Ghost Fire

by Wilbur Smith

  He saw a yellow flash as one of the cannons fired again. At that distance, it took several seconds for the sound to reach him. The British soldiers in the woods heard it and looked up in terror. It would take a few moments longer for the ball to complete its long arc: moments when the men in its path could pray, or soil themselves. They were powerless.

  Corbeil closed his fists around the parapet. He waited for the thud of the impact, and the screams.

  But when the sounds came, they were much closer than he expected. Below him, on the fort’s outer bastion, two of his gunners lay dead. The cannon they serviced had been blown off its trucks, pinning a third man beneath its two-and-a-half-ton weight. He was bellowing in pain.

  Corbeil stared in fury. How could it have happened? The guns on the heights had been ranged and aimed meticulously. Why would one have misfired now?

  More muzzles flashed from the clifftop. Now it was Corbeil who endured the excruciating delay, every second weighing like a death sentence. Surely these shots would be back on target and smash the British.

  The balls struck the fort’s rampart with hammer blows, four in quick succession. Men were torn apart, cannons upended and great gouges were blasted out of the stone.

  Constance turned to him, her eyes alight. “It is the British. They have taken the heights. They have turned your own guns on you.”

  Corbeil felt as if one of the cannons had been fired through his guts. With a cry of fury, he slapped Constance across her face. He grabbed her wrist. “I am not finished yet,” he hissed.

  •••

  Theo stood on the heights and surveyed the battlefield. Huge holes had been blasted out of the walls of the fort, while men and cannons lay scattered.

  By the parapet, Theo’s men serviced the artillery, loading and firing with lethal efficiency. They were not gunners, but they had trained for this battle all week, and they were in a brutal humor after losing so many of their friends on the cliff.

  Behind them, several rangers kept watch on the miserable huddle of prisoners they had taken. Many of the captives must have been regretting not fighting with more spirit. Even when Theo gained the summit, the French could have held it. They had more soldiers and the rangers were exhausted. But the defenders had been so shocked to see the British mounting the impassable cliff that they had surrendered before they could ascertain how few there were.

  The guns roared again. Each time they fired, Theo worried about Constance under the bombardment. He had ordered his men to aim for the outer defenses. But the rangers were novices with artillery and could not guarantee accuracy at that range. Theo had seen more than one ball strike the octagonal tower.

  On the battlefield, red-coated soldiers were swarming out of the forest toward the walls. This time, they had nothing to fear from the French guns above them.

  Theo gestured to one of his lieutenants. “Has Moses returned?”

  He had sent the Abenaki along the ridge to scout the French rear. He did not want to fall victim to a last-minute counter-attack. They had the upper hand, but the battle was not yet won. Corbeil was ruthless and as cunning as a snake. He might yet make one last roll of the dice.

  And what if he sought revenge on Constance?

  •••

  Corbeil had planned for victory. But he had also made certain contingencies for defeat. Now that was his only consolation. However furiously his troops fought, they could only prolong the inevitable. Eventually, they would be pushed back. The British would take the fort.

  But they would not live to enjoy it.

  He led Constance inside and down the steps. He passed an aide hurrying in the other direction and grabbed his arm.

  “Find Captain Bichot. Tell him to meet me in the powder magazine. Then give my compliments to the garrison commander and tell him he is to fight to the last man. There will be no surrender to these British sons-of-whores.”

  The aide looked anxious. “No surrender?”

  “It is not the French way.”

  He saluted sharply. “Oui, mon général.”

  Dragging Constance behind him, Corbeil continued down the steps. They hurried past his living quarters, his office, and the mess on the ground floor, which had been turned into a makeshift hospital. He opened another door, where the staircase continued into darkness.

  “You first, my dear.” He pushed Constance so hard she almost fell and broke her neck. She stumbled down the twisting stair and emerged in a low, brick-vaulted chamber. Dim light seeped in through grilles in the ceiling. Constance supposed they were in the foundations of the tower, but the space seemed to stretch the whole width of the fort.

  “Where are we?”

  “The vaults,” Corbeil said. He had to admire the men who had built this fort. They had brought supplies where there were no roads and found stone where there were no quarries. They had created a military masterpiece, right down to its foundations. They had dug through the mud and chiseled the rock to create a huge space beneath the fort, big enough to store provisions for a year-long siege.

  Dust shook from the ceiling as more cannonballs struck the walls above. As Constance’s eyes adapted to the gloom, she saw that almost the whole space was piled high with small barrels.

  A man came out of the shadows with a match glowing in his hand. He trailed a rope behind him, like a serpent’s tail.

  He didn’t salute. “Everything is prepared as you ordered.”

  Constance recognized him. It was Bichot, the fur trapper who served the French Army. He held the rank of captain, though he never wore a uniform. The only men Constance had seen him command looked like condemned murderers. He should have died many times—that winter it had been rumored he had drowned chasing rangers across breaking ice—but each time he had returned from the dead. Many of the men believed he was indestructible. Some, especially the Indians, whispered it was because he was a fiend returned from Hell. Constance could believe it.

  Corbeil studied the stacked barrels. “Is it enough?”

  Bichot smiled, showing yellow teeth. “There is enough gunpowder here to level a mountain.”

  Constance turned on Corbeil in horror. “You are going to blow up the fort? With all your men in it?”

  “Not all my men,” Corbeil corrected. “You and I and Captain Bichot will be well away when the powder goes up.”

  “To coincide with the English moment of triumph,” said Bichot. His eyes widened, savoring the thought.

  Theo might be among them, Constance realized. If Corbeil destroyed the British army in the explosion, he might be able to claim the battle as a victory, a tactical masterstroke. He would win.

  She would not go back to Paris as his prize, to be paraded at Versailles, then locked away in a convent. She would rather die.

  Bichot knelt beside the rope he had dragged out and touched the flame to the end. The cord sputtered and began to glow. It was a fuse, snaking its way to the heart of the pile of gunpowder barrels.

  How long would it take to burn?

  Footsteps hurried down the stairs. A young lieutenant appeared, the aide they had seen earlier. “All your orders are delivered, monsieur.” He looked uncertainly at the barrels, and the burning match on the floor. “Is that—?”

  “It does not concern you,” Corbeil snapped. He thought about killing the man—with the bombardment going on overhead, no one would hear—then reconsidered. He had not made good his escape yet. An extra man might be useful.

  He tossed the aide a ring of keys and pointed to a small door set in the outer wall. “Unlock that.” He turned to Constance and Bichot. “Come.”

  As they moved toward the door, Constance pretended to catch her foot on the floor. She stumbled forward and knocked into the aide in front of her in a most unladylike way. Instinctively, he caught her, taking her weight in his arms until she could regain her balance.

  “For Christ’s sake, do not delay us.” There was a hysterical edge in Corbeil’s voice. His gaze darted to the burning matchcord. “Do you want t
o see us all killed?”

  The lieutenant was more chivalrous. He steadied Constance onto her feet. “Are you all right, madame? I hope you did not—”

  The words trailed off as he saw the pistol in her hands. She had removed it from his belt when she collided with him. She raised it, cocked it and pointed it at General Corbeil before anyone could react.

  “You will surrender this fort,” she told him.

  Corbeil stared at her down his hooked nose. “Or what?”

  “I will shoot you.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Bichot edging around behind her. She stepped backward so she could keep a clear view of him and ground out the burning match-cord under her shoe.

  “You cannot shoot us all,” Corbeil pointed out. “Even if I die, my men will avenge me.”

  “Then I will die with a smile on my lips.” Constance knew there was not much time. The rattle of musketry echoing through the walls was growing closer and more sustained. The British must have reached the inner defenses. All she had to do was keep the pistol aimed at Corbeil. In a few minutes, the British would surely break through those doors. Corbeil would be defeated, a prisoner to be paraded by the victors. His humiliation would be complete.

  Corbeil’s thoughts had run the same course. He laughed—an uncomfortable sound that resonated among the vaults, like a dragon’s snarl.

  “This is a pretty impasse we have reached. You think you can beat me by pointing a gun at me?” He turned to Bichot. “Fire the magazine now.”

  Even Bichot gaped at the command. “But that is suicide.”

  “Do it,” Corbeil insisted. He met Constance’s gaze. “You underestimated me, my dear. I would happily die in the inferno—as long as you are beside me.”

  He was deadly serious. Constance saw it in his eyes. She had no alternative: he had called her bluff.

  Except she had not been bluffing. She pulled the trigger.

  In the dark vaults, the flash of the pistol almost blinded her. She saw Corbeil thrown backward before the smoke closed over her. Her eyes wept; her ears rang from the blast.

  Something heavy collided with her and knocked her to the floor. She struggled but it pinned her to the ground, crushing her with its weight.

  As the smoke cleared, she saw it was Bichot. He was far too strong for her. She stopped resisting as she saw Corbeil laid out flat on the floor a few feet away. Blood seeped through his shirt and pooled around him.

  The aide was still on his feet, looking on in bewildered shock.

  “What shall we do?” he asked uncertainly.

  “Prepare to fire the magazine, you idiot,” growled a voice. “And, for God’s sake, keep my wife under control.”

  Corbeil sat up, clutching his arm. Constance stared in horror as his eyes narrowed in rage. “I am surprised at you,” he said. “I have never known you to miss a man’s heart before.” He held his bleeding arm and grimaced.

  “Shall we leave her here?” asked the aide.

  “Of course not.” Corbeil sounded outraged at the suggestion. “She is my wife. I will not let her off so easily.”

  He stood. “Tie her hands and bring her with us.”

  While the lieutenant bound Constance’s wrists, Bichot struck a light and touched it to the match-cord again. It caught quickly this time, the flame eating its way eagerly toward the nearest cask. Corbeil unlocked the door. A dark tunnel stretched out beyond.

  Constance was disoriented, but she guessed it must lead under the walls and out into the forest. She should have known Corbeil would have an escape plan. She cursed herself for not killing him with her shot. Her last chance—and she had failed.

  Shouts came through the open door above. The British must have gained the walls. Corbeil hurried into the tunnel, the lieutenant dragging Constance after him. Bichot followed behind, his knife pricking at the small of her back.

  In the vaults, the match burned down.

  •••

  Flame flashed from the cannon’s mouth and was swallowed in a great cloud of smoke. The gun rocked back with the recoil. Theo smiled.

  Down below, the fort was a wreck. The captured guns had made short work of it. The walls had been smashed open, and the defenders driven from their positions. A sea of redcoats surged around it. Through his spyglass, Theo could see scaling ladders being raised to the ramparts.

  “Cease fire,” he ordered, “or we will hit our own men. The infantry can take it from here.”

  The rangers around the guns cheered. Their faces were black with powder marks, their clothes scorched and torn. They were covered with cuts and bruises. Later, they would have to go back down the cliffs to collect their dead and wounded. But for now they could enjoy their victory.

  The French were still defending desperately. Smoke from their muskets filled the courtyard, obscuring the ebb and flow of battle.

  “Why don’t they surrender?” Theo fretted. Constance must be in danger. He ought to be down there now: if the victorious redcoats found a woman in the fort . . .

  “I have news, Siumo.” Moses had returned, slipping out from the trees unnoticed. His face was grave. “The French have men in the forest below. I think they are making for the pass.”

  “How many?”

  “Five hundred? More?”

  “But that is a whole battalion.” Theo tried to process this new intelligence. “It must be Corbeil’s reserve. Do you think they are coming to retake the guns?”

  “They would be too late. Now the battle is lost, they are retreating.”

  “Where can they go?”

  “Other paths lead on from that pass. If they get over the mountain, there is a road that would take them all the way back to Québec.”

  Theo’s thoughts raced. “We have an army under General Wolfe approaching Québec. If that battalion gets through, they will cut off Wolfe’s supply lines. It would turn victory in this battle to defeat in the war.”

  “Then we must—”

  If Moses finished his sentence, or if he was simply lost for words, Theo never knew. Whatever he meant to say was obliterated by the noise that roared over them. Theo had never conceived of a sound so vast, like a hundred thunderclaps rolled together and fired out of the biggest cannon imaginable. It shook the mountain itself. Moments later, a hot wind swept across the heights. Trees rocked and swayed as if in a hurricane; branches cracked and shook loose. A section of the cliff collapsed, sending three of the guns tumbling down the slope. The rangers around them leaped back in time.

  Down by the lake, a dirty-brown column of dust and smoke rose into the sky. It had engulfed the fort. At the edge of the forest, trees lay strewn and snapped, like trampled dry grass. If the blast had done that to solid wood, what would it have done to flesh and bone?

  Within a radius of almost a quarter of a mile, everything was still. Further out, men crawled in the earth like ants: the remnants of General Williams’s army.

  “They fired the magazine,” said Theo. His ears were ringing. He felt sick to his stomach, though he didn’t know if that was the force of the explosion, or the knowledge that Constance had been there.

  Dust rained down over the battlefield. Wind started to disperse the smoke. Theo rubbed his eyes.

  The fortress had disappeared. All that remained was a giant crater in the ground, surrounded by rubble, slowly filling with water as the lake seeped into it.

  “Did we do that?” asked one of the rangers. He was as hard a man as any, but at that moment he sounded like a frightened child.

  “The French.”

  “But they were still fighting.”

  Theo could not fathom it. It was hard to believe an explosion so sudden and instantaneous could have been an accident. But who would blow up a fort with thousands of their own men inside?

  “Corbeil,” he whispered. Only the general could have ordered it. Theo tried to imagine the hatred that would make a man sacrifice so many of his men, purely to spite his enemy.

  Would he have sacrificed himself w
ith them? Theo doubted it. The general would have had an escape plan. Maybe he had taken Constance. If nothing else, she would be a useful hostage. He grabbed Moses. “That battalion you saw. Where is it heading?”

  “If they are retreating north, there is only one place they can go. To the pass on the ridge.”

  “We must stop them.”

  •••

  Constance stumbled through the forest. The land was one long swamp, but there were paths that only Bichot knew. They were not obvious, but firm enough that a whole battalion of crack French troops could move at speed.

  It was an ordeal. Often, the track sank into stretches of mire. Water filled her shoes, and stinking mud caked her ankles. Flies the size of musket balls buzzed in clouds around her. With her hands bound, there was nothing she could do when they settled on her skin except shake herself. Soon she lost the will even to do that.

  Corbeil was glancing around anxiously.

  “We have not been followed,” Bichot drawled. He spoke casually, without any deference to rank. “If any of the British survived, they will be picking through the ruins of that fort for days before they realize we are gone.”

  “It is the men on the heights who worry me,” Corbeil answered. He stared up, though the cliff was so steep they could not see the summit. “They gained the heights when you said it was impossible. If they follow the ridge, they will be able to attack us at the pass.”

  “I sent our Indian allies to scout the way.” Bichot snapped a branch that had grown across the path and threw it into the swamp. “If there are any Englishmen waiting for us, the Abenaki will bring you their scalps.”

  They hurried on. Constance had never walked so far in her life. Her legs felt like straws, her feet had blistered in her wet shoes, her dress was torn by the briars and spiked plants that she had to push her way through.

  What would Bercheny think if she returned to him? Would he rescue her from Corbeil? Or would he calculate there was no gain in antagonizing his victorious general, and leave her to her fate?