Distant Fires (27 page)

“I must say, it is a tempting thought, when seated to such fine dining,” she rejoined, with a laugh.
 

Over the next while, numerous groups dispersed and went home, allowing the room to resume a quieter atmosphere. In a little anteroom by her back, which she had formerly thought empty, the low tones of men seemed to make their way to her conscious. At first, she made a concerted effort not to listen but as time went on, the voices, and what they were saying, could not be avoided.
 

“Did they find their cache?” came the question in a strong German accent.
 

“No, the bastards got away. As for Benoit…said they were attacked by Iroquois, but I know better…found his body, but no trace of the Captain. Bloody fool! I knew what he was up to, but I never thought the bastard would do it…he said, ‘If I can’t have her, I’ll be damned if I’ll let that cuckold of a husband raise my child. Never liked the man, though we shared the same quarters at the garrison, for neigh on a year. Crazy bastard. Heard she died anyway …”
 

Something, like a shard of glass to the heart, pierced Louise with those words “Captain… no trace…cuckold…my child…’
 

Could it be possible? And here, of all places, hundreds of miles from the garrison in Montreal, someone who had intimate knowledge of the event…someone who could state an unequivocal…murder?
 

No, it was more likely an overactive imagination. Still, try as she might, the possibility could not be discounted. She could eat no more, and Gilbert noticed the sudden change in countenance.
 

“What is it my dear?” “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”  
 

“Ssh” was all she could muster in response.
 

No sooner did she utter this, then she heard the movement of chairs, and the few men idled out the door into the brisk early morning air.
 

“Gilbert, Gilbert! We must follow them…”
 

 The latter, clearly befuddled by the turn of events, left money with the innkeeper and in minutes, caught up with Louise who had joined the late-night carousers and early risers of Louisbourg, out and about on this frosty morning.
 

“The…the man…ahead…”, she spoke with a shudder, pulling the cloak about her and quickening her step as the three men turned the corner on Rue de l’Estang, “He knows...I mean, I believe…I heard him speak of my son, Nicholas…”
 

Her heart beat wildly in anticipation of this chance contact, but as they made their way to the top of the street, the men were nowhere in sight. Panting, on the verge of tears, frustration at
this sudden turn of events, she braced herself by the sidewall of a building to catch her breath and regain her thoughts.
 

Gilbert was as much at odds for her sake. “Did you notice anything unusual about the men? Their clothing, perhaps?”
 

Words came floating back. “One man… he had an accent…German… and I…I think he addressed the other by name… Jacques was it? Oh my mind is a blur…Oh Gilbert, we must do something!”
 

He tried to console her as best he could, but she could not be placated.
 

“Could he have been a soldier?” he offered. “The captain told me there is a foreign military unit of mercenaries here … representatives from four infantry regiments, since the siege. Did the other fellow have an accent?”
 

“No, colonial French, that is all.”
 

“Well it may too difficult to search him out at the garrison. Perhaps we could ask back at the tavern. They may be regular customers.”
 

Seeing the futility in doing otherwise, she acquiesced, and returned with him to their lodgings, hoping that the evening would bring an answer.
 

.....................................................
 

Before the clock struck eight, the sound of merriment commenced, shaking the furniture in their room with even more gaiety than the previous night. As they made their way into the spirited surroundings, Louise was less optimistic than she had been, and noting that there appeared no obvious sign of military presence about, was even less resigned. As time passed, she encouraged Gilbert to play a game of cards, and chose to seat herself at a nearby table.
 

Having spent much of that day mulling over the exchange of conversation, she wondered at the words. Did they truly relate to Nicholas? Perhaps, the story pertained to someone here. A love triangle of similar situation and result must have happened before. And after all, if this man were from Montreal, what might he be doing in Louisbourg, when the latter detachments, were chosen from abroad?
 

But he did mention a garrison and....something in the letter...Did Madame Girald not say that Sophie was with child, and died soon after the tragedy? Madame had spoken of her daughters in other letters and Sophie was the one about which she expressed the greatest anxiety…with her churlish ways, troubled lest she find a spouse. But was she capable of the ultimate deception; marrying a man while carrying another man’s child? Were it possible that Nicholas made the
discovery and decided to kill him... Or the reverse? If the Sergeant’s story matched, were it not possible that a man of lower rank…possibly a Private, could have been Sophie’s lover, but not provide on the scale to which she aspired?
 

“Nine of hearts …”
 

The voice across the table drew her from the solemn reverie. German. The voice!
 

The fan of cards in his dirty hand covered most of his face from her vantage point, but she carefully poked Gilbert with her foot, and bent toward his ear.
 

 “Him,” she said simply, as he steadied his gaze, not wishing to raise the suspicion of cheating from the participants.
 

It seemed an eternity to Louise before the game was over, but she slipped into the shelter of the backroom and, upon finish, having noticed her departure, Gilbert immediately asked the fellow if he would share a drink in the alcove, to which the unkempt but friendly fellow complied.
 

“…And so, Sergeant, you are with the Regiment de Karrer, newly in from France, I take it…may I introduce my wife …”
 

He had hoped to ease into conversation regarding the other man, but Louise intercepted his attempts.
 

“I fear to importune you, Sergeant, but I wish to pose a question. I believe you were engaged in conversation with another man, here, the evening last...is he a fellow soldier in your garrison?”
 

 “Who wants to know?”  He uttered, more curious than forthcoming.
 

Sensing his suspicion, Gilbert offered. “This is not about the law. Our son was in the Regulars. We are returning to Montreal and thought we recognized the fellow as someone with whom our late son was acquainted. Could I be so bold as to ask you arrange a meeting for us here, tomorrow evening?” He produced a small bag of coins, “I shall make it worth your while.”
 

“Jules…ah, Private Volens.” He uttered, flatly, “He arrived a fortnight ago, with a small contingent of Regulars from Montreal.” He took a swig of ale and looked downward. “Keep your money. Private Volens returned with his detachment earlier today.”
 

Louise’s disappointment was palpable. The first solid evidence that her son’s death was premeditated and no one to attest to what she had overheard. This man was their only hope.
 

Gilbert asked for another round, in hopes of loosening his tongue. “Perhaps you can provide the information. I chanced to hear your discussion regarding two men who were drowned. Can you tell me something of the particulars?”
 

Stritt tossed back a whisky and snorted abashedly. “Truth to tell, I’d had some drink”. He thought hard. “Something about a Captain and a Private from Montreal. There was a killing.” He related the story, much as they had heard it the previous night, “A scouting expedition…yes, somehow or other, the Private killed the…”
 

 Gilbert pushed on. “Did he possibly name the men involved?” he enquired, putting more money on the table.
 

He slid his meaty fingers through greasy hair. The remunerative proposition was helping him think. He pondered again. “After we left the Inn? No, no names. Wait, I think the Private was a Benoit. He didn’t name the Captain. But he was the son of a rich man. He said the Private killed the Captain because his woman married him for his money, though she carried Benoit’s child.”
 

Louise didn’t hear the rest. She had yet to prove it but the pieces fit too perfectly to be hearsay. She would like to talk with those at the garrison, and receive a report of what had happened. It was a matter of confirming Benoit as the Private in question. If so, she instinctively and logically knew the rest to be true: that Sophie had cuckolded her son and thus brought him to this end. And now, she, the child, the lover, gone, all gone, along with her beloved son, and with it, all his hopes and dreams. She wondered how many other people had been told of Benoit’s intent to kill and why. Without an inquest, whoever knew had kept quiet, and authorities had no
reason to suppose, other than on the face of it, that a presumed attack by Iroquois had never taken place. There had been but one “savage” in this battle, and he was merely a lovesick coward.  
 

 It sickened her to think of the waste of life, all for the sake of a greedy, libidinous woman…
 

She choked back her emotion on the next question. “Was the Captain’s body ever found?”
 

“No, only the Private’s.” The drink now seemed to revive his recollection. “He did say something that that stayed in my mind. The body was found in a little cove surrounded by rock. How the other body was swept into the open lake without catching on something is anybody’s guess.”
 

True, it was strange that Nicholas’ body had never been recovered while the other had. Surely some remnant would have arrived on or near the shore, in the time it took to recover the other body. Had animals ravaged it, some trace of bone or clothing would remain. She hated to dwell on the morbidity of it, but somehow the more it struck her as illogical, the better she felt.
 

Could he be alive? Did he manage to kill Benoit and get away? He was a seasoned soldier but the elements would have been too much to bear. What if he were captured by natives?  She had heard tales of such things before, horror stories. She shuddered to think of it…
 

“Better to be dead than come to that,” she thought, ruefully, more than ever convinced of her need to return to Montreal; to see Madame Girald and to tie up the loose ends of an unfortunate life.
 

……
 

The masks were spinning around him; grotesque … horrible in the firelight, meant to send he observer into paroxysms of bemusement. She had won, this claw-fisted witch, as he sat tied to the pallet post on the dirt floor; seeing her black-haired beauty, hearing the words that sounded more like incantations spewed by the Satchem, the rattles, the drum, everything designed to terrify the least empowered. He was as much shackled, as in his previous existence, only this time, without the ability to find vent, as his military career had been, and in a more life-threatening situation. He was sure that she hated him; if not he, white men in general and due to what he had undergone, he hated her too. In the days since he had been with her, she had treated him no better than the few dogs that roamed the village; foraging for scraps and favours. Only he was the one tethered.
 

She knew he spoke the language, but she never addressed him, tending instead to use hand signals or tugs on the rope to engender action. During the cold winter nights, while she snuggled up tight beneath a thick covering of pelts, he was left to the cold dirt floor; near enough to the fire in the centre of the longhouse to stay reasonably warm with a cover, but very uncomfortable given the still recuperative state of his legs. The food she gave him offered little in the way of sustenance. Sometimes, he would look at her when she wasn’t aware, and wonder at the cruelty or indifference behind the subtle beauty of her face; how a heart could be so tragically destroyed as to inflict such misery. And why in the midst of it all, he was to ask himself, did she so weave a spell upon him.  Why, when he gleaned her image changing her shift in the firelight; did the sight of those firm smooth breasts, the contours of her back, the slender hips and arms, send him into a covert state of arousal that nothing, not even sleep could fail to subdue? Such weakness toward the enemy was anathema to him, but so it was …
 

It was now days after his ceremony of enslavement, and Nicholas awoke to the customary, sharp tug on the rope, and a bowl unceremoniously handed to him. Once he had finished the meagre contents, he spent most of the morning and afternoon performing menial tasks within the longhouse, and was given a heavy fur cloak and a pair of snowshoes, which he put on with as much speed as his body would allow, and led outside. A latent snowfall had dumped a fresh layer
about the courtyard and beyond, though the sky was clear and bracing. At this hour, there were a few children playing in the chill and after watching for a few seconds - wishing to trade places - he and his mistress wordlessly proceeded out the gates of the village and into the field and wood.
 

The going was difficult; the leg hurt with every lift, but he gave no indication; trying to keep up with her along the path leading through the forest. They had taken a different route this time, having denuded much of the kindling in the local area, and thus, were forced to trek further. Doggedly willing himself to keep up, he half-limped along, till they made their way to a site more thinly forested.