The Constable's Tale (28 page)

Pulling patiently on the oars, trying to muffle their entry into the water, and constantly adjusting for the gathering current, he thought of what lay ahead. He had only the broadest outline of a plan. Find Maddie, bring her back. If the French still valued Ayerdale’s services, unaware of his betrayal, they would not allow her to live to expose him, whether or not they lost Quebec. If Harry did nothing, Maddie would die, of a certainty.

The odds of a successful rescue seemed long. His best chance was they would be in disarray due to the shellings and constant anxiety over a final, all-out, do-or-die attack. He would need to enter without being noticed, and, against all reasonable expectation, somehow find Maddie and spirit them both away.

He did not fear being hurt, even dying. Never had, so long as his death was not a shameful one. What bothered him was his inability to imagine how it might happen.

His rowing position had him mostly staring at the British-held shoreline whence he came, convinced he was not making much progress. But this proved an illusion. When he next looked over his shoulder he saw a small dark beach, surprisingly close, sloping upward from the water.

The boat set up a startling clatter as it drove onto the bottom. Wood against gravel. Harry hopped out. He had hoped to secret the vessel somewhere along the shore for use in an escape but now feared the noise of pulling it any farther would give him away. After brief
consideration of how long it would take to swim back, he eased the boat into the river to drift away.

He took his time getting off the beach. Walked erect, as if he belonged there, rather than proving he did not by skulking. Just a man out for a nighttime ramble. The shadow cast by the moon preceding him among the pebbles. Finally he came to the trees. His way past was blocked by a wall of underbrush.

Maintaining an attitude of innocence, he clasped his hands behind his back as thoughtful people do and veered left. Moved his head from side to side as he proceeded, taking in the nighttime scenery as if enjoying a leisurely stroll.

From a small opening in the scrub came a sound of rushing water. Trees and shrubbery all but hid the stream as it coursed down the bluff at a steep crosswise angle. Alongside one bank was a trail. Or at least an irregular break in the vegetation that might pass for one. It was rocky and narrow, boulders slick with lichen and rotting leaves. A challenge even for a member of the goat clan, which Harry was not. Comet Elijah had once told him his Tuscarora spirit animal was a turtle. Not helpful here.

Starting up, his feet immediately slid from under him and he pitched forward onto all fours. His right hand caught the brunt of his attempt to break the fall, sending shards of pain through his wrist.

But no broken bones.

Barely able to see beyond the length of his arm, inch by inch, yard by yard, he continued the upward track. Grasping at bushes and saplings on either side to help haul himself higher. At intervals the solid rock gave way to shale, making footing all the more unstable. He lost track of time, thinking at one point he would never reach the top and be stuck here forever doing penance in a Canadian purgatory, at long last being made to answer for all the sins of his youth.

After a while the foliage became lower and scrubbier. Then, a glow of moonlight. Redoubling his care not to make noise, he slithered the rest of the way to the crest and peeked over.

A stone’s throw away stood a double row of tents. Twelve in all. Beyond them, an open field stretched into the distance.

He ducked his head. Waited for a challenge. Hearing nothing, he took another peek. From its puny size and apparently unguarded status, it did not seem to be an important outpost. He supposed the idea of any sizeable number of British soldiers storming up the path he had just climbed, especially at night, had been considered and deemed ridiculous.

Adopting the same casual manner he had used on the beach, he stepped onto the plain and started walking back in the direction of Quebec. After a short time, he came to a cornfield angling out between the field and the bluff, its withered stalks about head high.

Thankful for this cover, he entered it. But too late. Someone behind him called out a single word. It sounded like French, with the tinge of a question. Harry kept walking. Then, another word, more insistent this time. He wished he had taken the trouble to learn a phrase or two of the Gallic language, as his childhood tutor had urged. A simple “good evening” might have sufficed.

He turned around. Nothing visible but cornstalks and open field. Then a man stepped into view. It was a young Indian, probably in his teens. Bare from the waist up except for a chest plate of beads hanging from his neck. Deerskin leggings. Shaved head, a knot of hair at the very back.

“Canadien?”
he said with a questioning tone. He sounded friendly enough.

Harry smiled and nodded
. “Canadien,”
he said, imitating the accent.

The Indian said a string of French words. Harry smiled and nodded some more, then turned to continue along his way.

“Anglais,”
the Indian said. More a statement of fact than a question.

“No, no.” Harry turned back again, wondering what had given him away. Maybe his clothes, which were wet and bedraggled. As if he had just climbed a cliff.
“Canadien,”
he repeated, throwing in one more reassuring nod.

The Indian came forward. A knife, big and ugly, appeared in one of his hands as if by magic. Harry managed to sidestep his lunge, at the same time grabbing his own blades. A bronze wrist blocked Harry’s ax chop, colliding with the wrist Harry had injured. Bone on bruised bone. The jolt loosened Harry’s grip and his ax tumbled away.

Without pause, the Indian drove forward, knife aimed at Harry’s gut. Harry made a half turn to avoid the weapon while aiming his own knife toward the same region on the Indian. Both connected, but at glancing angles. The Indian’s blade ripped through Harry’s shirt, drawing a ragged line across his stomach. Then came the warmth of seeping blood.

They each stepped back and surveyed their injuries. From a quick glance Harry judged he had not been cut too badly. The Indian was wounded in his midsection as well, also bleeding, but not a torrent.

This will be over soon
, he told himself.

The fight had spilled into the open field. They began circling each other. The Indian treating Harry with respect based on their encounter. Harry felt every bit of Comet Elijah’s training flowing back. Endless practice with wooden weapons, lessons drilled into Harry’s sinews. Had it not been for his throbbing wrist and missing ax, they would be about evenly matched. But that they were not. He knew that to survive the night, he would have to be better than an Indian at Indian fighting.

They had gotten an audience. Five or six of the Indian’s mates had stepped out from the cornfield to watch. From their looks of anticipation, they seemed to be enjoying themselves as Harry and his opponent continued circling. Each making feints, then dodging away, judging the other’s reaction.

Harry settled his mind. After one more feint he would drive in, knife pointed straight ahead, like a spear, toward the man’s heart. Let his momentum carry him through, no matter what, like a mounted knight in a joust. They might both die in the clash. But it seemed his only chance to prolong his life at least for a few more minutes.

Then someone called out his name. Gave it a musical twist, emphasizing the second syllable. The way he first had heard it in Williamsburg and again in Boston. Only deeper, more authoritative.

French words followed, apparently aimed at the warrior. The Indian gave Harry a murderous look, then, slowly relaxing his pose of belligerence, backed away. From his expression, still not convinced the fight was at an end.

As soon as Harry judged himself out of striking range, he turned to look. Against all probability expecting to see the Baroness Contrecoeur.

Instead, what he saw was simply impossible.

Like a portrait painted in moonlight, a French officer in a white uniform jacket with blue facings sat atop a gray mare. He wore a black tricorn with cockade raked at a jaunty angle. Sword hanging from his hip.

“I can’t say I’m surprised to see you,” the man said. Harry thought he caught a wistful note. “I do hope you’re enjoying your stay in New France,
ma chéri
.”

CHAPTER 28

1: Every Action done in Company, ought to be with Some Sign of Respect, to those that are Present.

—R
ULES OF
C
IVILITY

HIS NAME WAS RENÉ-ROBERT D’BRIENNE DE BEAUMONT. KNOWN AS THE
Chevalier d’Brienne, he explained as they walked toward the city, the officer leading his mount. A major in rank, detailed since early in the war in America to spy on the British and recruit spies, adopting whatever disguise he thought suitable, even the one that he practiced in his private life in France. A few weeks previously he had received an urgent message calling him back to his regiment in Canada to resume his role as a regular officer of infantry, every man needed immediately
at the front. He was returning by horseback when he stopped off in Boston to mingle business with pleasure just once more at a gala ball. Tonight he had been sent to inspect a position in the French defensive line, a spot that had been weighing on General Montcalm’s mind in recent days, even though it seemed an unlikely avenue of attack.

Harry was still getting over his shock. Something bitter boiling up in his throat. “But . . . you and I . . .”

“And you did not know. But where is the harm? You found me attractive. And I, you. Affairs of the flesh, like those of the heart, take place mostly in the mind,
n’est-ce pas
? But I see you are wounded.”

“It’s not serious,” Harry said, as much out of hope as conviction. His attention remaining fixed on adjusting to the new reality. Trying to rid his mouth of the rancid taste that had come into it. The resemblance to the person he knew as Jacqueline was, by turns, tantalizing and stomach turning. The fair skin and slender build. The voice. Now a somewhat more masculine version of the one he had half fallen in love with. A matter of inflection. There was even a suggestion of lilac in the air on this mild, breezeless night.

Harry felt cheated. There would never again be such a woman as Jacqueline Contrecoeur living in his mind. Or would there? The thought made him shudder. Then it entered his head that this Chevalier d’Brienne might try to kill him in order to safeguard the secret of his pretended sex. Whether guessing at Harry’s thought, or just continuing his story, like a new acquaintance chatting up his life’s history, he said, “Oh, those who matter know all about my charade among the
Anglais
. We French are more accepting of unusual forms of human expression, especially such as mine.”

Continuing to anticipate Harry’s train of thought, d’Brienne said, “You need not think I am concerned you will expose my professional activities to the British. My work on your continent is done. I am returning at first opportunity to Paris to refute certain jealous lies that are being spread by my enemies in court. Whatever the outcome, I have grown weary of this business, anyway. I intend to retire from
service to the king and live out my life on my small estate fully and openly as the person I was born to be: a woman.”

To his surprise, Harry found he was getting used to the idea.

“Then it must have been you who’s been trying to kill me. And you must have murdered Major Browning. To keep Ayerdale’s secret safe.”

As soon as the words were out, Harry realized his blunder. D’Brienne stopped walking and faced Harry.

“You know about our mutual friend? The one from Virginia?”

Harry’s lack of reply confirmed it.

“So, you, too, heard the conversation on the night of the ball,” said d’Brienne, an expression of received truth coming over his delicate features. “I thought you had returned to the dancing after our tryst. How stupid of me not to realize. You must have remained on the balcony. I myself had returned downstairs, then sometime later followed the governor when I noticed him and the others going up. I was listening at the door. Not the best vantage point, but I heard enough of their suspicions of Monsieur Ayerdale and Major Brown’s purpose to expose him.”

“So you had the major killed. And you must have tried to kill me. Twice.”

D’Brienne brought his shoulders up in an exaggerated shrug. “If you recall, I tried to dissuade you from your quest before any of that happened. I have done only as I was bound by oath to my king,
chéri
. I had to protect our Richard from discovery. It had nothing to do with my affection for you, which I assure you was genuine. I hope that you, as a man of the world, can understand that.”

They fell into silence. Harry ruminating on their shared past as they continued walking and d’Brienne, he supposed, on Harry’s future. The likelihood that this headstrong American would expose Richard as a French spy at first opportunity.

If you only knew the whole truth about your Richard.

Trying not to appear too obvious, Harry glanced around, took notice of where the Indians were. They were close behind. Alert, he reckoned, for any attempt at escape.

“I thought the Contrecoeurs were enemies of the pope,” Harry said after a while. “Huguenots. Or was that another lie?”

“The Contrecoeurs were indeed Huguenots. The entire family was executed in secret several years ago. A cunning deception for me to take on the lady’s identity, you must agree. But perhaps it would be best if we spoke no more of these things.” He touched Harry on the arm. A tender touch. “You may find this hard to accept, Harry, but I bear you no ill. You’ve done as you’ve felt you had to do and I the same. As a trusted member of the general’s staff, I shall try to keep you from being shot.”

*

Three soldiers took charge of him at the city gate. They were all but lost in their uniforms, which might have fit them during fatter times. Still, they were strong and not at all gentle, despite d’Brienne’s brief and, given the circumstances, charitable explanation of Harry’s case, which he translated for Harry’s benefit. He was a native-born American citizen who had blundered into French territory by mistake. D’Brienne commanded them to treat him well while the case awaited disposition. They were roughly shackling his wrists behind him as the major spoke. Not seeming to pay much attention.