by Wilbur Smith
For a brief moment, she hoped he might drop dead of a seizure. His face had gone purple with rage, and his neck throbbed against the collar of his shirt. His hands balled into fists, shaking at his sides. She knew he wanted to hit her. She smiled, encouraging him. Let everyone see him for the brute he was.
But Mauvières was no fool. He would not strike a woman with the cream of Paris society watching. Mastering his anger, he leaned in to her and whispered in her ear, “You will pay for this.”
He turned on his heel and left the room. Titters and murmurs followed him out. No one watching understood what had happened, but gossip would not be slow to fill the void.
A footman gathered the fallen cloak from the floor. The orchestra started playing again. Ignoring the stares, Constance made her way to the edge of the hall. She felt empty. She had gambled everything on making Mauvières hit her and failed.
If she went back to his château, he would kill her. But where else could she go?
She couldn’t dance. It had taken so much powder to make her battered face presentable, a drop of perspiration would ruin the effect. She had so little dignity left, she had to hoard every last scrap.
“You do not dance, madame?”
She turned to the man who had spoken. It was General Corbeil. He wore a splendid uniform, covered with medals, yet he stood alone and awkward. The overall effect would have been rather sad—if she’d had room in her heart for pity.
“Constance de Courtenay,” she introduced herself. She wondered why he had sought her out. Was fate taunting her by bringing all her enemies to one place? “We met once before, at the Marquise de Sologne’s ball.”
“I know who you are.” There was a strange intensity in his voice, so different from the hollow charm that the rest of the beau monde affected. Constance could not remember the last time she had heard someone speak with so little artifice. “And we have met twice before, if memory serves. At the ball . . . and in Calcutta.”
Constance eyed him warily. “I did not think you would remember.”
“It is not easily forgotten.”
That was true: she had been face down, naked and tied to the nawab’s bed. Yet Corbeil did not give the impression of a man bent on raking over scandals. Though it was hard to be sure in the dim candlelight, he seemed to be blushing.
An idea grew in Constance’s mind. “I never had a chance to thank you,” she murmured.
“It was nothing,” he said brusquely. “I could not let the nawab give orders to a Frenchman.”
“You were very gallant,” she insisted.
Corbeil frowned. He might be a general of France, but there was an awkwardness about him. She feared he might retreat from sheer embarrassment.
She took his arm. He flinched, but she did not let go. She steered him into a corner.
“The man I am with is a monster,” she said urgently. “He keeps me a prisoner in his château and beats me like a dog. You saved me once. Please can you save me again?”
Corbeil stared at her. A seemingly bloodless man, she could see him writhing with discomfort. “But what is this to do with me?”
“He is one of your officers—Colonel de Mauvières.”
Corbeil’s cold face registered no surprise. “I have heard rumors of his tastes. But he is one of my finest commanders. If all my officers were saints, I would never win a battle.”
Constance sensed her hopes fading. She took Corbeil’s hands between hers and looked imploringly into his eyes. “He is a brute.”
“The king has just asked me to appoint him to my staff for the American campaign.”
The news that Mauvières was leaving Paris should have been a relief to Constance. But it was too little, too late. She had defied his wishes, and he would make her pay.
She reached up and unbuttoned the high collar of her dress, turning her back to the room so that no one else could see. Corbeil tried to look away but she would not let him. She pulled the fabric apart, revealing pale skin and the tops of her breasts.
“Look at me, General. This is what Colonel de Mauvières has done.”
A livid bruise spread over her collarbone. She tugged down the top of her stays to reveal another red welt in the flawless skin of her breast. Corbeil stared, rapt.
“Please, monsieur. If you could help me in this matter, I would do anything to repay you.”
•••
Mauvières arrived at the army’s headquarters in a foul temper, still hung-over from the night before. He had stayed in town, so he had not had the opportunity to punish Constance. He still could not believe that the little whore had defied him. The pent-up fury was like a black beast eating away at his heart.
He was kept waiting for more than an hour, which did not improve his mood. He sat in an anteroom, imagining what he would do to Constance when he found her, until he was eventually summoned.
Major General Corbeil sat behind a broad desk, beneath a life-size portrait of King Louis XV. There was no chair for Mauvières: he had to stand.
“You have forgotten to salute,” Corbeil observed.
Mauvières flushed. “I expected an interview with the secretary of state for war.”
“He is indisposed.”
Corbeil looked through his papers, ignoring Mauvières. The colonel’s patience frayed. Eventually he blurted out, “Why did you summon me?”
Corbeil pursed his lips in disapproval. “I have orders for you to go overseas.”
Mauvières did not try to hide his exasperation. The general might outrank him, but he was from a minor provincial family of no reputation. In breeding, fortune and reputation—everything that mattered—Mauvières was infinitely superior.
“I fear you are behind the times, monsieur,” he said condescendingly. “My regiment is already prepared to embark for Québec.”
Corbeil did not take offense at his tone. His thin mouth tightened into a smile. “Those were your old orders, monsieur. They have been superseded.”
Mauvières didn’t grasp his meaning. He took a step forward, looming over Corbeil. “The king himself wishes me to go to Canada.”
Corbeil looked at his papers, unwilling to meet the colonel’s eye. Good, thought Mauvières. That would teach this bourgeois nobody to have ideas above his station.
When Corbeil looked up, there was neither fear nor humility in his bearing. His gray eyes were steel as he handed Mauvières a paper. “These are your new orders. The king signed them this morning.”
The blood drained from Mauvières’s face as he read the paper. His skin went gray. He stared at the heavy wax of the royal seal attached to the orders.
“What is this?” he stammered.
“What it says. You have been posted to the West Indies.”
Mauvières stared at him in horror. The West Indies were tantamount to a death sentence: fever islands where a man might be lucky to live six months. “But . . . why?”
“The king has need of your talents in the territory. There are runaway slaves who need to be caught, and smugglers to be brought to justice. And I hear the climate is delightful.”
“There has been some mistake. I must speak to the king in person.”
“I fear there is no time. You must ride for Brest tonight. Your ship sails on Friday.”
Corbeil stood to indicate the interview had ended. Mauvières did not move. Only when Corbeil rang a bell, and an aide appeared, did the colonel consent to be led out.
“Bon chance,” Corbeil called after him. “And adieu. I do not think we will see each other again.”
Mauvières returned to his château in a fury. Confusion and horror swirled in his mind, but one thought trumped them all. He would kill the bitch. He did not know how or why, but he was certain she was behind this calamity. She was duplicitous. He would make her pay. He would do such things to her that exile in the fever islands would seem tame by comparison.
He threw open the front door. The servants, familiar with his moods, scattered. Mauvières went up the stairs to Co
nstance’s bedroom, kicking open the door.
The room was empty. All her possessions had gone.
It was as if she had never been there.
Lieutenant Trent did not speak as he led Theo up the trail. The shock of finding a white man so indistinguishable from the natives had silenced him. He moved quickly—almost as fast as an Abenaki.
They had not gone far when Theo heard footsteps running behind them. The lieutenant drew his pistol, but Theo put his hand across the barrel. He could tell the difference between the hoofbeats of a doe and a buck so he was quite sure he could recognize these footprints.
It was Moses. The wound in his leg was healing well, but he still walked with a limp.
“Did I leave something behind?” Theo asked.
The Abenaki looked determined and pointed to himself. “I will come with you.”
Theo shook his head. “You should stay with the tribe.”
“No.”
“If you come with me, you may have to fight against your brothers.”
“If I stay, I will have to fight against you.” His face grew serious. “Please, Siumo. I owe you a debt for Mgeso and your child. I should have stopped Malsum taking her. If I do not pay it, the ancestors will be angry with me.”
“You did all you could,” Theo assured him.
“Soon the tribe will go to war alongside the Blaumonak—the French. Bichot will be there.” He spat on the ground. “I will not fight alongside such a man.”
Theo could have argued longer, but he knew it would be futile. Moses would not relent. And Theo was glad. Once again, he was leaving behind a life that had been everything to him. This time, at least, he had a friend.
“I am honored to have you with me.”
Lieutenant Trent raised his voice. Theo and Moses had been speaking in Abenaki, and he had not understood a word. “What does the Indian want?”
“He is coming with us,” Theo told him.
“I had no orders to bring an Indian.”
“When we reach your camp, they will think you brought two.”
•••
It did not take long to reach the rangers’ camp. Theo was surprised that they had dared come so far onto Abenaki land. But everything about these soldiers seemed different from the band of raw recruits he had joined in Bethel. The men—even the youngest of them—had the seasoned look of soldiers who knew their business. Instead of red coats, their uniform was a brown shirt dyed to the color of dried leaves, with a short green hunter’s coat and tanned buckskin breeches. They were well armed.
A tall man in a dark green greatcoat strode to meet the new arrivals. He had a green cockade in his tricorn hat, and a handkerchief tied loosely around his neck. Theo noted the way his men looked at him. Though he wore no badge of rank, it was obvious he was their captain.
He studied Theo and Moses, and turned to the lieutenant who’d brought them. “I told you to fetch me an Englishman.” He spoke with a laconic drawl, confident and easy.
Theo answered before the lieutenant could do so. “He did. My name is Theo Courtney.”
“Where are you from?”
A line from Theo’s favorite author came into his head. “Fate jumbled me together, God knows how; Whate’er I was, I’m true-born English now.”
The captain studied him. “An Englishman who dresses like an Abenaki and can quote Daniel Defoe, no less. What a curiosity you have turned up, Lieutenant.” He looked at Moses. “Does this one recite Chaucer?”
“He is an Abenaki,” said Theo. “He is my brother.”
The captain accepted it without comment. “No doubt it makes quite a tale.”
“How did you know to come and look for me?” Theo asked.
“We captured a French trapper.”
Theo stiffened. “Bichot?”
The captain gave him another keen look. “I guess by your tone you have met that gentleman. No—not Bichot. It would take the devil’s own luck to capture that monster. But we caught one of his gang. While we were interrogating him, he let slip that there was an Englishman living with the Abenaki. I sent Trent to investigate, in case it was one of our own. It has happened before that we lost men we thought dead, only to find years later that the Indians had adopted them.”
“I am glad you found me.”
“Where were you bound when the Indians captured you?” said the captain.
“To Albany. I had just enlisted.”
“Then we will have to delay your arrival a little longer. We have an appointment with the French near Fort Royal, and we are already late.”
He turned away. “Wait,” Theo called. “May I at least know who has rescued me?”
“Captain William Gilyard.” He touched his hat with an ironic bow. “My men are His Majesty’s First Independent Company of Rangers.”
“What is a ranger? Are you the regular army?”
“Indeed not. We are decidedly irregular. The ghosts of the forest. Men who have grown up in this country and learned how to fight here. We travel far into enemy territory and hit them where they least expect it.”
While he’d been speaking, his men had been striking their camp. By now, there was barely a trace they had ever been there. There were no pack animals or wagons: they carried their supplies in haversacks on their backs.
Gilyard looked Theo up and down. “I trust you will not slow us.”
“I believe I will be able to keep up.”
The rangers marched in single file, with Theo and Moses close to the front. Gilyard interrogated Theo about what he had learned from the Abenaki. He was particularly interested to learn what Theo knew of Bichot.
“He set an ambush that killed seven of my rangers in April,” he muttered. “What I would give for the chance to pay him back. How long since he left you?”
“Two days,” said Theo. The hours since Mgeso’s death had been a dark blur of grief. “Bichot also stole from me someone I loved deeply. If the time comes for you to take your revenge, I would gladly be at your side.”
Gilyard gave him a sober look. “I admire your spirit, Mr. Courtney, but General Abercromby will want to be sure of your allegiance before he lets you take up arms for England.”
Theo knew Gilyard meant no malice, but it caused a stab of pain in his heart. He had spent a year as a foreigner among the Abenaki. Now he was a foreigner to his own people.
They left Abenaki land and entered unfamiliar terrain. All the time, they had been climbing higher into the mountains—where the Indians did not go for fear of the evil spirits that lived there. It was weary work even for rangers. They often had to cut their own trails, and the steep slopes sapped the strength from their legs. Every time Theo thought he saw the top, it turned out to be a false summit that brought yet more climbing.
But on the third day they came out on a rocky crag to see the far side of the mountain. It sloped away beneath them, in the shadow of a long spur that ran west toward a blue lake gleaming in the distance.
“That is our destination,” said Gilyard.
Theo squinted. The trees ran up against the lake shore, but on one promontory the forest had been cleared. A fort stood, a splayed star, like some primeval pattern in the earth. Its walls were stone, topped with timber parapets of heavy oak. The main redoubt was an octagonal tower, three stories high, dominating the lake. A web of trenches, bastions and ravelins surrounded the walls with an almost impossible ring of defenses.
Gilyard swept his hand across the scene. “You are looking at the axis of the whole war, and that lake is the center point. From its southern end, a short march will bring you to the Hudson River, which flows all the way to New York. To the north, the St. Francis River leads to the French strongholds of Montréal and Québec. Control the lake, and you control the rivers. Control the rivers, and you control the continent.”
Theo surveyed the scene. To the north, a ship was tacking its way up the lake. It reminded him of the East India ships beating up the Hooghly, seen from the guard towers of Calcutta. Another c
ontinent and another battlefield in the endless war between Britain and France.
“That fort—Fort Royal—is the key to the campaign. If we can pick the lock, it will open the door to an invasion of Canada,” said Gilyard.
“It looks a stout lock,” said Theo.
“That is why General Abercromby has asked us to reconnoiter it.”
It took another day and a half to descend from the mountains. Their progress slowed as they neared the lake, spreading out among the trees for fear of encountering the French or their allies. For the first time, Theo saw the forest through European eyes: unmapped and unknowable.
Yet Gilyard could read it as well as an Indian. On the second afternoon, Theo saw a light sparkling through the trees. He hurried through the undergrowth and came out on the shore of the wide lake he had seen from the mountain. The sun burnished the placid water, which stretched for miles in every direction.
But that was not the most extraordinary thing. In front of him, within musket range, was a ship under sail. This was no canoe or bateau, but a square-rigged sloop fit for an ocean voyage. She sat low in the water, with cannon poking from the ports in her side. The white flag of France snapped from her masthead.
Theo ducked behind some reeds and watched her stately progress. Moses crouched beside him.
“That is a mighty canoe,” the Abenaki marveled. “Who are the men who can build such things?”
“It is not so very big,” said Theo. “I have sailed on ships that would dwarf that vessel, and over oceans that make this lake look like a drop in a bucket.”
He saw the incredulous look his friend was giving him. “It is true.”
Moses laughed. “How can you expect me to believe such tales. Siumo, when you mock me if I talk of the spirits who speak to us every day?”
Theo didn’t argue. He watched the sloop glide past, around the point toward the fort. “She is heavy laden,” Theo mused. “She must be bringing supplies to the fort.”
Later that afternoon they came to a small cove where the sloop lay at anchor. A landing stage had been built out into the lake, protected by a wooden guardhouse. A rough track led through the forest toward the fortress, whose flagstaff was visible above the trees.
