Rogue's Hostage (22 page)

He winced. "Don’t forget ‘filled with hate, obsessed with revenge.’"

"I was upset that day," Mara said. "I spoke in anger."

"No, Mara, you spoke the truth."

Her heart filled with hope. "Does this mean you have forgiven me?"

His crooked grin was all the answer she needed.

"And when were you going to tell me that?"

His grin widened. "Thought I’d let you suffer a little longer."

She made a face at him, then held out a hand. "I have missed you, brother."

He hesitated for a second then drew her into his arms, his chin resting on the top of her head. "And I you."

Mara hugged him tightly around the waist and let her tears flow freely while he rubbed her back and made soothing noises. For a moment, she felt like a little girl again, leaning on the big brother she adored.

"You are soaking my shirt," he complained in a mild tone.

She stepped back, laughing and crying at the same time. There was indeed a large wet mark on the front of his fine linen shirt.

"Here, use this instead."

He handed her a handkerchief, which she used to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. "What happens now?"

He stared across the encampment, a thoughtful look on his face. "That is in the hands of God, and General Wolfe."

"You know something, Gideon. Tell me."

He turned back to her and raised an eyebrow. "I cannot say."

Mara bit her lower lip. "But I thought you had forgiven me."

"That does not mean I trust you with military secrets." He tweaked her nose as he used to do when they were children.

She smiled at him fondly. It felt good to have her brother back. "I am not a spy," she protested mildly.

"No, but you have demonstrated a certain sympathy for the enemy."

"I no longer think of them as the enemy. I have learned that the French are like everyone else. Some are good, some bad. Most of the people I met are likable. They do not deserve to suffer any more than the English settlers did. But it is war, so one side must win and the other must lose,
n’est ce pas?"

"Yes, that is the way of things." He turned and called over his shoulder. "Come to my tent, little sister. Let us see what the cards have to say."

"Oh, Gideon, you do not still have that deck of Devil’s Cards?" she cried, hurrying to keep up with him. "Grandfather will be turning in his grave."

Gideon laughed recklessly, and the sound chilled her. Was he still living his life in defiance of their grandfather? The man had been dead for six years now, but his tyranny continued to rule them both.

No, she thought. She no longer judged everything in life by her grandfather’s standards. Unlike her, Gideon had been rebellious by nature, refusing to live by anyone’s dictates. Especially their grandfather’s. Perhaps his solution was the better of the two.

As long as it did not lead him to an early grave. She shivered and resolved to speak to him about that the next chance she had. He was all the family she had left. Perhaps, besides her child, all the family she’d ever have.

Slowly, she followed Gideon into his tent, thankfully noting that the remains of his breakfast had been cleared away.

He reached into his trunk and drew out the pack of cards, which he had carefully wrapped in a silk handkerchief, then spread them out on the table for Mara’s inspection. Surprised by their beauty, she stared at the colorful pictures, painted in brilliant shades of red, blue and gold.

"You see, Mara, they are just cards with pictures on them."

She gave him a sharp look. "Then why was Grandfather so opposed to them?"

Gideon snorted. "Because he was afraid of anything he did not understand."

"There must be more to it than that."

He handed her the cards. "Shuffle them."

As she did so awkwardly, he said, "To some, the cards are just a game. Others believe they can tell the future."

Mara gasped and handed them back to him. "Surely that is not possible, Gideon."

He shrugged and began to lay the cards face down in a geometric pattern. "Why not judge for yourself?"

Putting the rest of the deck aside, he turned over the chosen cards.

Fascinated despite her misgivings, Mara joined him at the table to watch. "What does it mean?"

He stared at the layout for a few moments. "I know it makes no sense, but some of these same cards turn up every time. This one, for example. The Lightning-struck Tower. I thought it represented the fall of Fort Duquesne, but here it is again."

Mara stared at the card and felt a chill go through her. "It is Quebec," she whispered. "The city has already been nearly destroyed. What do the cards around it mean?"

Gideon studied them for a moment. "In the past, the Tower has been surrounded by the suit of Swords, but this time it is the Coins. They tell of greed, jealousy, deception and treachery."

"Yes, that is right. Bigot has bled the colony dry, and the Governor-General has let him. Together they have blocked Montcalm at every turn. New France will fall to the English."

Gideon stared at her with upraised eyebrows. "Will it, by God?" He turned over all but the last card, naming each in turn: the Chariot, the Nine of Swords, and the Five of Cups. "Perhaps you are right, after all. The Chariot could mean victory, but the next card indicates it will come at a price."

"Doesn’t it always?" Mara asked.

"Yes," he said softly. "Death is the price of war."

She reached out to touch his hand. "Promise me you’ll be careful."

He smiled, but the look in his eyes was serious. "I will try. In any case, you will be taken care of. I have written a will naming you as my heir."

"Not you, too. Corbeau has said the same thing."

"Ah? Perhaps he cares for you after all."

Mara sighed. "I know he does, but he is too stubborn to admit it. Somehow he has gotten it into his head that he is not good enough for me."

Gideon chuckled. "For once he and I agree." Before she could protest, he held up a hand. "But this I promise you. If we meet again, I will make sure he does right by you."

She held her head up proudly. "I do not want him under those terms."

Gideon’s eyes narrowed in a stern glare. "Mara, you have to think about your child, now. Surely that is more important than hurt feelings."

"You are right, of course," she said, suddenly tired. She pointed at the card depicting five golden goblets. "And what does this one mean?"

"Tears and separation." Gideon frowned and turned over the last card. "The Lovers," he said with a sigh. "This has been the other constant. I can only conclude that it refers to you. And Corbeau."

His frown deepened as he reached out and mixed the cards together. "Bah, it is just a game. It means nothing." Rising, he strode from the tent.

Left alone, Mara picked up the card that had triggered his reaction, and warmth spread through her.

The Lovers. Her Lover. Jacques.
If this were not just a game, then perhaps there was still a chance for them to be together.

* * *

During the first week of September, the camp on the Etchemin River expanded to accommodate the bulk of Wolfe’s army.

Something was afoot, Mara thought, but when she asked her brother for confirmation, he just shook his head. By the tense look on his face, she gathered that he knew little more than she.

They were both taken by surprise when General Wolfe appeared in Gideon’s tent one day. Gideon leaped to attention, and Mara curtsied when she was introduced.

She could hardly believe that this painfully thin, unusual-looking man was the famous general. His sloping nose and receding chin gave him an oddly triangular profile. Instead of a wig, he wore his own dark red hair pulled back in a queue. He carried a rolled-up parchment under his left arm, around which he wore a black mourning band.

"Your sister, eh?" Wolfe said. "It takes a brave woman to follow the drum."

"Sir, Mara was taken captive by the French and brought to Quebec. She has only recently escaped from the city."

The general turned his watery blue eyes on her. "What are conditions like in the town?"

"Terrible," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. It would do Gideon no good for her to rail at the man responsible for the destruction, but it was hard for her to rein in her anger. "Most of the buildings have been damaged, if not destroyed, and food is scarce. Thanks to your rangers, the
habitants
will starve this winter."

The general rubbed his enormous nose. "Regrettable, but necessary."

Turning to Gideon, he said, "Harcourt, I understand you made a reconnaissance of the city earlier this year."

"Yes, sir."

Wolfe spread the parchment on the table. "How would you plan the attack?"

Gideon’s hand shook slightly as he pointed to the entrenchments on the northwest side of the Upper Town. "Sir, this is the weakest spot. I believe the best recourse is to attack from the landward side."

The general nodded. "So my brigadiers tell me. If we could get the army across the St. Lawrence above the town, Montcalm will have to come out and fight. Such a maneuver also cuts him off from his supplies."

Wolfe continued to stare at the map, absently picking at the cuff on his scarlet coat. "But where to cross the river, that is the problem."

He turned to Mara. "Madame, when you left the city, what route did you take?"

Mara licked her lips nervously. Why was he questioning her? She dared not mention Jacques. "I left by the St. Louis Gate and walked along the road until I…ran into a detachment of rangers who brought me to Gideon."

The general frowned. That was obviously not the answer he wanted.

"Mara," Gideon said. "Suppose you were a French prisoner who had a chance to escape. How would you get back to the city?"

Mara stared at the map, debating how to answer. Surely it would do no harm at this point. After all, Jacques was safely back in Quebec; she refused to believe anything else. Her loyalty was to him, not to the French, she reminded herself. And she did owe Gideon a debt for keeping her part in Jacques’s escape quiet.

She pointed to a spot on the north shore. "I would find a canoe and paddle it across the river to here. The Anse au Foulon."

Wolfe frowned. "Yes, I have noted that spot. It appears to be a steep slope."

"Yes, but there is a good path. That is where the farm women used to walk down to the river to do their laundry, only now they are afraid to do so."

"It cannot be too difficult if women can manage to climb up carrying wet laundry," Gideon said.

"True," Mara agreed. "And it is the route taken by the supply convoys."

The general’s eyes lit up at that piece of information. "Yes, we have noticed that there is a picket at the top of the cliff. Now I understand why."

Abruptly he rolled up the chart and turned to leave. "It has been a pleasure meeting you, Madame Dupré. Perhaps you will dine with me, after we have taken Quebec." With that, he swept out of the tent.

Mara stared at Gideon. "What was that all about?"

A rueful smile played about his lips. "I am not sure, but it can do my career no harm. You may have just made up for letting Corbeau escape."

September 13, 1759

The time had finally come, Gideon thought. By morning, the armies should be engaged in a final battle, one that could decide the fate of Canada.

He’d managed to work his way into the boat piloted by his friend, Ned Barham. He trusted Ned to steer them straight, despite the darkness of the night. The pale light of the quarter moon filtered through the mist off the river, providing just enough light to help the invaders but not enough to reveal their position to the French.

Gideon shifted slightly on the wooden seat of the ship’s boat, which was crowded with soldiers. They sat back-to-back, muskets held upright between their knees, shivering in the cold night wind. They carried only their muskets, ammunition, and a two-day supply of food and drink. That last included an extra ration of rum to chase off the chill of night on the river.

All was quiet but for the rushing of the tide and the creaking of the boat as it drifted downstream. Wolfe’s orders had demanded complete silence, and none dared disobey.

Gideon tried to quell the excitement rising within him. This was what he had been trained for, and he intended to do his duty no matter what the outcome. His only concern was for Mara, should anything happen to him.

He had taken a few moments before embarking to say farewell to her. She’d wept at their parting, begging him to take care. He smiled fondly at the memory. Being with child had turned his normally calm, practical sister into an irrational creature who wept at the slightest provocation. Though her tears moved him, he had made no promises, explaining that it was an officer’s responsibility to lead his men, not cower behind them.

By the position of the moon, Gideon judged the time at nearly four o’clock. They should soon reach the Anse au Foulon.

"Damn," Ned swore softly. "They’ve missed it."

Gideon stared at the shoreline and realized that the tide was carrying the boats past the desired landing spot. Ahead, the lead boats stopped in the shallows and soldiers spilled out, muskets held high.

Ned’s boat scraped on the gravel of the river bottom, then slowed to a stop. While the sailors steadied the vessel, the redcoats climbed over the side, landing in water up to their knees.

Gideon was the last to leave. Ned clasped his shoulder and whispered, "Good luck," as Gideon nodded and joined his men in the shallows, cold water swirling around his calves.

It was not the landing spot they’d been promised, but there would be no turning back now. Already the boats were heading upstream to pick up the next contingent of troops.

The first arrivals had started climbing the cliff, followed by each new boatload. Gideon assured himself that this was a great adventure, one to tell his children and grandchildren about, should he survive. He pushed his sword to one side and began the ascent, grabbing for a handhold on bushes and tree branches. Upward he climbed, scrambling to keep his footing in spite of the muddy soil and slippery shale that broke off beneath his feet.

He knew the leaders were nearing the top when a voice rang out in French.
"Qui vive?"

Another voice answered, in passable French.
"La France. Vive le Roi!"

Gideon held his breath, waiting for the French to respond, but when no further challenge was made, he relaxed. They must be expecting a supply convoy tonight, he thought. A few minutes later, shots rang out, and soon after the sentry post was taken.

By dawn, the path from Anse au Foulon was located and cleared of obstacles, and the rest of the army began marching up, two abreast.

As the sky began to lighten in the east, Gideon looked out over the Plains of Abraham toward the walls of Quebec, silhouetted against the horizon. It was time to bring down the Tower.

* * *

With the first light of day, Jacques trained his spyglass on the British ships across the river. They were up to something. All night the French had watched as signal lanterns were raised and lowered, and ship’s boats rowed back and forth, to no apparent purpose.

The batteries on both sides of the river had kept up an incessant firing all night, and the booming of cannon continued this morning. His ears rang constantly from the din.

He’d spent hours on duty with a battery on the cliffs above the river. Below him lay the devastation of Lower Town, a constant reminder of all he’d lost. Whenever he tried to grab some sleep, he dreamed of seeing the tavern hit by shellfire, of finding Mara in the wreckage, pale and lifeless, not breathing. In his dreams, he cradled her in his arms and prayed, but she never opened her eyes.

He’d wake up shaking, afraid to fall asleep again, worrying about Mara. Missing Mara.

He prayed she was all right. How he had hated leaving her alone to face her brother’s wrath. Jacques knew all too well how unforgiving families could be.

A movement caught his eye, and he turned to see a Canadian soldier running toward them. "What the devil…?"

The man stopped by the battery, gasping for breath. "The English…landed at Foulon," he said before racing off.

"What?" Jacques stared after him in disbelief. That was impossible. Even if they had managed the nighttime landing, Montcalm had said that a detachment of a hundred men could keep them from storming the cliffs. But that had assumed a force of French regulars, not Canadians who were inclined to sneak off whenever needed back on the farm.

Leaving Victor in charge of the battery, Jacques decided to check for himself. He headed for the walls on the landward side and climbed to the rampart above the St. Louis Gate. He sucked in a breath at the sight of the English army no more than three-quarters of a mile away.

The enemy ranks stretched across the Plains of Abraham, unmoving under a gray sky while a gentle rain drizzled down. The staccato sound of rifle fire resounded from a cluster of trees inland. From the direction of the river, a mournful wail shrieked as the Highlanders tuned up their bagpipes.

A chill passed over him. He did not doubt they meant business this time.

Jacques whirled and rushed back into the city. Artillery was needed, and now.

Back at the battery, he ordered his crews to move one of the guns. There were no draft animals left in the city, so the men would have to do it. Jacques led the way, carrying the equipment they’d need: a rammer for pushing powder and shot down the bore of the cannon, a sponge for swabbing out, and the worm, a long rod with a twisted metal end used to scrape out the bore.

Using ropes and sheer force, sweating and grunting from the effort, the men hauled the gun up the steep road toward the St. Louis Gate. The carriage lurched over rubble, and glass crunched beneath the wheels. At last they made it through the gate, then pulled and pushed the gun up a grassy slope until they had a clear field of fire.

Jacques chose two soldiers to send for ammunition. Thank God the powder magazine was just inside the gate. "Get case shot," he told them. "We want to take out as many Redcoats as possible."

The rest of the men maneuvered the carriage into position, then all but one left to return to their own guns.

"Scrub it out good," Jacques ordered. "It’s going to be a hot morning."

While the gunner cleaned the bore, Jacques used his quadrant to calculate the proper angle of elevation needed for maximum effectiveness.

To his right, he saw the French regulars arrive from Beauport. A figure on a gray horse headed for him—Etienne. He pulled up next to Jacques and leaped from the saddle.

"I never thought they could do it," Etienne said.

Jacques nodded agreement. The French had been so sure Quebec’s location was impregnable, they’d never finished the fortifications on the landward side, not to mention neglecting to set up cannons. Now they would pay for their complacency.

Etienne looked around, frowning. "General Montcalm ordered twenty-five more guns brought up from the city. Where are they?"

"I don’t know." Jacques looked around and counted only a handful of cannon. "We will have to make every shot count."

Etienne flashed him a reckless grin. "This is what a soldier lives for, no?"

Not unless he has nothing to lose,
Jacques thought to himself. Or no one to love. But Etienne had a son, he thought. And a wife who had made a mockery of his manhood.

Etienne clapped him on the shoulder and turned to leave.

Jacques stopped him with a hand on his arm as long-suppressed protective instincts resurfaced. "Do not be so quick to court death, little brother."

Etienne’s grin faded. "I must do my duty. The general is ready to fight."

Jacques frowned. "Surely he will wait for Bougainville." The young colonel had been sent upriver to protect against a British landing there. His arrival would bring the advantage of a thousand more fighting men, and neatly place the British in a trap.

Etienne mounted his horse. "We will not wait and give the English time to bring up reinforcements."

Jacques clenched his jaw. This was no time for impetuosity. Cool, clear thinking was demanded, not hot-blooded reaction. "For God’s sake, Etienne, be careful."

Etienne’s only answer was another grin and a smart salute before wheeling his mount and galloping off.

Jacques swore under his breath. He prayed his brother would heed his warning, for his son’s sake, if not for his own.

The two men he’d sent for ammunition returned, lugging bags of powder and shot. The process began. One man stood at the back of the gun and used his thumb to cover the touch-hole for safety. The others rammed powder, then case shot down the bore of the gun.

Jacques sighted along the barrel, checking the aim, then held the fuse to the touch hole. The gun lurched and fired with a roar. Smoke billowed from its mouth, stinging his eyes and filling his nostrils with its acrid odor.

Jacques stepped forward, out of the smoke, and trained his glass on the enemy. The other guns joined in. Case shot poured into the massed English troops, leaving holes in the line which were quickly filled up. Good, he thought. The more damage the guns did, the less danger for the infantry.

Behind him, his crew sponged out the bore and loaded again. They kept up a steady fire, while in front of him the white-coated French army lined up, six deep, facing the thin red line of the enemy. Interspersed with the regulars were Canadians in their darker gray coats, Indian-style leggings, and moccasins.

Montcalm, astride a black horse, rode along the line of troops, waving his sword high in the air. His men cheered his progress. They were ready to fight, indeed.

Spread out across the plain, columns of men surged forward, led on by the brightly colored regimental flags. Drums beat a staccato rhythm, a skittering counterpoint to the booming of the cannon. A hundred yards from the enemy, the front ranks stopped to fire a ragged volley. Jacques swore as the Canadians lay down on the ground to reload, forcing the regulars to march around them.

The British stood firm, unmoving, except to plug up the holes in their line. They had two field guns working now, lobbing shot into the advancing French troops. Jacques adjusted the angle of his cannon to aim at the British artillery.

He stepped forward with his glass. The two armies were close now, eerily so. At a range he estimated at forty yards, the British fired. Musket shot ripped into the French ranks, and when the smoke cleared, the damage was appalling. Bodies littered the ground, and those men still on their feet broke and ran.

The British advanced, hampered only by the covering fire of the Canadians. Jacques’s crew kept up a steady fire, but there was little they could do. He caught a glimpse of Montcalm, bent over in the saddle, and supported by three soldiers, riding through the St. Louis Gate into the city.

Jacques scanned the field hoping to spot Etienne and caught sight of his brother, about half a mile away. He was still on horseback, waving his sword, no doubt exhorting the fleeing soldiers to turn and fight, despite the tumult raging around him. The shouts of fleeing soldiers, the roar of the cannons, the crack of muskets, the screams of the wounded. Smoke filled the air, mixing with the smell of blood and death.

Jacques glanced toward the Beaufort Road. Where the hell was Bougainville? Without reinforcements, the day was surely lost.

Suddenly a gray horse came charging out of the smoke, its rider clinging to its mane. Etienne.

"No!" The word was torn from Jacques’s mouth as he leapt forward and grabbed the reins. The gray stopped abruptly and Etienne nearly tumbled from the saddle. "Good boy, easy now," Jacques crooned to the trembling horse.

"Jacques?" Etienne forced himself upright in the saddle, a grimace creasing his face. The right side of his white coat was stained with blood. "What are you doing?"

"Saving your sorry hide." Jacques eased his brother’s foot out of the stirrup, and mounted behind him. With one arm around Etienne, he urged the horse in the direction of the
Hôpitale Général.

Etienne moaned and passed out, his dead weight taxing Jacques’s strength. Grimly, Jacques held on. As he neared the hospital, Alain Gauthier appeared beside the horse. He supported Etienne while Jacques dismounted, then together they carried him inside. A nun pointed toward an empty cot, and they laid Etienne on it.

Jacques knelt by his brother and peeled back his coat, alarmed by the amount of blood welling from the wound. Ripping off his neck cloth, he tried to staunch it. "Get a doctor," he shouted at Alain.

"We have to go," Alain said. "The army is withdrawing to Beauport. If you stay, you’ll be taken prisoner."

Jacques glared up at him. "I can’t leave him like this. I won’t."

"He left you to die," Alain said softly.

Jacques’s mind flashed back to the day of the duel. Etienne had indeed turned his back and walked away. But the memory no longer held any power over him. All he felt was a sad ache for the time they had lost. "That is all in the past. I cannot leave him now. How could I ever explain that to Father?"

Alain gripped his shoulder. "Good luck, old friend. We will meet again, I hope."