Authors: Pamela Clare
He’d left just after breakfast two days’ past, finding it even more difficult to say farewell to Amalie than he’d imagined, something twisting in his gut at the sight of her tears. “I’ll come back as soon as I can. I dinnae ken when that will be.”
In the doorway behind her, Iain and Annie watched, and Morgan had known they would offer her what comfort they could once he had gone.
“H-how will I know whether you’re safe?”
“If augh’ should go amiss, Connor will send word.” He kissed the salty tears from her cheeks. “You worry overmuch, lass. All will be well in the end.”
She’d nodded, but he could tell she wasn’t convinced. “I miss you already.”
“And I you,
a leannan
.” He’d held her against him and kissed her long and hard. Then, giving her hand one last squeeze, he’d turned and walked away, pain flaring sudden and sharp in his chest.
But he’d not gone far when he heard her call after him. “Morgan, wait!”
He’d turned to find her running toward him, her skirts lifted off the ground, her dark hair streaming behind her. “Amalie, lass, what is it?”
She’d leapt into his arms and kissed him with a fierceness that had taken him by surprise, her arms thrown round his neck, holding him fast. Then she’d met his gaze through eyes brimming with fresh tears. “I love you, Morgan MacKinnon!”
The breath had left his lungs in a rush, the pain behind his breastbone seeming to split his chest wide open. He’d drawn her close, kissed her hair, wanting never to let go. “And I love you, lass.”
It had felt better than he’d imagined to hear those words from her and to speak them himself. And he realized he’d wanted to speak them for a long, long time—perhaps since the first time he’d kissed her.
Now it seemed like weeks since he’d last seen her, and yet it had been only a couple of days. Traveling alone, he’d made swift progress and would soon be within sight of Fort Edward. The sutler rolled slowly by, disappearing down the road, the clatter of hooves and boots and steel fading into silence.
Rifle in hand, Morgan rose and moved quickly and quietly through the trees, mindful of the fort’s sentries. Then the forest fell back and the Hudson spread out before him. To the south, in the middle of the river, stood Ranger Island, large enough to house six score of Rangers and a hundred Muhheconneok, together with gardens for growing food and parade grounds for morning muster. For the past four years, it had been his home.
On the eastern bank, connected to the island only by a bridge made of bateaux that had been lashed together and covered by planking, stood Fort Edward, its ramparts guarded by redcoats, the Union Flag fluttering in the breeze.
You ne’er thought you’d be glad to see this place, did you, lad?
Nay, he hadn’t.
He took cover amongst the trees and whistled out for his men, the call that only a Ranger would recognize. Then he settled in to wait.
“T
he redoubts and smaller entrenchments will go here, here, and here with enough men to hold off an attack should the enemy try to come at us from behind. A force of no more than a thousand men should suffice. If supplies arrive as scheduled, we shall depart for Fort George in one week’s time.”
William listened as Amherst, who had arrived with his troops eight days ago, once again discussed the entrenchments he planned for the ruins of Fort William Henry. Determined to avoid the mistakes of both Munro, who’d found himself suddenly surrounded at William Henry, and that imbecile Abercrombie, who’d given away a sure victory, Amherst was leaving nothing to chance. He was a skilled strategist and ruthlessly ambitious—qualities William both understood and admired and which had helped Amherst earn the favor of William Pitt, His Majesty’s irritating secretary of state.
And if his ambition on occasion ran to cruelty?
Though William admired him, he did not trust him.
“Indeed, sir, a thousand men ought to be sufficient.” William gazed down at the map upon the familiar landscape between Fort Edward and Ticonderoga.
“We must also find a way to curb these desertions. Already this month, we’ve lost forty-three provincials and—”
Beyond the closed doors of William’s study, there came a ruckus—raised voices. Then the doors were opened and Lieutenant Cooke hurried inside, wide-eyed, a stunned expression on his face. The reason for his astonishment stood directly behind him.
Major MacKinnon.
He filled the doorway, tumpline pack on his back, Captain MacKinnon and several Rangers forming an armed escort behind him.
“Why, Lieutenant, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Unlike poor Cooke, William was not surprised by the major’s sudden appearance. He’d been expecting him ever since Captain MacKinnon had reported rescuing him from a band of Abenaki. When William had asked the captain why his brother had not returned with him, he’d said the major could not keep pace because of his injuries and was making his way as best he could, accompanied by Captain Joseph and his men. William had found himself hoping that the major would have some explanation for his survival—and for Montcalm’s damning letter. Then, two days ago, Bourlamaque’s missive had arrived, and William had realized there was more to this story than he yet knew.
“You are dismissed, Lieutenant. Please escort Captain MacKinnon and the other Rangers back to Ranger Island and order them to remain there.” He waited for the doors to close before he spoke again. “Major, you look remarkably well—for a dead man.”
Then Amherst stepped forward. “Is this your traitor—your Major MacKinnon?”
William straightened the lace at his cuffs. “This is Major MacKinnon, yes. Whether he’s a traitor remains to be seen.”
The major strode forward, his gait marred by only the slightest limp, his countenance remarkably calm given the gravity of his situation. “ ’Twas perhaps too much to hope for a hero’s welcome, but I’ll no’ be called a deserter nor a traitor by any man. Major MacKinnon reportin’ for duty, sir. I bring word of Montcalm’s secret plans for Ticonderoga.”
“Y
ou instructed their soldiers in marksmanship?” Amherst asked the question again, this time in a tone of voice most men reserved for bairns.
A tall man with a strong jaw and prominent nose, he might well have been the only man Morgan despised more than Wentworth. For five long hours he had interrogated Morgan, insisting that Morgan be stripped of his gear and weapons and that guards be stationed outside the door. ’Twas clear he’d found Morgan guilty before Morgan had spoken a single word.
Morgan fought to keep his temper in check. “Aye, sir.”
Wentworth sat in silence as he had for most of the interrogation, listening, his fingertips pressed together, his gaze focused on his infernal chessboard.
“You instructed French soldiers in marksmanship, knowing that these same soldiers would soon take aim at British troops and even your own men?”
“Aye, sir, but I wasna a very skilled teacher. They learnt little to their benefit from me, precisely because I didna wish to cost even a single British life.”
“And the information you gave the enemy—the sites of your caches, your campsites and rendezvous points, your trails in the forest…” Hands clasped behind his back, Amherst rocked back and forth on his heels. “Did it not occur to you that your own men—
men loyal to you
—might die as a result of your loose tongue, or were you content to trade their lives for your own?”
Morgan found himself on his feet, his fists clenched. “I value their lives more than my own, which is how I came to be shot in the first place,
sir
. I gave Bourlamaque only information that wouldna be of use to him. I ken my men, sir, and no’ a one of them is fool enough to blunder into a campsite or up to a cache wi’out first kennin’ “tis safe.”
Amherst’s lips curled in apparent disgust. “You cannot be certain of that, Major.”
“Aye, I bloody well can. We Rangers have…” He stopped short of saying “Rules.” “We have our own way of fightin’, our own way of movin’ through the forest. I ken what my men will do afore they do it. ’Tis how we stay alive and
how we win
.”
Amherst looked taken aback. “Is that so?”
Then Wentworth spoke. “The Rules of Ranging, sir.”
Morgan sat with a groan, wishing he could make Wentworth swallow his words.
“Rules of Ranging?” Amherst repeated stupidly. “Why am I, His Majesty’s major general, not familiar with these rules?”
“Because they are secret.” Morgan glared at Wentworth. “No one who’s no’ a Ranger is permitted to ken them.”
“Even I, His Majesty’s
grandson,
do not know them, sir. Few are aware they exist. The Rangers protect them with their lives.” Wentworth met Morgan’s gaze with cold gray eyes. “Am I correct in assuming that your Rules remain secret?”
“Aye, sir. Bourlamaque kens nothin’ of them.”
Wentworth nodded, his dark eyebrows arching upward. “So you pretended to accept Bourlamaque’s offer of sanctuary in hopes of one day escaping with information of value to His Majesty.”
“Aye, sir.” Morgan felt certain Wentworth believed him. “And, saints be praised, I did—though my escape came in a fashion I’d no’ expected.”
“Tell us once more why you did not accompany Captain MacKinnon and the men back to Fort Edward?” Amherst asked. “They arrived six days ahead of you.”
Morgan answered the question yet again. “I’d been struck on the head, and my leg is no’ as strong as it once was. I didna wish to hinder them. I made the journey wi’ Joseph and his men, stoppin’ at the farm to let my brother and his wife ken that I yet live, then makin’ my way here.”
“Is that where you left her?”
Wentworth’s unexpected question hit Morgan between the eyes. He fought to keep his face impassive, leaning back in his chair as if he hadn’t a care in the world, crossing his arms over his chest. “I dinnae understand your question, sir.”
Wentworth stood, walked to his window, looked outside. “Is that where you left Amalie Chauvenet? The Chevalier de Bourlamaque’s ward. The young woman you brought back with you from Ticonderoga.”
How in the bloody hell did he know about her?
Even as the thought raced through Morgan’s mind, he understood.
Bourlamaque.
But Morgan was spared the need to answer Wentworth’s question by Amherst, who crossed the room to Wentworth’s writing table, took up a piece of parchment, and began to read aloud, his nasal baritone filling the room.
“ ‘My Dear Brigadier General Lord William Wentworth, and et cetera, et cetera, I write to inquire as to the welfare of my ward, Amalie Chauvenet, daughter of the late Major Antoine Chauvenet. She was forcibly taken from Fort Carillon some days past. You will find her with Major Morgan MacKinnon, who survived his injuries after all. I should like her given all respect due her station and am willing to offer recompense for her safe return. Yours, and et cetera et cetera, le Chevalier de Bourlamaque.’ ”
Morgan could feel Bourlamaque’s wrath in each and every word, could feel his sense of betrayal, his injured pride. Bourlamaque was so angry with Morgan that he was willing to expose Amalie to the wrath of his men, rather than allow Morgan to keep her as his wife. And he’d dangled the perfect bait before Amherst and Wentworth’s noses—a prisoner exchange.
Amherst looked up from the parchment, his gaze challenging Morgan to gainsay the letter in his hand. “What say you to that, Major?”
Knowing there was no use in trying to hide the truth, Morgan stood. “Amalie Chauvenet is my wife, given into my hand by Bourlamaque himself and wed to me by his own priest in his own chapel at his command. He seeks her back out of anger that I betrayed him, but she’s no’ longer his to protect. I willna yield her nor leave her subject to any man’s will
but my own
.”
“Catholic unions are not recognized by the Crown, as you know, Major.” Wentworth turned to face him. “If returning this young woman to her ward can free British officers from imprisonment on a French barge, it becomes your patriotic duty to cooperate.”
It was all Morgan could do to keep his fists at his side. “I’ll be dead afore I’ll let you lay hands upon her.”
“Aye,” Amherst said with a smirk, “you might well be.”
“W
e shall try him and hang him before I depart for Fort George.” Amherst took a sip of his cognac.
“Certainly we shall try him.” Wentworth poured himself a glass and set the bottle aside, weary of Amherst’s company. “Whether he is to be hanged rather depends on the verdict, does it not? He does offer plausible explanations for all that he’s done.”
In fact, the major’s explanations had done much to satisfy William that he was innocent of treason. The information he’d stolen from Bourlamaque’s correspondence had been most revealing and, in the right hands, might speed a British victory. Truth be told, William felt more than a little pride that one of his officers had managed to play such a dangerous game—and survive. Unfortunately, it had become clear to him that Amherst’s dislike for colonials, and for Catholics, had quite prejudiced him in this case.
“If we choose the right officers for the jury, we ought to be assured of the outcome. Watching MacKinnon dance at the end of a rope would do much to quell further desertions amongst these colonials.”
William sipped his cognac, choosing his next words carefully. Though he himself was of noble birth and grandson to the king, Amherst was Pitt’s favorite, and Pitt was fully in command of the war effort in the colonies. William could not afford to antagonize him. “It is my understanding that British justice seeks to avoid hanging innocent men.”
Amherst gave an impatient flick of his wrist. “We must make an example of someone. I do prefer hanging over a firing squad, as hanging generates more suffering and therefore more terror amongst those who watch.”
“By all means, set an example, but let us first find someone guilty.”
But William’s words seemed to fall on deaf ears.
“We shall have to force Miss Chauvenet’s whereabouts from him before he is hanged, of course.” Amherst sat in the chair William usually kept for himself. “Let us question him again in the morning, and if he still refuses to give up her whereabouts, I shall order him flogged.”