Shadowbrook (86 page)

Louis Roget knelt in prayer in the ruins of the Retraite de Ste. Anne in the Collège des Jésuites in the Upper Town. Most of the roof was caved in and part of one wall, but unlike the main church the little chapel was still intact, including the stained glass windows depicting the life of the mother of the Virgin. So too was the exquisite statue of Anne that had been carved by the
ébénistes
of Reims and sent as a gift from the Jesuits of that city to their brother priests in Québec. The saint still stood high above the altar, looking down on the destruction.

The Provincial was alone. His priests and brothers were out in the town, offering what help they could to the battered and half-starved
habitants.
There was a bed of sorts in what remained of Roget’s apartments, but he had resolved to spend the night guarding the Retraite. Tomorrow Bigot was to send skilled workmen to remove the stained glass and take the statue down from her place, and carefully pack the treasures for transport to Louisiana. An enormous pity if, having withstood so much, these gems were snatched by looters just before they could be salvaged.

Mon Dieu,
I do not believe it is a sin that I refrain from asking for a French victory here in Québec. This kingdom of snow,
mon Dieu,
I have looked at it with all the intelligence granted me, and I am convinced it is worthless.

“
Bon soir, Jésuite.
Sorry to disturb you at your prayers.”

There was a candle beside the tabernacle that contained the Most Holy Sacrament, and the glow of starlight entered through the smashed roof. Together they provided enough light for the Provincial to see the man who stood at the edge of the shadows. A woodsman in buckskins and a hunting shirt, but not just any
coureur de bois.
This one had a long scar that immobilized one side of his face. “This is a house of God, Monsieur Shea. To come here intending theft, or worse, violence … You imperil your immortal soul.”

“My soul is my worry, Jésuite, not yours. But I have no interest in your treasure, and no intention of harming you unless you make it necessary. All I want is information. Since you know who I am, you won’t hesitate to give it to me.”

“That depends. What sort of information?”

“The Poor Clares. Where have they gone?”

Roget made the sign of the cross, slowly and deliberately, then rose from the half-broken prie-dieu he had dragged out of the rubble. “You have said it yourself, Monsieur Shea. I am a Jésuite, a black robe. The Poor Clares are Franciscans. What would I know of—
Mon Dieu!
Are you mad?”

Corm had turned to face the statue of Ste. Anne and he held his tomahawk over his head in throwing position. “I can cut her in two with ease from this distance, Jésuite. You Catholics place high value on your statues, don’t you? And this one is supposed to be especially valuable.”

“She is the work of the finest
ébénistes
of Reims. You are well-informed for a métis, Monsieur Shea.”

“Not as well-informed as I want to be. I promise, your statue will be nothing but splinters by the time I’m finished with her. You have until the count of five. Where are the Poor Clares?”

“Will you tell me why you want to know?”

“No.Two,three—”

Roget shrugged. It was certainly not a secret worth protecting with the Reims Ste. Anne. “All the nuns of the city are in the Hôpital Général with the Augustinian nursing sisters, Monsieur Shea. At least, I know the Ursulines have been there since their convent was bombed out of existence. I presume the Poor Clares have gone to the same refuge. You may have noticed that there is little else standing in Québec.”

Corm tucked the tomahawk into the belt at his waist “I’ve noticed. I saw your trunks outside as well, Jésuite. Care to tell me where you’re headed?”

“That too is not a secret. If it becomes necessary, I and my community go to Louisiana as soon as we can find a ship.” He saw the métis stiffen. “That interests you, Monsieur Shea?”

Corm shook his head. “No. Why should it?”

Alors,
something in the way he held his head, the eyes that did not look at him … The métis was lying. Perhaps this one was not the rough half-breed he appeared to be. Roget suppressed an unseemly smile. This was not a game he had expected to play, but possibly one worthy of engagement. He, of course, would be black. White had already opened. “Tell me why you are so concerned about the Poor Clares, Monsieur Shea. A few women who spend their lives doing penance, why should they interest you?”

“A friend of mine’s with them. I just want to be sure she’s not hurt.”

“Allow me to venture a guess, monsieur. Your friend, she is the one they call Soeur Stephane,
non?
The young one whose father was an English officer.” Black knight to Queen’s pawn four.

“You are as well-informed as they say you are, Jésuite.”

“Sometimes better.” You have given me an opening, métis. If I can maneuver into a position that allows me to take a pawn or two, your ranks will be open to attack.
“Papankamwa,”
Roget said softly,
“eehsipana, ayaapia, anseepikwa, eeyeelia, pileewa.”

Cormac listened to the names of the symbols on the Súki beads with no change of expression. “I already know you offered to pay the renegade Midè priest for the Suckáuhock, Jésuite, I took the scalp of the man you sent to kill me.”

Alors, échec
to the black king, but only a temporary setback. “I sent no one to kill you, Monsieur Shea. I had no idea that was the plan of the man who offered me the stones. But at least now I know they are truly as important as he said. Most of the Indians have deserted Onontio because of the stones. Is that not correct?”

Corm shrugged. “Give me one good reason why Indians should fight and die in your white man’s wars, Jésuite. Maybe they’re just getting smarter.”

“Indians fight and die for scalps and captives and loot, Monsieur Shea. Unless something more important has been offered them. It is that thing that interests me. Do you know what it might be?”

“If I did, do you think I would tell you?”

Roget’s fingers found the beads of the rosary that hung at his side. You have sent me a remarkable opportunity, Mère de Dieu. Grant that I make no error. “You might, monsieur. If in return I could offer you something of equal, perhaps greater, value.”

“I don’t trust you, Jésuite.” Corm’s heart thundered in his chest. This was a white man’s game, he knew that. The only thing he didn’t know was if he were white enough to play it. “If there’s to be a trade, both sides have to see what’s being offered.”

Endgame. To threaten white’s king, black must expose his own. “Your General Wolfe,” Roget began, “he must meet General Montcalm if—”

“Wolfe’s not my general.”

“Ah, but in this matter I believe he is. I have the feeling, Monsieur Shea, that like the Indians, you withhold your allegiance from Onontio in this
contretemps.
Is that not correct?”

“I’m half Indian, Jésuite. A métis, as you continue to remind me.”

“Indeed. So if your people do not on this occasion fight with their French allies, it must be because they wish the English to win. And if the English are to win, General Wolfe must meet the General Montcalm on the field of battle. Is that not true, Monsieur Shea? The military men inform us Québec is a fortress, not a fort. It cannot be taken by the traditional
siège en forme.
”

“Even if what you say is true, what does it have to do with our trade?”

Roget felt a surge of triumph. The métis had committed himself. “It has everything to do with it. Let us speak plainly, monsieur. If Wolfe does not get his battle, he must leave when winter approaches. On the other hand, to force Vaudreuil and Montcalm to fight, the English must threaten the Upper Town in such manner that our two reluctant warriors are convinced a battle is the only choice. To achieve that, the English troops must be not at Pointe-Lévis or Ile d’Orléans, or wreaking havoc among the
habitants
in the countryside, or even swarming in the Lower Town. They must be up here where we are, massed at the city’s gates. Wolfe has already made a number of attempts to gain the heights, and been beaten back because he chose the wrong places to try his assault.”

Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâce.
The beads slipped rapidly through Roget’s fingers. The prayer to the Virgin was a thing happening automatically somewhere in his being, like the beating of his heart, or the breath entering and leaving his body. “I can tell you the correct place. And you, Monsieur Shea, can tell General Wolfe.”

“And in return, Jésuite? What do I give you?”

The métis spoke very softly, but he had taken a step forward. Close enough now so Roget could see the vein that throbbed above Cormac Shea’s scar. It was the only clue, but on the strength of it black must commit everything, the queen and both rooks. “I already stated my request. I deal in knowledge. It is the only weapon I have with which to further the cause of God and His Holy Church. I wish, monsieur, to understand the power of the stones. What have the English promised the Indians in return for their staying out of this fight?”

“Canada.”

…
et Jésus, le fruit de vos entrailles
… “Please, repeat that. I believe you said—”

“I said that when the English win this war, they will give Canada to the Indians. They’ll keep the land to the south where their colonies are now. Whites and reds will be separated. So they can both live in peace and follow their own ways and customs.”

Louis Roget loosed his hold on the rosary. His fingers were too slick with sweat
to continue rolling the beads. He could barely speak for the force of the blood pounding in his ears.
Échec et mate.
His victory was more complete than he could have imagined. With Canada finally lost to them, even the cretins in Versailles would see the need to concentrate all their energies on Louisiana and win back what they had lost in the Ohio Country. Why not? They would have plenty of help from the Indians. There was no way the English would honor this bargain. English settlers would flood Canada as soon as the French were no longer in control. And once they were betrayed,
alors,
the savages would be more ready than ever before to adopt the French cause as their own. Not just the Ohio Country,
mon Dieu.
Possibly the English colonies as well. New York and Pennsylvania and Virginia … all of them, even perhaps the place they called New England, open to the Holy Faith.

“I’m waiting, Jésuite.”

“Waiting, Monsieur Shea?” Roget’s voice sounded thin in his own ears. The enormity of it, the sheer audacity. Only saints dared so much. But saints were rewarded with a golden crown.

“Yes, for your side of the trade.”

“Bien sûr …”
Roget brought himself back to the moment at hand. If the full glory of his vision was to be realized, there were things, however difficult and even distasteful, that he must do. “Monsieur Shea, you know the place, the heights, called the Plains of Abraham? West of the city, near what before this bombardment were the gardens of the Convent School of the Ursulines.” He waited until he saw the other man nod. “Very good. If you follow the cliff road past those gardens and past the plains you will come to a place above a cove called l’Anse au Foulon. That is where there is a path I’m told the laundresses sometimes—”

Corm shook his head. “I am not interested in what you are told, Jésuite. Words aren’t enough. Show me.”

Roget hesitated. The statue of Ste. Anne, the stained glass …
Eh bien,
surely having given him so much, the Mother of God would protect these treasures. And if not, so be it. The ways of God were not the ways of man. He understood now why he had been forced to watch the sad and sinful event of the wounded falcon’s suicide. “Come with me, Monsieur Shea. I will show you the place I mean.”

Corm watched Roget swing his long cape around his shoulders. Then, just before they left: “Jésuite, one more thing. If you are trying to trick me, I will take your scalp while you are still alive, then cut out your heart and eat it.” Maybe not
Cmokman
enough for diplomacy, but
Anishinabeg
enough for that.

“I do not doubt it, Monsieur Shea. Now, let us go.”

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1759
THE ST. LAWRENCE, ABOVE QUéBEC

It was the darkest reaches of the night. Dawn was a few hours away, and the last sliver of an old moon had already disappeared. The river was swollen by the torrential rains of the past three days, the ebbing tide running heavier than usual. The longboats moved with it, and with the rowers’ instincts. The oarlocks were padded, and on Wolfe’s orders the drummer boys who usually beat the stroke were silent.

The shoreline was unguarded but there were sentries on the cliffs. One of them thought he heard something and squinted to see better in the darkness. Nothing at first. Then … yes, a black-on-black shadow, and the sound of water lapping against oars.
“Qui vive?”

The men in the boats heard the call and froze. If they were discovered, French gunners the entire length of the cliffs would pick them off from overhead. There was no way the longboats could outrun them or hide.