by Wilbur Smith
The bundle that Theo had taken for knitting began to move. It uncurled itself, revealing two small hands and a tiny head, almost as bald as an Indian’s.
The baby was wrapped in a woolen shawl. Its nose twitched, its mouth opened and closed. It began to wail. Mrs. Jacobs handed it to Abigail, who cradled it to her breast until the crying stopped.
She held out the baby to Theo. “Take him.”
Confronting the nawab’s rampaging army at Calcutta was nothing compared to the terror Theo felt now. His hands had turned to blocks of wood. “Is it safe?”
Abigail’s eyes sparkled. “He is only a baby. He will not hurt you.”
“That is not what I meant,” Theo mumbled.
Abigail put the boy in his arms. Theo clutched him awkwardly. The child was so delicate, he feared that one twitch of his muscles might shatter him, like porcelain.
“You will not break him.” Abigail read his thoughts. “He is made of strong stuff. Like his father.”
The baby had found the crook of Theo’s arm and was nuzzling his face into it. He was soft and warm, and Theo found himself relaxing, his arms knowing instinctively what to do. He met Abigail’s gaze. “Is he—?”
“Yours—and mine. Together. He was born two months ago.”
She kissed him. “I thank God I have found you, Theo Courtney.”
The rage of conflicting emotions still burned in him as fiercely as ever. But holding the child—his son—he tried to forget it all. The baby’s brown eyes stared at him, a mirror of his own, and spoke to his heart. For the first time in many months, he could begin to feel at peace.
He kissed Abigail. “I thank God I have found you too.”
•••
The next day, they went to the Dutch church and were married. The priest officiated and Mrs. Jacobs was the witness. Caleb wore a gown that Mrs. Jacobs had knitted. He slept through the entire service, oblivious to the ceremony around him. A few days later Moses arrived in Albany and gave Caleb a bear-claw amulet.
Theo had married Abigail quickly to legitimize his son. There was another reason that he did not voice. If he died in battle, he wanted to leave Abigail with a widow’s pension.
They spent their wedding night at Mrs. Jacobs’s house, whispering and fumbling in the dark while Caleb slept in his cradle. When Theo laid his hand on Abigail’s bare skin, he flinched as if he’d been burned. He felt he was betraying Mgeso. But Abigail was patient. She lay beside him, soothing his nerves with soft touches. “I know what you have lost. We do not have to do this if you are not ready,” she murmured.
“No.” He was ashamed of himself. “You are my wife now.”
It was a long time since he had been with a woman but eventually his body relaxed. This time when he caressed her, he felt desire spark inside him. A sudden urgency overtook him, driving out all guilt and memory. He rolled on top of her, thrusting himself between her eager thighs. When they climaxed, together, he felt they were the only people who existed in the world.
Later, Theo was woken by screaming.
“Is something wrong with the baby?” he said, in a panic. Leading men into battle was one thing. Having responsibility for this tiny, fragile life terrified him.
Abigail gave him a strange look. “Caleb is fine. It was you who were crying out in your sleep.” The noise had woken the baby: Abigail brought him into bed and gave him a nipple to suck. “You sounded distressed.”
“It was a bad dream,” Theo said.
For a moment he thought he would tell her everything. But when he tried, the words stuck like stones in his throat. He hated himself for it. He should not be keeping secrets from his wife on the first day of their marriage.
But could he really tell his bride that he had been dreaming of another woman on their wedding night?
“I was thinking of the future,” he told her, half truthfully. “My company has been sent north against the French. I must leave at the end of this week.”
He saw the pain on Abigail’s face, though she tried to conceal it. “So soon?”
“They are my orders.”
That was also a lie. He had volunteered. He told himself he could not abandon Gilyard: he owed it to his men to fight. The truth was, he could not pass up the chance to kill Bichot and Malsum.
Theo looked at Abigail nursing the baby. I will not orphan you, he promised silently. I will not widow you.
The baby, contented, had fallen asleep again. Abigail carefully laid him back in his cradle. “Then let us enjoy the time we have.”
•••
From the moment Theo first met Abigail, he felt he’d known her forever: but there was still so much to learn about his new bride. She had a quick mind, a kind heart and a sense of humor that had thrived despite the flinty soil of her upbringing. Sometimes her laughter was so hearty it woke the baby.
The more he delighted in her company, the more his decision to go north weighed on him. On their last morning together, he sat in Mrs. Jacobs’s parlor, staring into the fire. He was carving a piece of antler with a knife, but he had not touched it for ten minutes.
“I wish I was not leaving you,” he said at last.
“So do I,” said Abigail. “Is there any way you can avoid it?”
Theo stared at the piece of bone in his hands, his thoughts traveling back across years and oceans. “My father always said only a fool seeks a battle. He saw what war did to his own family.”
He had never spoken of his father to Abigail before. She listened in silence—but in the cradle, the baby stirred. Theo lifted Caleb and held him against his chest, stroking the fine fair hair until the child settled. “Did I ever tell you my grandfather was the Sultan of Oman?”
Abigail laughed, thinking it was a joke. Her eyes widened as she saw he was serious.
“As a boy, my grandfather Dorian was adopted by the Prince of Muscat. Later, he won the Elephant Throne for himself. But when he went away, a usurper named Zayn took his place. Dorian killed him in Africa, but there were many men still loyal to Zayn—and my grandfather had sustained a grievous wound in battle with him.”
The baby had begun to grumble again. Theo put his knuckle in the boy’s mouth for him to suck, feeling the strength in the toothless gums.
“Dorian and my father returned to Oman to claim the throne, though their family tried to dissuade them. The wound was festering, but Dorian would not reveal it for fear of losing face with the desert sheikhs. They fought a terrible battle. In the thick of the fighting, Dorian fell from his horse and could not remount. The Arabs dragged him away and hacked him to pieces.
“Their army was defeated. My father left Oman and sailed for India. He never forgave his family for refusing to come to their aid, and I think he never forgave his own father for having chosen to give battle.” He stared at the fire. “When the French came to Madras, my father ran before them—and died anyway.”
Abigail leaned across the settle and stroked his face. “If fate was predictable, we would all know our futures. We can only do as we think best at the time.”
“I do not want to be like my father,” said Theo. “But the French have taken away too many of those I loved.”
A knock sounded from outside. Moses’s face appeared in the doorway. “It is time, Siumo.”
Theo stood. The baby started to cry again when Theo handed him to Abigail, the tiny red face screwed up in a picture of misery. Theo put on his heavy coat and wound the muffler around his neck. He felt like a condemned man stepping into the noose.
Moses saw the pain in his eyes. “Are you sure this is right?” he asked in Abenaki.
Snow swirled in the street outside. Standing on the threshold, Theo felt torn in two. Behind him were Abigail and Caleb, love and the warmth of home. Ahead, only ice and revenge. He considered going to Gilyard to resign his commission.
But he could not. Not while Malsum and Bichot were alive.
Abigail came forward and kissed him. Theo embraced her awkwardly, trying not to squash the baby in her arms. He want
ed never to let them go.
“I know you must do as you must,” she whispered. She was weeping. “But you are not your father. And, whatever the future holds, you know I will always love you.”
•••
Theo rendezvoused with his company by the lake. It was a week before Christmas, and snow lay thick on the ground.
“Did you enjoy your leave?” Gilyard asked. “Did any fine Albany ladies catch your eye?”
Theo nodded. “In fact, I got married.”
Even Gilyard looked astonished. “By God, you are a constant fount of surprises. My congratulations to Mrs. Courtney. I hope she knows what she has let herself in for.”
“And we have a son.”
Gilyard gaped. “I trust there is a story behind this miracle.”
“Indeed, sir. Also, I have this for you.” Theo felt in his pocket and pulled out a knife with an antler handle. Working his passage from India, he had learned the seaman’s art of scrimshaw. He had used all his skill on the weapon, decorating the hilt with intricate pictures of deer, canoes, muskets and tomahawks. He gave it to Gilyard. “It is for you,” Theo said. “A token of thanks for retrieving me from the Abenaki.”
Gilyard turned it over. On the reverse of the handle was carved, “To Major Gilyard from Theo Courtney, in gratitude.”
“This is not necessary.”
“If you had not brought me back, I would never have seen my wife again, and never have known my son. You gave me new hope in life.”
Gilyard slipped the knife into his belt. “Thank you. Maybe one day it will give me new hope in life, too.” He grinned. “Now, are you ready to march?”
They mustered the rangers. There were fifty men dressed in warm beaver hats jammed low over their ears, woolen mittens and fur-lined white smocks. They carried their supplies on sledges and wore metal skates fitted to their moccasins so they could travel swiftly across the ice.
Theo had never been on skates before. He fell over several times within the first ten yards, much to the amusement of his companions. He rubbed his elbow and glared at them. Even Moses seemed to be faring better.
But gradually he found his balance. Soon he grew used to the strange gait, swaying easily as he pushed himself forward. It was a joyful and liberating motion, as if being freed from some of the burden of gravity. Unlike the tramp of a march, the only sound was ice hissing under the metal blades, and the wind gusting around him. The effort warmed his blood, inducing such a sense of euphoria that for a time he forgot the dangers ahead, and the confused emotions of leaving Abigail.
The cold returned with a vengeance when they stopped on shore for the night. The sweat he had built up skating turned to ice against his skin. Their food had frozen solid, and Gilyard would not let them light fires for fear of giving themselves away. Theo had to hack off each morsel of meat, then suck it in his mouth until it thawed enough to chew. They had brought bearskins as blankets, but even wrapped in the thick fur Theo could not get warm enough to sleep. At dawn, they were off again.
The first day had been difficult; the second was agonizing. The wind howled down the lake, driving snow into their faces so hard that Theo could barely see where he was going. His cheeks and nose went numb. Even in their mittens, his fingers began to lose feeling. The sledge harness bit into his shoulders. He felt exhausted, sick and dizzy.
The short winter day ended early, but Gilyard did not call a halt. The moon appeared, reflecting on the snow so that the world became bright and eerie.
Suddenly, flames broke the night on an icebound island where the lake narrowed. The rangers threw themselves onto the ice in an instant. Theo thought he saw dim figures moving around a fire among the trees. He held his breath. It could be Indians, or the French, or even a party of fur traders. It might be they were warming themselves in the bitter night—or it might be a signal.
No answering fires showed from the shore. No one ventured out from the island. How long would they wait? Lying against the ice, Theo felt the cold creeping into his bones. Much longer, and he might never get up.
“What shall we do?” he whispered.
“We cannot risk going past that island,” Gilyard decided. “The lake is too narrow—we would pass too close. We will have to make for land.”
They hauled their sledges back to shore and passed a restless night, keeping a wary eye on the island. Had they been seen? The fire burned lower, a dull orange glow among the dark trees, then went out. Theo started to wonder if they had imagined it.
Next morning, Gilyard sent out scouts. They were gone most of the day and returned with disquieting news. The forest was crawling with the French. They had found fresh tracks in the snow everywhere they went, criss-crossing the forest like a net. Once, they had nearly blundered into an enemy patrol.
“And even if we could slip past them, we would have them at our backs, cutting off our retreat,” said Lieutenant Trent. “There is no way we can reach the fort.”
Gilyard sucked his teeth. “I’ve never known these woods so full of Frenchmen in winter. Usually they remain safe and warm close to the fort.” He reached into his pouch and withdrew a roughly sketched map, staring at it like an astronomer scanning the skies. “There must be another way.”
Moses leaned in. He squinted at the paper as he tried to reconcile the bare lines with the vivid pictures he held in his mind. He tapped a heavy, jagged line drawn across the center of the map.
“That is a spur of the mountains that comes down from the north-east,” said Gilyard. “It runs all the way back to the lake. But there is no way over it.”
Moses shook his head. “There is a pass.”
Trent eyed him skeptically. “I have never heard of it.”
Gilyard ignored him. “If we could gain the top of the ridge, we could follow it to Fort Royal. We could look down into the fort and see what the commandant was having for breakfast. And that far west, there won’t be any patrols.”
“Because they know there’s no way through,” Trent persisted.
Gilyard turned to Theo. “What do you think, Lieutenant Courtney?”
Theo was torn. Part of him wanted to side with Trent, to give up the expedition and return to Abigail and Caleb. But he looked at the map, at the fort and the forest and the mountains around it. Malsum and Bichot were somewhere in that wilderness.
“I trust Moses,” he said.
Gilyard cracked a smile. “There can be no harm in taking a look.”
They hid their sledges under snow and brush on the lake shore, taking only what they could carry on their backs. In the thick snow, extra weight would slow them down, even with the snowshoes they tied on to their moccassins. They set out on foot.
The further they traveled, the more Theo doubted the wisdom of the expedition. He had begun to lose feeling in his face. If it came to a battle, he was not sure his frozen hands would be able to take the wrapping off his rifle, let alone pull the trigger. He tried to distract himself with thoughts of revenge, but often he found his mind drifting back to Albany and Abigail, of the life they could build together.
The next day they came up against the mountain range. The long, high ridge soared across the landscape, barricading them in. All morning, they skirted along its foot. The cliffs above were high and forbidding, so steep even the snow did not settle on them. Clouds lowered. The air felt warmer than it had in weeks.
“The frost giants are retreating,” Moses worried. “A thaw is coming. We should get back to our sledges before the lake ice melts.”
“We must press on,” Theo insisted. Every time he glanced up at the mountain, he felt a dread in his stomach he could not explain. Yet he could not look away. The icy heights exerted a strange pull on him. Somewhere up there, he felt certain, he would find Malsum and Bichot.
Perhaps it was nervous exhaustion. All the men were on edge. The cliffs echoed with the sound of melting ice falling and shattering. Unable any longer to bear the weight of wet snow, tree branches snapped, each one like a musket shot tha
t kept the rangers anxiously peering into the forest shadows. What if the French had patrols this far north? What if they had found the rangers’ tracks?
Tempers frayed. The cliffs seemed as high and impassable as ever. Theo no longer looked up in hopes of finding the pass. He walked with his head bowed, staring wearily at the ground. “What is that?” he said suddenly.
If it wasn’t for the thaw, he would never have seen it. Earlier, and the snow would have smoothed it over. Later, and the ground would have softened to a mire. The rangers’ boots had tramped the snow to slush, while the ground below remained solid. Captured in the frozen soil, Theo saw the unmistakable gouge of a wheel rut.
He summoned Moses and Gilyard. “It must have been a heavy load,” said Gilyard. “See how deep it sank into the earth.”
“Who could have brought a cart this far into the wilderness?” Theo wondered. “There is no road, and nowhere to go.”
“There is a path.” Moses pointed back. It took Theo a good while to see what he meant among the thick foliage. There was a gap between the trees, so narrow it might have been a buffalo trail. The rangers had walked several hundred yards along it and not realized it was there.
“Where does it go?”
Probing the snow with sticks, they followed the track the wheel ruts had made. The marks hugged the base of the mountain, then swung inward toward a sheer cliff.
“Did they fly away?” Theo wondered.
Moses disappeared.
He seemed to have vanished into the rock. Theo stared at the place where he had been, his fatigued mind struggling to make sense of it. He was still staring when Moses’s head reappeared. “Come.” He beckoned.
Theo followed him. Although the cliff looked like a solid wall, it was an illusion. A rocky spur made a narrow ravine leading up and into the mountain. Until they were inside it, the entrance was invisible.
“It seems these mountains were not as impassable as we thought,” said Gilyard.
“And we are not the first people to find it.” Moses pointed to a clear patch of ground. A campfire had melted the snow, leaving a blackened circle of ash and cinder on the bare earth. It must have been recent. No snow had fallen to cover the ashes. Gilyard swore. “Everywhere we go, the French have been there first.”
