savages are not to be relied on, Monsieur le Général. Their beliefs as well as their customs will always be a mystery to us. I have heard talk of magic—some precious stones that tell them they are not to fight with Onontio.”
Louis Roget stiffened, then made himself relax, but not before the bishop noticed. His Excellency had not taken his attention from the Jesuit since the meeting began. “You know something of this matter, Monsieur le Provincial?”
“No, Excellency. How could I?”
“I have no idea, mon cher Roget. But you Jesuits, you know everything, non?”
The Provincial allowed himself a small smile. “Not quite everything, Excellency.” Papankamwa, the fox. Eehsipana, the raccoon. Ayaapia, the elk buck. Anseepikwa, the spider. Eeyeelia, the possum. Pileewa, the turkey. Five years now, but Roget could still hear the Midewiwin priest in the forest not far from here, chanting those words over and over, the names of six magic stones. The black robes, he promised, could have them for a price.
The Jesuit had, of course, never believed in the magic. But it wasn’t necessary that he believe, only that the Indians did. That fact alone would have given him enormous power over them, if, of course, he had the stones. The amount he offered must have seemed a king’s ransom to the Midè priest, but the savage had never appeared to claim his prize. Perhaps someone else offered him more, or perhaps the stones never truly existed. Roget turned away from the bishop’s intense scrutiny. “It seems to me the Indians can always be convinced to fight, mon Général Fighting is in their nature. You might try a bit more persuasion.”
“With respect, Monsieur le Provincial, in a siege such as General Wolfe clearly intends, the savages are useless.”
“Never useless,” Vaudreuil said, but not Louis Roget thought, with much insistence. The Jesuit looked from Montcalm to the governor-general, his eyes probing for any new information. There was none. Each had an instinctive position. Versailles had made him a marquis, but Vaudreuil was a Canadian and he would always choose to fight like a Canadian. He had wanted to move the entire populace out of the city, send them to Trois Rivières or Montréal, and leave the defense of Québec to men who would hide behind trees and harass the enemy when they least expected it. And take scalps. Roget suppressed a shudder of distaste. It did not matter what Vaudreuil wanted. Word had come from Versailles in May. The governor-general was to defer to Montcalm in all matters that pertained to the war. Au fond, things were as they were. As for Montcalm … Not the best family, certainly, but French, and a traditional soldier. “Exactly what sort of siege do you speak of, mon Général?”
“The sort with which we military men are famliar. The siège en forme, Monsieur le Provincial,” Montcalm proceeded, as if speaking to a young cadet. “One surrounds on three sides, with the aid of certain entrenchments brings one’s guns ever nearer, and—”
“It is not possible to surround Québec on three sides.”
“Exactly. You make my point, Monsieur le Provincial. It needs only that we wait. When the winter approaches, the soldiers and sailors of His Britannic Majesty will leave.”
The bishop cleared his throat “We were told with equal authority that the English could not pass La Traverse.”
“Not by me, Excellency.” Montcalm faced all three, the Jesuit and Vaudreuil as well as the bishop. He did not flinch. “I have left such matters to local wisdom. What would I know of the waters surrounding Québec?”
Père Antoine waited across from the Château Saint-Louis keeping to the shadows of one of the grand houses surrounding the Place d’Armes. He was shivering. Not so cold a day, but this trembling would not leave him. He felt hot at the same time, as if he were burning up with fever. His fingers moved automatically, counting off the beads of the rosary as he told his Aves. He had been here a long time, four recitations of the seven decades of the Franciscan Crown. Never mind. He’d seen them all go into the château, the bishop, and Louis Roget, and monsieur le marguis de Montcalm. They would have to come out sometime. “Je vous salue, Marie …” On the other side of the square, the central door of the château opened and a pair of liveried servants took their places on either side.
The first man to appear was the bishop. His departure was marked by a flurry of ring kissing and signs of the cross sketched hurriedly in the air. Antoine had positioned himself so that his view of the château would not be obscured when a carriage approached. The one that did so now was pulled by four horses and covered with much gilt; it displayed the seal of New France as well as the arms of the Episcopal See. The bishop lifted the skirts of his red robes, then waited while the servants positioned themselves on either side. A footstool was put in place. His Excellency placed one velvet-clad foot on it, then, with the aid of the footmen, disappeared into the coach’s interior.
Louis Roget used the fuss surrounding the departure of the bishop to slip out the door and hurry away on foot. Père Antoine watched him for only a moment. For once the Jesuit was not the focus of his interest.
The door of the Château Saint-Louis remained closed for the duration of five more Aves. He was midway through a sixth—“Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, priez”—when the marquis appeared. The footmen snapped to attention. Another carriage rolled forward. Antoine darted across the square.
“Good day to you, mon Général.”
“Who are you?”
“I am called Père Antoine.”
“Ah yes, the Franciscan. I thought—” Montcalm stopped speaking. I present you this on behalf of Père Antoine Rubin de Montaigne, the Delegate to New France of the Minister General of the Order of Friars Minor. Père Antoine begs to inform His Excellency that what is contained herein is of the utmost importance to the defense of New France. “Not just any Franciscan, are you? You are the Delegate of the Minister General. Is that not correct, mon Père?”
“Oui, mon Général. I am unworthy, but I have that honor.”
The door to the carriage was open. The footmen were waiting. “Come,” Montcalm said. “Ride with me to Beauport. We will talk on the way.”
“I expected this visit before now, mon Père.”
“I did not wish to intrude myself into such a business, mon Général. I am a simple son of St. Francis. I do not—”
“You are Antoine Pierre Rubin de Montaigne, sir.”
“No longer, sir. Now only Père Antoine, a humble priest.”
Montcalm shrugged. “Eh bien. What then does this humble priest wish of me? I am very busy, mon Père. As you are perhaps aware, there is a war. And the English are at our doorstep.”
The carriage of the marquis was a much simpler affair than that of the bishop. It was entirely black, the only relief being the Montcalm coat of arms emblazoned in gold on the door. There were black curtains on the windows, but they were pushed back. Antoine could see the fortifications that were everywhere. Eleven thousand men had dug fifty leagues of trenches and erected countless campsites and redoubts. They had worked night and day for five weeks—Montcalm had not issued the order to fortify the Beauport shore until the end of May—and despite endless rain which left behind a plague of flies, the men built a line of defense from the place where the St. Charles River entered the St. Lawrence, near the château of Intendant Bigot in Québec, to the massive and impassible Montmorency Falls above the village of Beauport. Everywhere Antoine looked there were gun batteries trained on the river. There were rows upon rows of tents, even a few wigwams. “So much, mon Général. Such a huge effort. Now, after they have come. And to protect La Traverse, nothing. Not even one battery on little Ile Madame.”
“You forget, mon Père,” Montcalm said softly. “La Traverse was believed to b
e impassible.”
“But you knew better, mon Général.”
“No, I did not. How could I contradict those who were born here in Québec?”
“Do you deny that the little sister brought you the chart made by the Jesuit Louait? That it showed—”
Montcalm raised his hand. “I deny nothing, mon Père. Here in this carriage there is no need to deny anything. In a more public place … That, of course, would be different.”
The two men looked at each other. Neither glance wavered. “To my face,” Antoine said at last. “You are a man of incredible arrogance, Monsieur le Marquis de Montcalm. Have you no fear for your immortal soul?”
“I am, mon Père, a man who knows the difference between spiritual realities and those of a military nature. You speak of a battery at Ile Madame. It would have been useless. Even a pair of batteries facing each other across the entry to the channel would have been useless. Forty warships would have been required to defend La Traverse. I do not have forty warships, my dear Père Antoine, because in Versailles the lovely Pompadour does not concern herself with Canada. And the king—I apologize for offending your religious sensibilities—concerns himself with nothing except his cock. That is the reality.”
“And the souls of the heathen? Do you have no concern for the millions who thanks to you may never hear the gospel preached to them and never attain salvation? Do you realize that if—”
“I leave such things to you, mon Père. And to le bon Dieu. Surely God is sufficiently concerned with souls not to need my poor assistance.”
“You speak heresy, sir. I warn you again, you put your own soul in peril.”
They had arrived at the small manor house Montcalm had made his headquarters. The carriage slowed, then stopped, and a footman appeared at the door and started to open it. The marquis waved the servant away. “I will give you one sop for your conscience, Père Antoine, though why it should prick you, I do not know. You did what you thought best, and I did likewise. We will both be judged at the appropriate time, non?”
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