The Meeting Place (2 page)

“Seems quiet enough.” The officer sniffed as he stared down the steep slope. “ 'Course, you never can tell with them Frenchies. Sneaky, so I've been told. Bad as the Injuns.”

Andrew bit back a sharp retort. It would not do to publicly rebuke the man, not for stating the belief shared by almost every member of the officer corps. “Prepare the men, Sergeant Major.”

“Sir!” The man stomped away, shouting, “All right, you lot, on your feet!”

Andrew pulled on his reins and swiveled in his saddle to check the seven high-wheeled wagons, the only ones capable of managing the muddy trail. The men assembled to either side with another contingent fore and aft, weary and footsore.

Andrew turned back around, raised his hand, and let it fall.

The sergeant major shouted, “Foooorward, ho!”

The wheels creaked; the tin plates rattled upon the cook wagon; the soldiers shuffled and muttered and coughed and marched. Andrew knew them all by now, not just by name but by noise and habits. He liked to bring the new troops in himself. It gave him an opportunity to test their mettle in the field.

When the trail jinked around a steep curve, their destination finally came into view. Once again he felt his heart rate surge. There, off beyond the river and more fields and farmhouses, Fort Edward rose stolid and stern and safe, and beyond it the village of Edward itself. Andrew squinted against the morning glare, trying to make out the stone cottage at the village entrance. The one where the love of his life lived and awaited his return. No, he could not quite make out the individual houses, not yet. But the search alone was enough to bring a smile to his lips. Catherine was there, and she waited for him. He was as sure of that as he was of his own name.

A sudden boom caused his horse to rear, and the mules pulling the wagons started their noisy braying. Andrew quieted his horse as he searched the horizon. He spotted a cloud of smoke rising from the fort's cannon.

The sergeant major trotted up beside him. “Trouble, sir?”

“Not at all.” Andrew pointed beyond the land's final shelf, out to where billowing squares of white indicated a ship of the line sailing up Cobequid Bay. He called to the troops behind them, “Easy now, they're just signaling to an incoming ship!”

As though to confirm Andrew's words, the ship responded with a booming reply of its own. Andrew spotted the signal flag below the Union Jack. “Press the men hard, Sergeant Major,” he urged. “We need to arrive in time to greet the governor's representative. General Whetlock himself sails in that vessel.”

Andrew spurred his horse on ahead. He was eager to arrive, to see Catherine again. Almost a month he had been away, a month of disturbing news and unwelcome developments. He could not help but cast another watchful glance at the French village below, as though some enemy lurked there unseen.

North of the New England colonies stood the disputed lands of New France, settled for a century and a half by people who had named the region Acadia, their “beloved home.” The British had come soon after. Building upon the strength of their southern colonies, they battled the French here as they had in Europe for over six hundred years, enemies ever.

Now, in the year 1753, the lines were firmly drawn. A man was either French or English, and though the villages were but a stone's throw from one another, most inhabitants would go an entire lifetime without speaking to the other side. Certainly there was some contact in the markets, but those who did not travel—and most did not—lived in a state of constant suspicion and fear. They avoided open contact with people who were considered enemies because they were strangers. Villagers whispered rumors and grim warnings behind secured doors. On both sides, raw fear haunted their days and troubled their sleep with terrifying nightmares, knowing that they might be the ones to be conquered and displaced.

Two nations of hard-calloused farmers and crude-crafted village shopkeepers lived side by side and never knew the other. They vied for possession, hoping their troops would somehow protect them from the other. Praying to the same God, imploring His help to make them the victor—the undisputed owner of the territory.

Andrew shook his head and turned away. Strange how he could be filled with so much joy and so much worry, so much happiness and so much concern, so much love and so much alertness for battle.

It was almost enough to tear his heart in two.

Chapter 1

Catherine Price watched the world unfold outside the carriage window. She felt such joy she could scarcely contain it. So many events of magnitude were coming together in her life, it was enough to make a girl raised on the rough frontier believe that she had been transported into some magical fairy tale.

Fort Edward kept just one carriage, usually reserved for the king's representative, the provincial governor. But the general had personally invited Catherine to dine on board a ship of the line. It was the first time an official invitation had been addressed to her, the first time Catherine was not going just as her father's daughter. The written invitation had read that General Whetlock, the regimental commandant recently arrived from England, requested the pleasure of her company on board the vessel
Excalibur
for a banquet in celebration of the sacking of Fort Louisburg.

Her father sat ramrod straight beside her, pride showing in spite of his efforts to appear nonchalant. John Price had served in the King's Own Fusiliers for eleven years, until a French cannonade had injured him and cut short his career. He deeply missed the pomp and circumstance, the honor and the glory. No matter that he now served as the provincial notary, answering only to Fort Edward's senior officer and the governor in Halifax. John Price had never forgiven the French for ending his rise within the military, and he loathed them to a man.

The carriage rocked like a boat in high seas as the trail descended and forded yet another stream. The woman seated across from Catherine sniffed her disdain. “I do not see why on earth we must suffer through this endless journey. The ship is almost close enough for me to reach out and touch it.”

“That may be so, ma'am.” John Price's voice was as stiff as his bearing. “But there is only one docking station between Fort Edward and Chelmsford. We must make for that in order to meet the ship's boat.”

Mrs. Priscilla Stevenage sniffed even more loudly. “Even a provincial town such as your own, sir, should be able to afford a proper docking facility. Why, our new capital of Halifax is but a few years old, and already we have a decent rock-lined harbor.”

“I daresay you do,” John Price said, a red flush creeping up from his collar. “Since the fleet must winter there and at Annapolis Royal.”

“Then why on earth can't a fort as old as yours—”

“Mud, ma'am. Good, rich, fertile mud.” He waved an angry hand out beyond the open window. “The very same mud which allows this
provincial
town to feed not only its own citizens but Halifax and Annapolis Royal as well.”

Though Catherine did not wish to say anything at all to the woman seated opposite her, she realized she had no choice. To remain silent would mean seeing the evening ruined before it had properly begun. She patted her father's hand, then said matter-of-factly to Priscilla Stevenage, “The Cobequid Basin has the highest tidal surge in the world. Twice a day the waters rise twenty feet, and descend the same amount.”

Clearly Mrs. Stevenage had no interest in being instructed by Catherine. Her thin lips pursed in disapproval. “I fail to see why that makes it necessary for us to make this horrid trek just to reach the general's ship.”

“Because at low tide, such as now, the tidal basin is full of shallow ponds and mud so thick a man can sink out of sight and vanish.” Catherine held on to her patience with great effort. Her beloved Andrew had once paid court to this woman.
Before he had met me
, Catherine comforted herself. Even now, after marrying an older officer stationed at headquarters, it looked as though Priscilla Stevenage remained bitterly resentful that she had lost Andrew. She was supposedly visiting Fort Edward to accompany her husband to this honored occasion, but Catherine was certain the woman had made the journey to see who had won the man she had once endeavored to claim for herself. Andrew's brief courting of Priscilla had been at his superior officer's suggestion, but he had soon realized that he did not want to pursue the relationship. Rumors suggested that Priscilla remained furious over this rejection.

Catherine kept her voice calm as she went on. “The French found a way to build dikes and reclaim much of the land. It is the finest farmland in the world, so rich it will grow anything. But to reach a vessel anchored in deep waters, it means we must build a pier out far enough to span the unclaimed muddy land.”

“Only thing the French ever got right,” her father muttered. “Building those dikes.”

Priscilla gave another sniff, one of many mannerisms Catherine was swiftly learning to dislike. But before the woman could open her mouth and cast another barb, Catherine spied a familiar figure on horseback coming down the trail toward them at a brisk pace. She cried, “Here comes Andrew! Oh, I knew he wouldn't miss this evening!”

Normally the adjutant of a minor garrison like Fort Edward would not be invited to dine with a visiting senior officer. But Andrew had been acting commandant of the Fort Edward garrison since the colonel in charge had been stricken that spring with a severe fever and taken by barque to Halifax. That, plus the fact that Andrew's father and the general had been friends back in England, had resulted in the evening's invitation.

The young lieutenant reined his horse up close to the carriage and doffed his hat. “A very good evening to you, Miss Catherine,” he said, bowing slightly toward her as she gazed at him from the carriage window.

“Welcome home, Mr. Harrow.” She wished there were some way to hide from the others, to give him a proper greeting after the weeks apart. But all she could do was put everything she was feeling into her voice and eyes. No matter that the woman across from her was shooting daggers her way. Catherine motioned graciously to the other woman and went on, “Of course you know Mrs. Stevenage.”

“Your servant, ma'am.” Andrew gave a small bow, then turned to Catherine's father. “I bring you greetings from the Annapolis garrison, Mr. Price.”

“Excellent, my young fellow. Excellent. You had a good journey?”

“Uneventful, save for the wretched state of the roads. Almost lost one wagon to a mud slide and another to a panicking mule.” Lieutenant Andrew Harrow had to bend over to meet John Price's gaze. Which brought his face quite close to Catherine's. She resisted the urge to lean out the carriage window and kiss him then and there.

Even her father, who was as scant with his praise as he was with laughter, called Andrew Harrow a rare breed. The young man was not particularly tall, yet held his slender frame so erect that he seemed to tower over men half a head higher than himself. He wore his raven hair long and full, tied back tonight with a dark red ribbon the color of his dress uniform. Not for Andrew Harrow the stuffy confines of a powdered wig, not even on a night when he was to dine in the general's company. He held to the confident strength of a born leader and kept his men's ready allegiance with deceptive ease.

But it was neither his strength nor his heritage that had caused Catherine to love him, though in her heart of hearts she had to confess to liking both immensely. Andrew had a kinder side, a light to his pale blue eyes which seemed to grow in intensity whenever they were together. She loved that gentle light and wished for nothing more than to dedicate herself to strengthening it all their life long.

Andrew gave her a look then, one which seemed to say that he too was caught by the thought of reaching for her. Catherine knew a thrill of sudden fear that he would cause a public spectacle, but he gave her a mischievous smile before rising up tall once more in the saddle. “I'll just ride ahead to make sure the ship's boat is ready.”

Catherine watched him spur his horse on, then dropped her gaze to her lap. She did not need to glance across to know Priscilla Stevenage was rewarding her with a look of sheer venom. A smile kept threatening to rise from the warmth of her heart and spread across her face. Not even Priscilla Stevenage could rob this day of joy.

Despite a naturally sour expression, the general obviously was putting himself out to make the evening pleasant for his guests. For Catherine, who had never been on a naval ship before, all was new and exciting. Priscilla Stevenage's sophisticated demeanor could not hide the fact that she was vastly impressed. The ship had been assigned to General Whetlock, co-commandant of all British forces stationed in Acadia Province, by Governor Lawrence himself.

The ship's decks had been holystoned until they gleamed a soft honey gold. Every rope was plaited with perfection, every railing freshly painted, the brass fittings polished until they shone. Even the cannons gleamed dull and ruddy in the fading sunlight. The crew who had manned the general's jolly boat had all worn fresh-starched white trousers and straw hats with ribbons fluttering in the evening breeze.