by Lake, Deryn
Chapter Six
July, 1758
The snows had long since gone, making way for another hot, unrelenting summer. And in the heat sweated fifteen thousand soldiers, half of them Regulars, trudging through the ruins of what had once been Fort William Henry towards Ticonderoga. Gage, in the uniform of full colonel, could feel the sweat running down inside his shirt and was more than aware of the fact that he stank, washing facilities being of the poorest, even for the officers, when the army was on the move. He was unaware, however, of the fact that he was a good-looking man, with his long, aristocratic nose, his firm chin and full, rather sensual lips. Nor did he understand the power of his eyes, which were an unusual shade of blue, quite light, the colour of a spring sky. Yet he did know that his looks had made him popular with members of the opposite sex all his adult life, although he had never considered the reasons why. And now he was betrothed to that captivating beauty Margaret Kemble, she of the dark hair and amber eyes, and planned to marry her before Christmas. That is, if he survived the present campaign.
At the moment the army was making its way northwards, up the shores of Lake George, its aim to conquer Canada and drive out the French, still in an unholy alliance with the Indian nation. And, for once, they were full of hope as, from England, the dominating Prime Minister Pitt infused new life into the troops. In fact, spirits were high and Gage, in command of his own regiment, the 80th Foot or Gage’s Light Armed Infantry, part of the advance guard, found himself whistling as he rode along at the head of his men.
“Happy, Sir?”
It was Major Gladwin who had spoken, riding rapidly to join Gage in the forefront.
Gage smiled. “Yes, I suppose I am. As happy as one can be in this sort of situation.”
“Why do you say that? We haven’t come across any French so far.”
“My dear Henry, they could be watching us at this very moment. As a matter of fact I don’t like all this quiet. I don’t trust it.”
“I know what you mean,” Gladwin answered, glancing round him.
Tom Gage laughed. “But that’s just my superstition. There’s probably not a Frenchman for miles.”
“If there is we should have glimpsed them by now.”
“Yes, we should. I’ve sent Calico Joel on to have a look.”
Gladwin appeared relieved. “Well, if anyone can find them, it will be him. He’s invaluable. Can’t say that I like him any better though.”
“He’s an odd cuss,” Gage agreed, nodding. “He’s so damnably taciturn, that’s the trouble.”
“That’s his Indian blood. What happened to his French mother, by the way?”
“She wouldn’t go back to her own people. They returned her to civilisation but she ran away, back to her Cherokee. I believe she died some years later.”
“And the father?”
“God knows, maybe he’s still alive. Who can tell?”
“Calico Joel presumably.”
“Presumably,” answered Tom, and they both laughed.
*
As soon as the light began to fade, Colonel Gage, still at the head of the column, called a halt for the day, and the men began to light fires and put up the small tents which they carried in their backpacks. As he had originally intended, the men travelled light and fast, carrying no more than somewhere to sleep and a tin mug and plate. Their guns and ammunition they wore, quite literally, about their person. Yet the Colonel had insisted that they should get a decent night’s rest. For himself he had a full-sized tent, carried by a packhorse, which was in process of being erected when Calico Joel appeared silently by his side.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” said Tom, jumping, his mind at that moment firmly on Margaret, whose latest letter he had received just before he left civilisation.
“It is the Indian way.”
“To creep up soundlessly?”
“To move without making any noise, yes. Mon Colonel, I have much to impart.”
“Tell me.”
“The enemy is just ahead of you. You are walking into a trap.”
Gage drew in a breath. “I knew they wouldn’t be far away. Where are they exactly?”
“At Ticonderoga, five miles ahead. The Marquis de Montcalm is fortifying the fort there with much haste. He knows you are coming.”
“I see.”
Glancing over, Tom saw that his tent was ready for him and motioning the scout to join him, he went within. Once inside, he poured two glasses of spirit into tin mugs and sat down on a folding camp chair, indicating the other to Calico Joel.
“Tell me from the beginning. What did you see?”
“I saw a breastwork of logs and a rampart of sharpened stakes hastily being put together.”
Gage stroked his chin. “Urn. We must get word to General Abercromby. And fast at that.”
Calico Joel drained his mug and held it out for a refill, saying nothing. Tom automatically filled it, together with his own.
“I will go an hour before first light, mon Colonel.”
“He’ll be moving his troops then, as will I.”
“What better time to catch him?” the scout replied simply.
“What do you mean?”
“He will be fresh from a night’s sleep. His decision will be clearer than one grasped at this hour.”
It was said as a statement, quite finally, and the Colonel was left with no choice but to accept the man’s word.
“Where will you sleep?” he asked.
“On the ground, close by.”
“Is there anything you require for the night?” asked Gage.
“Nothing, mon Colonel.”
“Calico Joel, tell me something.”
“What?”
“Is your father still alive?”
“Yes. He is a chief of the Cherokees. He is not on the warpath.”
“Why do you scout for us; surely your allegiance should lie with the other side?”
“You treated me well, mon Colonel. When we first met. Remember?”
And Tom Gage did. It had been in the woods east of Fort Duquesne. Gage had been newly arrived in America and he had, quite literally, stumbled over a wounded Indian lying on the ground, preparing to die. He had done what any man would and carried the fellow, thin to the point of starvation, back to camp and put him in the hands of the army surgeon. And there Calico Joel had made a miraculous recovery and instead of leaving when he was better, had gone to see the Colonel – then of lesser rank – and offered himself as a scout. The fact that he spoke English and French had been amazing enough, but his abilities as a scout had been overpowering. He had joined Gage forthwith and from that day forward had been his bond man. Yet an extremely strange one.
Now he simply said, “Goodnight, mon Colonel,” and moved out of sight, leaving Tom alone to finish his drink.
Colonel Gage unbuttoned his uniform and stared up at the sky. The moon was new, a mere crescent, but the stars shone in their thousands, as they had done since time began. So a trap lay in wait for them, he thought, and a cruel trap if Calico Joel’s word was to be trusted. And tomorrow General Abercromby would be informed and make a decision, no doubt, to take evasive action.
Tom sighed, finished his drink and pulled the flaps of his tent together. Then, pouring some water recently drawn from a nearby river into a basin, he washed away as best he could the stinks of the day. Then, last thing, before he blew out his candle, he put his head outside again. There was no movement anywhere, the men all asleep.
“Oh God,” he found himself praying, “Let me stay alive. Let me survive whatever happens. Let me know the happiness of being married to Margaret, even if it is only for a few months.”
Thus saying, he closed the flaps once more and fell asleep on his hard camp-bed.
*
“What do you mean he said we’re to march ahead?” Tom said incredulously.
“That was his answer, mon Colonel.”
“I can scarcely credit it.”
It was dawn and
the entire camp was up and preparing to move. Breakfast, what there had been of it, had been eaten as the sun first came over the horizon. And now the men, dressed and ready in their brown coats with black buttons, awaited their orders for the day. However the Colonel, closeted still in his tent with the chief Indian scout, had so far not emerged to give them any. So they rested as best they could until their instructions were issued, wondering what they were going to be called upon to do.
“I can’t believe it,” Gage continued, his expression askance.
Calico Joel’s face remained as impassive as ever. “I told General Abercromby what I had seen but he said there was to be no change in orders.”
Tom shook his head slowly. “Is the man stupid or what?” was out of his mouth before he could control the words.
The Indian shrugged. “I repeat what he said only, mon Colonel.”
“Yes, and don’t repeat my reaction or my arse will be well and truly kicked.”
A momentary grin crossed the Indian’s features before it vanished as quickly as it had come. “I’ll keep quiet,” he said, short as ever.
Gage stood up from his camping chair. “I’d best say nothing to the men,” he remarked grimly.
“No, best not.”
“So we’ll go forward – straight into the trap.”
“Yes,” said Calico Joel simply. “Straight into the trap.”
They marched for two hours, during which time the Colonel kept away from General Abercromby and his men, moving more slowly with their heavy baggage. So it was that he and his troop were first on the scene, gazing with horror at the abatis of fallen timber that had been prepared for them. Calling his men to halt, he awaited the General’s arrival. And eventually, after an hour’s delay, the heavily laden force caught up with them.
“Well, Sir,” said Abercromby, squinting at Fort Ticonderoga with its gruelling defences, “what do you think?”
“I think we would have been better to have gone further west and avoided trouble, General.”
“Hm.” Abercromby, a short, somewhat bad-tempered man, studied the fort through his telescope. “We can take the place, easy. We’ll charge ’em and be damned.”
“We’ll be damned all right,” Gage said under his breath. Aloud, he turned to Major Henry Gladwin. “Are the men ready, Major?”
“Ready as they’ll ever be, Sir.”
“Then order them to charge.”
“But…”
“I said charge, Major Gladwin. The General has ordered a headlong frontal assault.”
“Yes, Sir, but…”
“You can tell them I’ll be at the fore.”
“Right, Sir.”
So began yet another brave but hopeless challenge to the might of the French. Again and again, Gage’s Light Armed Infantry charged with incredible courage into an impenetrable abatis. Meanwhile, Abercromby’s men, gallant to the last, ran alongside them. But as they approached the fort the most deadly crossfire opened up. The Marquis de Montcalm had positioned his men brilliantly, on either side of the oncoming British forces. The oncomers were indeed caught in the most terrible snare they had ever encountered.
Colonel Gage was beyond worrying about his personal safety and charged recklessly towards the defences, throwing caution to the winds. On either side of him his regiment, formed with so much love and care, dropped in their tracks, or, worse, became entangled in the dead branches, suspended in grotesque positions, brown coats alongside red.
“Bastards,” shrieked the Colonel, wildly firing at the unseen enemy. “Bastards. How dare you bring my boys down.”
All around him his men were struggling with ferocious courage to get through the trap and dying for their pains. Bullets were flying everywhere, singing in his ears, so that when one hit him in the arm it hardly came as a surprise. None the less, it halted him and he clutched at the wound with his hand. But he would have gone on running forward if Calico Joel had not appeared from nowhere and put himself directly in the way.
“Leave the field, Colonel,” was all he said.
Tom stared at him. “I can’t do that.”
“You’re wounded. Let the surgeons dig the bullet out or Miss Kemble will have a dead man for a bridegroom.”
It was the mention of her name that brought him back to reality, that and the tight grip on his good arm that he simply couldn’t shake off. With a crab-like persistence, Calico Joel would not release his hold until the Colonel, reluctantly, allowed himself to be led to the medical tent, where he waited his turn amongst the dead and the dying.
“You were lucky,” said the doctor, as he extracted the bullet. “That bullet probably saved your life.”
“How do you mean?”
“If you’d stayed out there you would have been killed for sure.”
“How many are fallen? Do you know?”
“Over a thousand,” said the surgeon, and started to stitch the wound.
“A thousand!” repeated Gage, and turned away to hide the tears in his eyes.
*
In fact it was more than one thousand and six hundred men who fell that day. Eventually, Abercromby admitted defeat and ordered what was left of the regiments to withdraw. So, that night, Thomas Gage sat in his tent and reflected on the horrible losses of the encounter and wept, privately, once more, that his own regiment should have been so decimated.
After midnight, with his single candle still burning, Calico Joel slipped silently through the flaps of the tent and stood before him. “You called for me, mon Colonel?”
Tom, drunk and depressed, his arm aching wildly, looked at him. “No, I didn’t call.”
“Then your soul must have done. Here, let me rub some of this on your wound.”
“What is it?”
“An Indian balm, it is made from cornflowers. Here.”
And before Tom could object, the scout had removed the bandage and begun to gently rub in his ointment. It was very soothing, the Colonel had to admit it, and so he fell asleep, sitting in his chair, the Indian massaging his arm and singing, very quietly, a Cherokee prayer for a safe recovery.
When he awoke in the cold grey dawn it was to find that the pain in his arm had reduced to a dull ache, and he knew then that it would only be a flesh wound and would heal completely. Of Calico Joel there was no sign; indeed, there was little sign of anyone as Gage stepped out of his tent and gazed on the remnants of his regiment, lying on the ground, too tired to put up their shelters. Turning away, Thomas Gage walked into the darkness of the quiet forest to contemplate the horror and futility of war.
Chapter Seven
December 8th, 1758
He stood in the small white church, happier than he had ever been in his life before, yet decidedly nervous for all that. For this was the moment he had been awaiting for most of his adult life, the moment when, after many amorous adventures, he finally settled down and took a bride. He was just days away from his thirty-ninth birthday, his future wife was twenty-five and beautiful into the bargain. Thomas Gage, the fighting done for the year, had every right to be well pleased with himself.
Yet the happiness he felt was tinged with sadness. It was doubtful whether the 80th Foot, otherwise known as Gage’s chasseurs, would be kept on after the close of hostilites. Still, they had given him a consolation prize by raising him to the rank of brigadier, which couldn’t be overlooked. But for all that his regiment, swelling in numbers again after the massacre at Fort Ticonderoga, was dear to his heart and he would be sad indeed to see it disbanded.
The church overflowed with people, some of the congregation being forced to stand at the back. Gage, surrounded by his fellow officers – who had nicknamed Margaret ‘the Duchess’ – were as nothing compared with the gathering of the Kemble clan including, of course, the usual smattering of De Lanceys, Van Cortlandts and Schuylers. Philip was present, dressed to cause a stir, a beautiful young woman accompanying him, tightly clinging to his arm and gazing winsomely at everyone who looked at her. Tom wondered whether t
his might be a new love or simply an adornment, brought along to show the world how little he cared about Margaret.
There was an organ in the church, having been bought and donated by Peter Kemble himself, and this had been rumbling away with pieces by Bach and Haydn from the moment the first guests set their foot across the threshold. But now it piped a fanfare and there was a rustle in the congregation. With his dress uniform of brigadier chafing his neck, Tom allowed himself a peep round and saw that there was movement in the porch. He swiftly turned his head and stared frontwards, aware that the bridegroom’s witness – who else but his old comrade-in-arms, the Duke of Devonshire’s protégé, Henry Gladwin – was having a good look at the bride’s arrival.
“Here comes the Duchess,” Henry muttered, and at that moment Tom felt so many conflicting emotions that tears stung his eyes but fortunately did not fall.
She was making a slow progress up the aisle, leaning on the arm of her father, no doubt smiling at all who caught her eye. Meanwhile, the organist, a middle-aged man with a flowing wig and a pair of folding spectacles on his nose, leaned closer to the organ as he applied pedals and pulled out stops in order to give as grand an accompaniment to the bridal entry as possible. Then, in a rustle of skirts, she was beside him.
Tom turned to look at Margaret and could not help but stare at her in admiration. She could have worn white or tawny, but had chosen the lighter colour. Her fantastically embroidered petticoat was of a slightly bluish shade, above which her rounded neckline, cut dramatically low, fell away in an open robe of white tafetta. On her head she wore a headdress of ribbons and flowers matching those she wore at her neck.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered.
“Beautiful for you,” she murmured back.
The service began, conducted by an Anglican clergyman, a tall colonial, well pleased with his flock, as they were with him. Eventually though there came a pause in his long-winded oration and Tom, realising that he was being regarded by a pair of commanding steel-grey eyes, knew it was the time to exchange vows. Taking Margaret’s hands in his, he spoke the words, “I, Thomas…”
