Shadowbrook (54 page)

Walton had seen the packet of papers wrapped in oilskin as soon as he parted the general’s coat. He had made the man’s salvation his first concern, but it was too late—or maybe too early—to save him from hellfire. His second duty was to
aid the French forces in whatever way he could and help bring Holy Church and the authentic Gospel of Jesus Christ to this New World, and perhaps to speed the day when the heretical and schismatic king of England would be forced from the throne, and Xavier Walton’s beloved country returned to the rule of those who avowed the True Faith. He reached for the documents and slipped them inside his own jacket.

“Dr. Walton!” Washington had found a fresh horse and dashed for the place where the general lay. He looked at the fallen man. “Is he dead?”

“Not yet, but dying.”

“We must move him.” Washington summoned two men and charged them with carrying Edward Braddock from the field. There was an instant when Braddock opened his eyes and frantically tried to signal that Walton was a traitor who must be immediately arrested or killed. “Don’t agitate yourself, sir,” Washington murmured. “Save your strength. We’ll get you clear of all this.” Braddock tried to reply, but produced only burbles through his bloodstained lips.

The job of command, Washington realized, had fallen to him. The place had become a killing field. “Buglers! Sound the retreat!”

Retreat wasn’t difficult. The Indians had no interest in pursuing Washington and his soldiers. Instead the braves flooded the field and began looting and scalping corpses and wounded alike. Any heart they found still beating they cut out and ate. Their cries of triumph could be heard everywhere.

Deep in the forest Quent heard them as he systematically cut the bonds of one captive after another, the women first, then the men. He knew that he had only as long as the war cries persisted to finish the task. “Go,” he whispered to each freed captive. “South’s that way.” Some would be recaptured, some killed, but it was the best he could do in this day of hellish misery and stupidity and death.

He’d told the others to go south because that was the quickest way to get out of the range of the French enemy and their
Anishinabeg
allies. For himself Quent had other concerns. As soon as he’d cut the bonds of the last captive, he headed north.

MONDAY, AUGUST 16, 1755
THE COLLÈGE DES JÉSUITES, QUÉBEC

“Excellent, Xavier! Truly excellent! I had no idea that sending you into the enemy camp would have such remarkable results.” Louis Roget did not look up when he spoke. His glance was fixed on the French translation of the papers Walton had taken from General Braddock the month before. The quality of the information was staggering.
Merci, mon Dieu.
I will be worthy.

Roget stopped running his finger down the page and jabbed repeatedly at one sentence. “This bit here about the four-pronged advance, how does it compare with the original?” The Jesuit superior spoke a bit of English, but the written language was particularly difficult and he did not trust himself to correctly interpret every nuance. He had looked at the papers when Xavier first arrived, and listened to the priest’s explanation, then demanded the material be translated into French. The task had taken his spy priest an entire day and most of the night as well. Xavier’s eyes were rheumy with fatigue. “You did as I suggested?”

“I did exactly as you suggested, Monsieur le Provincial. I strengthened the words used to describe the proposed attack on Fort St. Frédéric.”

The baron de Dieskau was in Montréal preparing to lead a combined force of four thousand French regulars and their Indian allies to Fort Niagara. Roget knew this because collecting such bits of information was his life’s work, not because Vaudreuil and Dieskau had consulted him. They were under the impression that they could organize things in New France without taking into account the opinion of the Provincial of the Society of Jesus. “Come, Xavier, I hear something in your tone. You do not believe it was wise? I insist that you speak freely.”

“I entirely agree that these new men must be fully alerted to the threat, Monsieur le Provincial.” Xavier had made a great point of saying that the attack on Fort St. Frédéric was to be led by General William Johnson, and that he had thousands of Mohawk savages under his command. He reached for the bright red bandanna and swabbed at his forehead.

“An interesting choice of pocket cloth, my son.”

Xavier glanced at the thing in his hand. “I apologize, Monsieur le Provincial. I did not realize. A woman … in the English camp … she …”

“Stop sputtering, Xavier. I understand.” Walton still wore the coat and breeches of his Virginia adventure. “You will change back to your soutane now that you are at home. And the red pocket cloth will be retired. Now, about this … interpretation. You were saying—”

How could he explain what the Indians had done at the Monongahela? Xavier couldn’t close his eyes without seeing them cutting the hearts out of men yet alive, and stuffing the still-beating organs into their mouths. Every night he heard the cries of the painted warriors and saw their arms and their chests running red with the blood of their victims. Almost a month now and he could rid himself of neither the horror nor the perplexity.
This day you shall be with Me in Paradise.
But the day had passed him by.

“What is it, Xavier? Something is bothering you, I can tell. Speak up, man. That’s a direct command.”

He was vowed to obey his superiors in all things that were not sin. “I cannot understand why God did not grant me martyrdom, Monsieur le Provincial. It
was so dose. If you could have seen what I saw … Men and women alike, slaughtered, hacked apart while they were alive, their hearts consumed raw—”

“Yes, I know. And you weep that your own heart still beats in your chest, not in the belly of some brave.”

“Only because I have been given this desire for martyrdom. It has been with me since I was a boy. Such a thing must come from God.”

“God demands that you do your duty like a good Jesuit, Xavier. The savages may indeed have carried things to extremes. They frequently do. But have you forgotten that they were fighting on the side of the king? Of New France?”

“Non, Monsieur le Provincial, bien sûr! Vous avez raaison, mais—”

“
Mais rien!
How could you be a martyr for the Holy Faith if you died on the wrong side of the field of battle?”

The blood drained from Walton’s face, leaving him as white as his shirtfront. “I never thought—”

“No, of course. But in such matters you need not think. I am the voice of God for you. Not myself,” Louis Roget added quickly, “my office.”

“I do not for an instant doubt that, Monsieur le Provincial.”

“Then obey. I order you to stop mourning the martyrdom that passed you by. Give thanks that you have been allowed to serve the Church and His Majesty and our Holy Order so well.” Roget tapped the translations. “These are magnificent, truly magnificent, Xavier.”

The news of the great French victory that had preserved Fort Duquesne set church bells ringing in all Québec, From the mighty bells of the cathedral and those of the Collège des Jésuites to the bells of the Convent of the Ursulines at the Hôtel-Dieu and the single bell of the tiny Monastery of the Poor Clares.

Every bell had a name, and those who knew them could identify each one by its distinctive sound. The one belonging to the Poor Clares was called Maria. Its voice was sweet and true and clear. Nicole had learned only lately to ring the Maria bell. Soeur Joseph had been teaching her.
Slowly, ma petite Soeur, with the rhythm of your heart. It is like singing, no? When you ring the bell you make the music of the angels. Ringing the bell is an act of prayer.

She could not follow the rhythm of her heart this day. It was thudding painfully in her chest. And she could not stop her tears. She had been crying when Mère Marie Rose found her, peeling potatoes for dinner, and sent her up to the bell tower. “Soeur Joseph cannot go. We need her in the choir for the
Te Deum.
I know you weep for joy, dear child, but you must dry your eyes and go and ring the bell.”

How could she ever explain to the abbess, to any of her sisters? Not one of them had ever seen a battlefield. They did not know what she knew, what she had
seen. So much blood,
mon Dieu,
so much pain. And the terrible screams of those who died in agony. She clasped the bell rope firmly with both hands and pulled slowly and surely, taking the movement as far as it would go, bending her knees to accommodate it as Soeur Marie Joseph had taught her, then rising, allowing the tension to ebb.
You do not let the bell go,
ma petite.
You guide the release as you guided the capture, slowly, with your body and with your heart.
”

Her heart knew no release. It was with her beloved. I do not know if he was there,
mon Dieu,
in that terrible place of death. But I beg You to keep him safe. My life for his, my good God. I have given up my life with him and come here to offer You my small penances. Keep him safe. The top of the release came and the Maria bell of the Poor Clares of Québec added its voice to the general peals of joy.

In the choir the nuns heard their bell and Soeur Joseph intoned the opening notes of the Church’s great hymn of joy:
Te Deum laudamus
…

The triumphal ringing of the bells had ended by the time the Provincial Superior of the black robes sat across from Vaudreuil, the newly installed governor-general of New France. “I am honored that you come to me, Monsieur le Provincial.” Vaudreuil had lived eighty years, most spent in Canada, but many in France. He knew how things were arranged, and how they were meant to be arranged. The governor-general had already paid his obligatory call on the Jesuit residence. The hounds of hell could not have dragged him back a second time. Once was a courtesy, twice was submission.

Roget knew as well as his opponent when to sacrifice a minor piece in order to gain one that was still more vital. “It was important only that you have these papers as soon as possible. Protocol is of no matter in times like these.”

“I agree, of course.” Vaudreuil didn’t want to appear too eager, much less too impressed, but he couldn’t keep his glance from dropping to the French translations at least once every third word. “You are sure these things are accurate? A clever forgery could—”

“That is why I brought them myself, Monsieur le Gouverneur-Général. So that I could assure you that they were taken from the person of General Braddock by the man I sent for exactly that purpose.”

“Braddock is dead over a month now.” The dispatches describing the great victory at the Monongahela had been sent to every corner of the Empire. Vaudreuil had received his copy that morning, hence the great celebration throughout the city. “It is said the English buried him somewhere along the road.”

“So I have heard.” Roget piously signed himself with the cross. “May God have mercy on his soul. But before he died a member of the Society attended him and—”

“Braddock was a Catholic?”

“
Mais non, Monsieur le Gouverneur-Général.
As far as I know God did not grant the general the grace of conversion. Nonetheless, a member of the Society was with him when he was wounded. And this man took these papers from General Braddock with his own consecrated hands.”

Jésus!
Everyone said these black robes were formidable spies as well as meddlers, but to have one of their own inside the English camp! “On the field of battle, Monsieur le Gouverneur-Général. While the English general lay bleeding from his wounds.” Roget pronounced each word slowly, but without a hint of pride. “Of course I tell you all this only for your own information. So that you may be sure the documents are to be trusted.”

“And the originals, Monsieur le Provincial? It was indeed kind of you to have the translations made for me, but—”

“The Jesuit who made them is an Englishman born and bred, Monsieur. And he has spoken French for the past twenty years. There can be no doubt of either his loyalty to our Holy Faith, and thus our king and our cause, or his understanding of both French and English. Is there a better translator in all Québec? Do you have someone here at your château who is more fluent in both languages?”