Distant Fires (8 page)

Following the account of one Sergeant Lapontaire, who arrived with the child, the group chanced to meet a number of Sokoki Indians, who heard that the Iroquois villages were full of men in preparation for a journey into Onondaga territory, for a 5-nation council meeting in several days’ time. Seizing the opportunity, Charmion unwisely altered instruction, and decked his men in native paint and garb to enact a raid upon the natives, as they left the nearest Iroquois village.
 

Either the braves departed before they arrived or the information received had been faulty, for they discovered, all too late, that the village contained little more than women and children. It seemed that a few overzealous regulars had stolen into the community themselves, only to be sighted by a villager, and before Charmion had been informed, the men had, either ruthlessly or in a panic, set fire to the village.
 

While many had taken flight, it was not known how many had perished.  With the fires still raging, Charmion sent them off, with the order to deliver their small charge, and a report of the debacle, to Nicholas’ company in Montreal. When last seen, the soldier recalled, Charmion was making every effort to subdue the blaze and help the injured.  He would be, Lapontaire reckoned, but a day or two behind.
 

Nicholas received this news with vexation and dismay. While treaty between the French and Iroquois had long since been established, there had been intermittent skirmishes for many years, and it was presently in the interest of neither to renew the conflict, on any scale.
 

Thus, as Nicholas well knew, the burning of a village containing the most vulnerable and important members of Iroquois society—namely, the women and children—was not only an act of personal repugnance and outrage, but could have a virtually devastating effect on the Iroquois warriors, whom would spare nothing to exact their revenge.
 

Should his Captain and superiors in the Companies Franches de la Marine learn of his indirect involvement, he might, for this, his first professional blunder, receive severe reprimand, or possibly a demotion, the thought of which stung him with remorse and disillusionment? His father was, after all, the Governor of New France, and very proud of the position his son had garnered, on the face of his own merit. His shame was surely the severest chastisement.
 

But he must not think of that now.  For the present, he would await the return of Charmion, with a full account of the disaster. Then, to the matter of searching out the men responsible for torching the village, and setting them in irons…or worse.
 

Still, what of his small charge? When he first saw her, he was tempted to take her to the garrison at upper town where he was stationed, but realised that it was an inappropriate location for a small child requiring special care.  
 

The “Sisters of Charity”, or “Grey Sisters”, as they had come to be known, were better suited to her needs. Furthermore, they would ask no questions, and he needed time to gather all the answers before deciding upon a permanent placement for the child.
 

That is, if the decision were left to him.
 

For now, he was her self-appointed guardian, a feeling not altogether linked to his consciousness, and somehow closer to an emotion entirely new. He did not assess it, but as they continued down the “Point a Callieres”, stepping up to the thick, wooden door of the sombre stone structure, the child awoke slightly, only to cling ever more tightly to his grey and white uniform, and the pulse of feeling beneath.
 

Along with the British, her people were the most reviled in New France.  Now, she remained motherless, dispossessed of her birthright. In all probability, she would be subject to ridicule and ill treatment over her origins.
 

Could he allow this to happen when there was a possibility of altering the truth?  Given that it was known the Iroquois often took members of outside tribes—including Huron—as slaves, he could have her pass as the daughter of a Huron captive, and no one would be the wiser.  It was the least he could do, for he would not have her faced with further trauma and derision.
 

Presently, she appeared incapable of speech, and from what he had learned of the language from a turncoat Iroquois trader months before, the dialects were close. Regardless, as a Huron adoptee, to respond in Iroquois would not be cause for suspicion.
 

His only concern was that she be assured a good and just upbringing...he thought of his mother, her keen interest in such matters, but...she was beyond reach...
 

Nonetheless, with the present situation put to rest, he could do more for the child. Luckily his own Captain was to be away a number of days, and this, he hoped, would gain him enough time to gather information.
 

The weather-beaten door opened to a pale, middle-aged woman, clad in clean, but dreary, cast-off garments. Her hair was carefully covered, and in her hand she held a candle, which she extended, like a flickering beacon out of the dark, quieted haven of humanity, to their faces.  
 

“I have a Huron child to leave in your temporary care,” announced Nicholas. “Her name is Shanata.”
 

The leathery lines about her eyes crinkled in quiet solicitude, expressing a capacity for caring undiminished by the exhaustive demands of her ministrations.  
 

Her silent interest pressed him to continue. “I will return within a few days. She has suffered much, and will need quiet and rest—”  
 

He had not been able to finish his sentence when a second pair of arms extended to enfold the child. She awoke with a start, but did not cry or fuss. Rather, like some frightened fawn, cornered and unsure, she shot him a parting look of such resignation and sadness, he wondered if it were not best to take her with him.
 

Fortunately, sensibility overrode emotion. “No fear,” he said haltingly, in Iroquois.  “I come back. Just stay here a...little bit.”
 

He thought she had understood, but she continued to stare with the same piteous expression, and though, in the blink of an eye, she was whisked from his sight, he was left to wonder at the curious emptiness he felt in his arms—as in his heart.                                                
 

                      ………
 

The ground gave slightly underfoot from the rain of the previous evening, but neither Louise, nor her companion Madame Girald, took any notice, as they sauntered arm in arm across the gardens of the Chateau de Ramezay, chatting and inspecting the flower-lined paths to the walking rhythm of the ever-present foot soldiers.
 

Louise stopped to pick a handful of feathery, soft pink posies she spied at her side, a few of which she tucked into the honey-blonde curls of her upswept coiffure.  
 

Then, as Helene Girald watched in surprised delight, Louise spontaneously, and most indelicately, broke off a cluster, and in the next instant, stuck the oversized bouquet down the top of her décolletage, laughing.
 

How enchanting it is, to see in her this change
, thought Helene, with more than mild curiosity. It was not merely that the strength of the sun had, in her past week of travel, left an
attractive glow on her otherwise pale skin, but something in her easy smile and unselfconscious manner—much hidden in former times—so startled her hostess, causing no end to speculation in her mind. Was she expecting a child?  Could it be the warmth and well-being of the season?  Perhaps a change in scenery from life in the capitol?  
 

Then...there was the possibility...no. An improbable notion.  Louise did not seem to be the type of woman to involve herself in...an intrigue?  But then, the difference in her
was
striking...
 

That she was an undeniably attractive woman had never been at question.  But, it was an allure of the remote, the unobtainable, rather than this playful, almost lusty, air of appeal. Whenever they had been thrust together, at public events and private functions, their conversation invariably centred on the periphery of life; charities, fashion, safe topics, which found Louise skillfully avoiding any allusion to the personal.  
 

Still, Helene liked her, and felt that, had Louise been less reserved and in closer proximity, a true and abiding friendship might have formed. But, since her arrival the day before, that rigidly private persona seemed to have loosened in both speech and comport, and Helene was very anxious to learn the origin of this change.
 

I shall give her time
, she thought with amused interest, gesturing to her gardener for assistance with the flower cuttings.
I have an understanding ear, and a generous heart.  I trust that, ere long, she will have need of both
.
 

                                           ………..
 

Testing the water temperature with her palm, Louise lowered herself, with the help of her maid, into the milky bath; her flimsy bathing undergarments clinging to the round swell of her breasts, which buoyed like bobbing apples to the surface.
 

Almost at once, the perspiration began to bead and trickle, in slow tendrils, along the sides of her face and throat, as she closed her eyes and languorously surrendered to the enveloping essence of the moment. It seemed a very long time since she had arrived in Montreal and actually been alone, to collect her thoughts and wonder at having reached a personal rapprochement.
 

Little more than a week ago, she was far from calmly reconciled with her sullen conscience. Looking back to the days that followed that sinful night of awakened passion, she had adroitly managed to avoid contact with Armand, while he, too, either by intent or circumstance, kept to his own society. But by the morning of embarkation, it was with renewed consternation
she beheld his majestic good looks, and felt the heat of his furtive glance fuel the raging conflict within.
 

Their Galiote, a craft which was to be exchanged for Batteaux during the brief stopover in Montreal, was a medium-sized vehicle propelled by sails as well as oars, with a crew of fourteen, and had been simply outfitted by a former Governor with two cabins and a silk awning, under which they ate their meals.
 

Knowing that it was to be a cramped, five day journey—made worse by the addition of several members of their personal entourage—it was decided that nights would be spent in the comfortable lodgings of the Seigneurs, or landowners, who lived enroute.
 

With Louise and her maid confined by choice to her cabin, activity was limited to playing cards, needlepoint and reading, and although mealtimes inevitably brought her into contact with Armand, she steeled herself, with supreme effort, to remain unaffectedly genial.                                                    
 

The first few nights passed uneventfully, in the manor homes of Seigneurs, Robichaud, and Valcour; their rigidly formal homes and pretentious family members bearing little to offer, other than pedantic conversation and a place to lay ones’ head.
 

However, late in the afternoon on the third day, they docked near the home of a habitant; a farmer, or common man, who paid the Seigneur a small yearly rent, in exchange for use of his
land. His whitewashed abode, thought Louise, with its hipped dormer windows and distinctive sloping roof, exhibited infinitely more warmth and appeal than any of the fancier homes they had previously encountered.         
 

Moments after they disembarked, a man strode out of one of the barns, accompanied by a boy of about sixteen, each bearing what looked to be a pair of two-tined, roughly hewn pitchforks. Doffing his knitted hat, he identified himself as Georges Greavette, and informed the visitors that his Seigneur, Monsieur Couagne, was on an extended stay in Trois Rivieres, and that the manor home had been the scene of a recent fire, rendering it uninhabitable.
 

“But...you can stay in our house, if you like,” he said matter-of-factly, raising a calloused hand to shield his eyes from the sun, the tassel of his woollen cap dangling in tandem to his speech. “We like to sleep outdoors when it’s warm, and those that don’t can sleep in one of the out buildings.” He was a lanky, pipe-smoking man, clad in dark work clothes encircled by a loose belt, with native boots upon his feet.
 

It was then that his wife, a round, affable, middle-aged woman, hurried down from the house, wiping her hands across her apron. Her red cheeks were dusted with flour, as she smiled, curtsied rather awkwardly, and quickly took her place beside her man.
 

Felippe looked to Armand, who in turn, responded with a simple nod. Clearing his throat, Felippe replied, with a hint of hesitancy: “Yes. How very...hospitable.”
 

Though agreeably uttered, it was clear to Louise that he was not in earnest. While Felippe might value the service of the common man, she was certain his regard did not willingly extend to “share” lodgings. She recalled the evening in which they had planned the trip, when, for the benefit of Armand, he had attempted to appear the seasoned traveller in the colony, knowing he had not sailed further than Montreal.  
 

Often, over the past days, she had wondered how he would fare through the rugged second leg of the journey, with what she had heard of its unaccustomed harshness—the scourge of insects, gruelling portages, the uncouth men smelling of bear grease and labour, manning the many forts and outposts in their path. Thereto was the very serious possibility of confrontation with the natives? How soon would it be before he exchanged his shirts of Rouen linen, cravats of Broderie Anglais and satin cloaks, for clothes of buckskin or hemp and deerskin lace; suitable to travel along the treacherous waterways...