Shadowbrook (82 page)

“Good day to you,
mon Général.
”

“Who are you?”

“I am called Père Antoine.”

“Ah yes, the Franciscan. I thought—” Montcalm stopped speaking.
I present you this on behalf of Père Antoine Rubin de Montaigne, the Delegate to New France of the Minister General of the Order of Friars Minor. Père Antoine begs to inform His Excellency that what is contained herein is of the utmost importance to the defense of New France.
“Not just any Franciscan, are you? You are the Delegate of the Minister General. Is that not correct,
mon Père?
”

“
Oui, mon Général.
I am unworthy, but I have that honor.”

The door to the carriage was open. The footmen were waiting. “Come,” Montcalm said. “Ride with me to Beauport. We will talk on the way.”

“I expected this visit before now,
mon Père.
”

“I did not wish to intrude myself into such a business,
mon Général.
I am a simple son of St. Francis. I do not—”

“You are Antoine Pierre Rubin de Montaigne, sir.”

“No longer, sir. Now only Père Antoine, a humble priest.”

Montcalm shrugged. “
Eh bien.
What then does this humble priest wish of me? I am very busy,
mon Père.
As you are perhaps aware, there is a war. And the English are at our doorstep.”

The carriage of the marquis was a much simpler affair than that of the bishop. It was entirely black, the only relief being the Montcalm coat of arms emblazoned in gold on the door. There were black curtains on the windows, but they were pushed back. Antoine could see the fortifications that were everywhere. Eleven thousand men had dug fifty leagues of trenches and erected countless campsites and redoubts. They had worked night and day for five weeks—Montcalm had not issued the order to fortify the Beauport shore until the end of May—and despite endless rain which left behind a plague of flies, the men built a line of defense from the place where the St. Charles River entered the St. Lawrence, near the château of Intendant Bigot in Québec, to the massive and impassible Montmorency Falls above the village of Beauport. Everywhere Antoine looked there
were gun batteries trained on the river. There were rows upon rows of tents, even a few wigwams. “So much,
mon Général.
Such a huge effort. Now, after they have come. And to protect La Traverse, nothing. Not even one battery on little Ile Madame.”

“You forget,
mon Père,
” Montcalm said softly. “La Traverse was believed to be impassible.”

“But you knew better, mon Général.”

“No, I did not. How could I contradict those who were born here in Québec?”

“Do you deny that the little sister brought you the chart made by the Jesuit Louait? That it showed—”

Montcalm raised his hand. “I deny nothing,
mon Père.
Here in this carriage there is no need to deny anything. In a more public place … That, of course, would be different.”

The two men looked at each other. Neither glance wavered. “To my face,” Antoine said at last. “You are a man of incredible arrogance, Monsieur le Marquis de Montcalm. Have you no fear for your immortal soul?”

“I am,
mon Père,
a man who knows the difference between spiritual realities and those of a military nature. You speak of a battery at Ile Madame. It would have been useless. Even a pair of batteries facing each other across the entry to the channel would have been useless. Forty warships would have been required to defend La Traverse. I do not have forty warships, my dear Père Antoine, because in Versailles the lovely Pompadour does not concern herself with Canada. And the king—I apologize for offending your religious sensibilities—concerns himself with nothing except his cock. That is the reality.”

“And the souls of the heathen? Do you have no concern for the millions who thanks to you may never hear the gospel preached to them and never attain salvation? Do you realize that if—”

“I leave such things to you,
mon Père.
And
to le bon Dieu.
Surely God is sufficiently concerned with souls not to need my poor assistance.”

“You speak heresy, sir. I warn you again, you put your own soul in peril.”

They had arrived at the small manor house Montcalm had made his headquarters. The carriage slowed, then stopped, and a footman appeared at the door and started to open it. The marquis waved the servant away. “I will give you one sop for your conscience, Père Antoine, though why it should prick you, I do not know. You did what you thought best, and I did likewise. We will both be judged at the appropriate time,
non?
”

The priest started to speak. Montcalm raised his hand. “Hear me out. I promised you a piece of information. It will do you no good with anyone in Québec. You are already believed to be a fanatic, as you know. Vaudreuil doesn’t trust you, and neither, I think, does the bishop. Roget hates you, and Bigot is barely aware
of your existence. Still, for your own peace of mind, and because I am grateful for the effort you made—even if I chose not to act on it in the manner you hoped—the defenses of Québec are without a break There is no place for Wolfe to attack us. He can shell, and he will. But unless we give him a battle, he cannot have one. I do not intend to give him a battle,
mon Père.
When the winter comes the Admiral Saunders and the General Wolfe will go away, because if they do not they will be frozen in place in the river and we will pick them off at our leisure. With, I am sure, the assistance of those local Indians in whom our esteemed governor-general has such faith. Meanwhile the supplies of the English will be long gone, and those we do not kill will starve to death.”

“But all of this could have been avoided if—”

Montcalm held up his hand. “I am not finished. I am told,
mon Père,
that your concern is for the Ohio Country. Millions of heathens, you said, just waiting to be saved. I am not sure they can ever be civilized, much less made into Christians, but on the matter of the importance of the land south of us, we are in agreement. The Ohio Country and Louisiana are the future of New France on this continent. If we were to lose this realm of ice it would be unfortunate, perhaps, but not the defeat of the empire.”

The marquis reached for the door of the carriage. It seemed almost too much effort. He was weary. He had made exactly this argument in documents sent to Versailles during the winter. He had begged His Majesty for permission to withdraw from Canada and defend the Ohio forts and Louisiana, and he had been refused. The folly of that decision was already apparent, at least to him.

Amherst prepares to take Fort Carillon. If it falls—
eh bien,
when it falls—the English will also take Fort Niagara and then Fort St. Frédéric. The entire corridor will be theirs, and I can do nothing because the chinless general has pinned me and my army here in Québec, and I must defend this place whether or not it is worth defending. If I could have avoided this by using the map you undoubtedly stole, my fanatic Franciscan, I would have done so. It was not possible, but I can see in those half-mad eyes of yours that you will probably never believe me. So I must pull your fangs with a trifle more firmness.

“Don’t bother to get out of the carriage,
mon Père.
We have finished our business. I will have you driven back to the town. Please give my compliments to the delightful Soeur Stephane. Ah yes, one thing more. If you are thinking that she can corroborate your fantastic story about a map … I will deny her as readily as I deny you. And since I have learned that her father was an English officer, I do not think she will command more trust than you will.
Au revoir, mon Père.
I commend myself to your prayers.”

And I, if you keep this, promise you life everlasting.
In all Christendom a Poor Clare Abbess was the only woman who could speak those words to her nuns, but her legacy included another extraordinary privilege. A Poor Clare abbess could bless her community with the Sacred Host, just as a priest did.

Because, five hundred years before, Holy Mother Clare had taken it on herself to carry the Blessed Sacrament to the ramparts of Assisi and repel the Saracen invaders, Mère Marie Rose was permitted to open the door of the tabernacle from the nun’s side of the grille and remove the elaborate monstrance that held the large white wafer. She did so now, and turned to face her nuns. They bowed their heads. The abbess raised the monstrance above her own, then brought it down to chest height.
“Au nom du Père, et du Fils, et du—”
Marie Rose stopped speaking.

Soeur Celeste waited for the space of two heartbeats, then raised her head. The eyes of Dear Abbess were closed. She was motionless, holding the monstrance at her left side. She feels again the wound of love, Celeste realized. But like this, with the Holy Sacrament in her hands … Celeste was the vicaress of the community, the second in command. It was up to her to decide what to do. Normally, when it was during the Office or some other prayer, it was simple. She led the sisters out of the choir and allowed
le bon Dieu
to care for the nun He so favored. But now, with the Sacred Host in her hands … what if, overcome as she was, the grip of Mère Marie Rose gave way?

The mighty St. Lawrence was a red torrent, a river of blood. Hundreds tumbled in the rushing waters, all screaming in agony and weeping with despair. And hovering above, holding the river back so it could not engulf Québec and sweep thousands of more souls into a plunge to everlasting hellfire, there were five nuns. “There should be six, Lord. Why only five?” Soeur Stephane was missing. She was off to one side, by herself. Very still, and her veil was crowned with a wreath of flowers. “Truth is where it is, Marie Rose, whom I have made abbess. I have given you charge over the souls of these nuns, but only to act in My name. To honor the truth I show you, not the truth you expect.”

The moments went by. Mère Marie Rose did not move. Soeur Celeste was not an abbess; for her to touch the monstrance when it contained the Sacred Host was a grave sin. How much worse, though, was the thought that, entranced as she was, Mother Abbess might drop the Glory that she held. Celeste rose from her stall and approached the altar. “
Ma Mère,
please. You must come back to us. For at least as long as it takes to return the monstrance to the tabernacle. Mère Marie Rose, please …”

“Blood,” the abbess whispered. “A river full of blood and torment. Soeur Stephane …”

Startled, Celeste turned to look at the youngest nun. Soeur Stephane knelt in
her stall, head bowed, apparently unaware that she had anything to do with the vision of the abbess. “She is here,
ma Mère,
do you wish me to—”

“I wish that you would return to your stall, Soeur Celeste. What are you thinking of?” The abbess’s eyes were wide open now, and she was staring at her second in command with astonishment. “You give a bad example,
ma Soeur.
It is against the Holy Rule.”

Celeste bowed her head and in acknowledgment of the reprimand touched her heart. “I humbly confess my fault,
ma Mère.
” She turned and went back to her stall.

Marie Rose waited until Celeste had resumed her place.
“Et du Saint-Esprit,”
she intoned, concluding the benediction. Then she turned, replaced the monstrance in the tabernacle, and genuflected. Give me strength, Lord, she prayed. Don’t let the sisters see me tremble as I walk back to my stall. A torrent of blood. And Soeur Stephane, so young to die … Save us, Lord, we perish.