Shadowbrook (85 page)

“You didn’t see the priest, Père Antoine the brown robe?”

“No. I’ve been looking for him.” The constant barrage of English shells had become background noise. They ignored it much as the Québécois had ignored it for seven weeks.

“His house is … was in this same alley, three doors nearer the harbor. I suppose it’s a total rain as well.”

“Everything’s a ruin.”

Corm reminded himself that it had to be that way if the
Anishinabeg
were to have Canada. All the
Cmokmanuk
things must be destroyed so they would leave and not come back. Still, the destruction he saw sickened him, the white half of him anyway. Easier to talk about something else. “You get your dirk back yet?”

“Not yet. There’s been no sign of Lantak.”

“Other Indians, though? Fighting with the French?”

Quent heard the bitterness. “Not many. Fewer than there might have been. It wasn’t likely the Suckáuhock would be perfect, Corm. Nothing ever is.”

“If the English had said what was to happen, if they’d made a proclamation about Canada being for the
Anishinabeg
after they won the war, it would be perfect then.”

“That’s not their way, saying things flat out like that.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure, but in London they call it diplomacy. It’s how they do things.”

Corm walked to where the old alley used to be and watched the shells being lobbed from the opposite shore. “Are the English going to storm the Lower Town?”

“That’s the one thing they’re certain not to do. The French could just pick them off from the heights. Wolfe wants a battle, but on his terms. He’s got to get his army up the cliffs before they engage.”

“That won’t be easy.” The steep cliffs either side of the city were of monumental height. The only other approach was the Côte de la Montagne. If Wolfe’s army tried to fight its way up that road they’d be slaughtered by troops on the walls above. A turkey shoot, with the outcome assured.

“Impossible,” Quent agreed. “At least that’s how it looks so far.”

“I take it you’re staying over the way with the redcoats.” Corm jerked his head to indicate the English camp on Pointe-Lévis.

“Yes.” Another round of cannon fire punctuated his answer.

“Go back there. Let me look for Nicole; When I find out something, I’ll come and tell you.”

“Corm, I—”

“Go. Even got up like a Christian Huron you’re too easy to spot. The
habitants
will tear you apart if they get the chance.”

“I wouldn’t blame them,” Quent said softly.

In the middle of August, after Wolfe had been shelling Québec for over a month without luring Montcalm into the battle he craved, he had declared his so-called restraint at an end and loosed the rangers on the surrounding countrywide. Their orders were to burn every house and barn, but not harm women and children or destroy churches. Only Indians and Canadians dressed as Indians were to be scalped. Having issued the order his conscience was apparently clear. The rangers went off singing about giving the locals hot stuff, and Quent had to live with the knowledge that it was thanks to him they existed. He’d gone on as many of the raids as he could because his presence went some way toward protecting the
habitants
from the worst excesses, but he couldn’t be everywhere, and even his towering authority sometimes wasn’t enough.

“Go on over to Pointe-Lévis,” Corm said again. “I’ll find out where she is, then come and tell you.”

Quent waited until Corm had started for the Upper Town, then went to do some investigating on his own. The house belonging to the Franciscan priest was three doors down the alley. It appeared to be remarkably intact. The front wall looked much as it had when the houses either side of it still stood. The closed door was rough and thick, made of ill-planed oak There was no bell, and if there had been a knob, it was no longer there. Quent thought of knocking but was struck by the absurdity of the gesture. He put up his hand and felt the marks made by the axe that had originally fashioned this door from a single massive trunk. When he pressed lightly it easily fell backward, as if someone had recently propped it in place. He had the sensation that he was being watched.

He had a tomahawk, and a skinning knife. His long gun would have attracted too much attention, and besides, no Christian Huron from one of the missions would have such a weapon. He took the knife from his belt.

It was full dark now, and the waning moon had not yet risen, but there was enough starlight for him to see that behind its deceptive facade, Père Antoine’s house no longer existed. Like its neighbors it was a pile of stone and splintered, charred wood. Quent’s glance roved over the debris; he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow wrong. This place looked as if someone had deliberately wreaked further destruction after the English bombs and shells had done their work. In the far corner there was a gleam of light low down near the stone chimney breast that was still intact above what had been the fireplace.

Quent picked his way toward it, unable to shake the feeling that he should be careful not to cause any loud or unexpected noise. Jesus bloody Christ! For all his care he’d nearly walked straight into a beam. It lay at a precipitous angle from a remaining corner of the roof to what would have been the hearth. It was as thick around as he was, and black with the smoke of more than the most recent fire. Had to have been one of the original ceiling joists. He glanced up. The dark was deeper where a large wedge of masonry hung between a section of the house’s north wall and the top of the beam he’d almost dislodged.

Despite the gloom, he could still make out the shimmer that had attracted him to this part of the ruined room. He knelt down, stretched his hand toward the source of the glow, and touched something hard and cold. A large golden goblet of some sort, set with what were probably precious stones about the rim. Beneath it there was a flat golden plate, also bejewelled. No ordinary looter would have left such booty behind.

“Not things a brown robe should have, neya?”

The voice came from deep in the shadows. “Lantak.”

“Yes, Uko Nyakwai, Lantak. Get up. And keep your hands above your head. I have been waiting a long time to see you again. It would be sad if we had no time to visit before I kill you.”

As before, the renegade Huron had a long gun when Quent had none. The barrel end was an arm’s length from Quent’s face, near enough so he could see Lantak’s finger on the trigger. He rejected any thought of summoning his death song. An enemy this close was within range of attack “I’ve been looking for you, Lantak Over on the western shore where the scalps are. I didn’t think to find you prowling the ruins of old battles like scavenger vermin.”

“I take the scalps I wish to take, Uko Nyakwai. Lantak is not to be used to fight a
Cmokmanuk
war.”

“But like a squaw you come to where the battle is long ended to pick up what the braves have left behind.”

“I do not mind your insults, bear dung. I will remember them when I am cutting out your tongue. Leave the gold where it is. Go over there.” Lantak jerked the long gun in the direction of the corner formed by the angled beam.

Now. It was the best opportunity he would have. The beam was hip height where he must pass it. It would give way if he shoved, and the remains of the roof would come crashing down. Quent took a step, preparing himself to fall in the direction of the blackened beam. Then he saw the priest. Père Antoine sat on a stool in the corner formed by the angle of the ruined walls. He was bound and gagged and both his eyes had been gouged out; die empty sockets still bled. The flow nearly covered the wound where his nose had been cut away.

“You see we have a brother at this feast,” Lantak said behind him. “I am glad he still lives to welcome a second guest.”

If he brought down the chunk of masonry overhead the priest was a dead man. Quent barely managed to check his planned fall in time, praying that he hadn’t lost the advantage by allowing Lantak to read the motion of his body. Apparently not. The long gun prodded his back “Go!”

Quent stumbled ahead, deliberately exaggerating his faltering movement to gain more time, speaking even as he repositioned himself. “You are truly a squaw, Lantak You torture like a squaw, delighting in screams rather than death.”

“We will see soon who is the squaw, bear dung, and who screams. The brown robe at last pays for saving your life. My totem has brought you here to watch him die before you die yourself.”

Quent waited a heartbeat more, long enough so that Lantak once again prodded him with the barrel of the long gun. At that instant, whüe his forward thrust took Lantak’s balance for the space of half a breath, Quent dropped to one knee and threw himself at the Huron’s legs. The long gun went off, whether involuntarily or by design was impossible to tell. The bullet whistled over Quent’s head and the gun’s recoil; threw the renegade backward toward the hearth.

Quent hurled himself after Lantak, landing on top of him. The Indian stretched both hands for his face, clawing at his eyes and his hair. Quent shouted
a Potawatomi war cry as he ignored the grasping fingers and wrapped both hands around Lantak’s neck. He’d managed to get only one knee on Lantak’s chest, not enough to bring his full weight to bear on his enemy. When the Huron grabbed his wrists his grip was like iron. Lantak arched upward with more strength than Quent would have believed him to have, and used the entire wiry length of his body to break Quent’s hold. When he rolled free he screamed a war cry of his own and staggered to his feet. Quent lunged for him again, but Lantak evaded him. Now both men had knives in their hands. Each of their next thrusts drew blood. They grappled and once more broke apart as each fought for a hold that would allow him to slit his opponent’s throat. Then, somehow, the Huron was behind Quent, wrapping him in a death hug strong enough to squeeze the life from his body. Quent reached up and got both hands behind Lantak’s neck, and with an effort so massive it seemed to stop his heart, swung the Indian over his head and hurled him forward.

Lantak’s body hit the beam. There was a great rumbling sound, followed by the crack of breaking stone, and the corner of the roof that had been held aloft only with the beam’s support fell in a crash that shook the dirt floor.

The blood pounding in Quent’s head blinded him for many seconds, and his ears were ringing as if he’d stood next to a firing cannon. He shook his head to clear it and the ringing subsided; he could see again as well. It was not only the last of the roof that had fallen when the beam was dislodged, the stone chimney breast had come crashing down as well. If he’d been even a step to his right he’d have been buried by the falling rock

The collapse had opened much more of the little house to the sky. The starlight shone on the place where Lantak had been when he was crashed by the beam and the toppling roof. The only part of him that showed was one arm. Sweet Christ, what about the priest?

Quent clambered over the debris, telling himself it was best if the Franciscan had been killed as well. No man would want to live in his condition, even a papist priest. Still he was sickened by the fact that the brown robe had saved his life, and he might have repaid him by causing his death.

Père Antoine was only half buried by the rabble. His legs were entirely covered, but his torso was clear of the debris. He was alive. Quent managed to get close enough to release the gag that remained in place, and use the piece of soft leather to wipe the blood from the priest’s face. “Oh my God … I’m sorry … I never …”

“Not your fault,” the priest murmured. “Mine. I came back to get my chalice and paten.”

“I can dig them out of the rubble. Bring them wherever you—”

“Not important now. Want … pray.” He murmured a string of Latin words Quent couldn’t understand, then smiled.
“Oui, mon Jésus, oui …”
he whispered.
Then a few struggling gasps and a request Quent had to bend closer to hear. “My beads, bring them to the nuns.”

Quent looked for the beads and found them attached to the priest’s belt, miraculously intact. By the time he’d freed them, Père Antoine was dead. He sat back on his heels for a moment, letting himself catch his breath, then crawled over to the corpse of the renegade Huron. When he pulled on Lantak’s extended arm it came free, attached to nothing. Quent flung it aside and began hefting the chunks of masonry until at last he could drag the Indian free of the rabble. He examined the body thoroughly, but didn’t discover what he wanted. Disappointment was a metallic taste in his mouth and a cramp in his belly. If he didn’t find the dirk now, it was gone forever. Either Lantak had carried it on his person or he had traded it long since for liquor or a woman or whatever else he wanted. But he remembered Corm saying that Lantak had sworn to take Uko Nyakwai’s scalp with the Red Bear’s own weapon.

He kicked at more of the splintered wood and broken stone where the Indian had died, and unearthed the dirk on the third thrust, feeling its carved handle through the soft leather of his mocassin. Quent reached down and grabbed it, thrilled at the familiar feel of the weapon in his hand. Then, for Solomon the Barrel Maker and Sugar Wille and Lilac and Big Jacob, and for Père Antoine, he used it to take Lantak’s scalp.