Original Death (42 page)

By daybreak the mist was breaking up and they were on the opposite bank of the wide river. At Tatamy's direction the three canoes containing
Duncan, Conawago, and the Iroquois were in the front, and as they passed a small fog-shrouded cove, Duncan realized they were alone. The northern Mohawks had disappeared into the mist.

Duncan guided them warily along the wooded shore until the coughing cry of a merganser broke the silence, and two canoes shot out from a bed of reeds. The first, holding Woolford and one of his tribal rangers, circled them, offering quiet greetings. The second, holding three more rangers, took up position at the rear of the procession as Woolford directed them toward a point of land half a mile away.

Custaloga gasped as they entered the bay beyond the point. It was overflowing with British soldiers. Longboats were ferrying troops off transport ships. Mortars and cannons were being lowered from yardarm cranes onto squat gunboats. On what had been the broad pasture of a farm, troops were parading in time to loud drumbeats. A band played a jaunty tune as longboats disgorged ranks of redcoats. Scores of white tents were arranged in orderly rows on the slope above the field.

To Duncan's relief, Woolford turned toward the shore and directed their party into a grove of maples where half a dozen more rangers waited to guide them to a campfire for a hot breakfast. Woolford lingered by the canoes with Duncan, explaining the regimental flags arrayed along the waterfront.

The screech of a whistle, the double tones of a boatswain's pipe, interrupted them. As Woolford spun about, the color drained from his face. Two long boats rowed by sailors, one filled with a squad of marines and the other with officers in brocaded finery, were rapidly approaching.

“The grand bastard himself,” Woolford declared in a worried voice, and he whistled sharply toward his camp. The rangers began herding their guests deeper into the forest.

“Amherst?” Duncan asked.

No reply came, but none was necessary. Oars were shipped, letting the boats coast into the shallow water. Sailors from the officers boat leapt into the water to take a heavy chair held out by the marines, followed closely by two junior officers who assisted an older, bewigged officer into
the chair. As he was carried to shore, he had the air of a raja on his palanquin. His round, puffy cheeks showed signs of rouge, the brass gorget on his chest shined mirror bright. Duncan took a step backward, longing to be in the shadows.

“It is always reassuring to see our rugged frontline emerge safely from the forest,” the officer announced after he had straightened his uniform.

For a moment Duncan thought Woolford was going to bow. Instead he dipped his head and touched his temple with a knuckle. “General Amherst. We are honored.”

The general looked down his long thin nose at Woolford. “Do you bring word from General Calder, Captain?”

“He hopes you will not sweep away the enemy before he has a chance to join the field.”

Amherst offered a thin smile, then extended a hand to one of his staff officers, who quickly opened a silver snuff box. “We will draw the frogs out,” the supreme commander declared with a gesture toward his massed troops. “Then Calder will be the hammer that drives them onto our anvil.” With a delicate motion he lifted snuff with his finger and thumb then pressed it up his nostrils. For a moment his eyes narrowed and he studied the camp behind Woolford, then he withdrew a handkerchief and sneezed.

“I am going downriver for consultations with the navy,” he announced. “I look forward to news of Calder's arrival above Montreal.” He made a vague gesture toward the forest. “Carry on,” he said with a lightless smile.

“What in God's name was that about?” Duncan asked as the boats rowed away. “The king's anointed one came to show off his glittering snuff box?”

Woolford shook his head. “I wish I knew. He despises our Indian allies and anyone else who does not march to his strict beat. If I reported to him instead of General Calder, my company would be disbanded in a heartbeat.”

“But you are far removed from General Calder.”

“I am his eyes and ears.”

“Which Amherst knows.”

“Calder does not like to proceed onto unknown ground.”

“The payroll was going north to Amherst,” Duncan observed as he watched the retreating boats. “He must not take it kindly that Calder lost it.”

Woolford nodded. “Except that Amherst ordered the payroll investigation closed. I am commanded to gather battlefield intelligence. There are not just French and their militia to watch, but Huron and Abenaki and Caughnawag camps.”

“Meaning Calder is worried about them.”

“He is perhaps four days away, slowly making his way up the lake to the river. It is a laborious affair, moving thousands of men. And he has little appetite for moving into the chain of islands since he knows the half-king is waiting for him somewhere along the river, with a few hundred men at last report, and more no doubt pouring into his secret camp every day.”

Duncan extended the paper from Xavier. “Not so secret.”

Woolford's eyes went round with surprise. “I know this place, a few miles above Montreal. The island has a high ridge on the south and east that shields it from this side. He could mass an army there and not be seen.”

“But surely with Calder's strength—” Duncan began.

“His strength is hollow. One in three of his men are just recalled from the West Indies, meaning they are still weak from fever. Half the others may not be reliable.”

“You mean Highlanders.”

Woolford frowned, then nodded. “Several hundred are already here, with the troops that came from Quebec City. Amherst has his own watchers. He doesn't trust them.”

“And what will the generals do when they find they haven't simply lost the use of the Highlanders but have to face them on the battlefield?”

Woolford's head snapped toward Duncan. “Even speaking such nonsense would be considered treason by Amherst!” His expression soured as Duncan reported what the half-king intended to do with the Scottish troops.

“What will the English troops do when several regiments of Highlanders charge their line?” Duncan asked as he concluded.

Woolford stared intensely at Duncan. He grabbed a handful of pebbles, which he angrily hurled one at a time into the water. “The grenadiers will stand and die, and all the others will break and run, as any sane man would do. When the Highlanders have their blood up, they are a machine of death.” He looked at Duncan. “But if they were going to turn, surely they would have done so.”

“The moment of battle has not yet arrived.”

“Duncan, I cannot believe the Scots will betray their colors for a few pieces of silver. They are made of sterner stuff.”

“Exactly. The money is a token, an enticement, an excuse to get them to listen. What they will hear is that they finally have the opportunity to make a strike for the clans, to pay back the king for the way he has abused the Highlands. It won't be about the money in the end.”

“Surely they won't all desert just for some hollow vengeance.”

Duncan showed the ranger the paper with the Jacobite symbol on it. “Thousands gave their lives in the '46 uprising to support the Stewart prince. Families gave everything for their prince. He was like some mythic hero rising up to slay the monsters that plagued them.”

“You're talking history.”

“That same prince still lives. At the Vatican, with the Jesuits.”

“But the hold of the Jesuits here, and in Rome, has been slipping away.”

“Tell me this, Patrick: Who are the lasting enemies of England, enemies for centuries? It's not just the French.”

“Again, you're speaking of history.”

“Then you are as blind as Calder and Amherst. The Roman Church, the Jacobites, the French. The trinity that prays for the destruction of England. I spent last night with a Jesuit monk who exclaimed with great confidence about the new world that is coming. I met an old Scottish laird who was a leader of the Jacobites. He knows Rome. He is an intimate of the Stewart prince. The Jacobites and the Jesuits mean to carve out a new kingdom, supported by the tribes and the Highland troops. The theft of
the payroll, the kidnapping of the Council's children, and the rising of the half-king are all moves on the same chessboard.”

The remaining pebbles fell from Woolford's fingers. He lowered himself onto a log. “My God. The vengeful shouts of a western chieftain will fade. The half-king alone is a nuisance who may put off our victory for another year, nothing more. But a plot hatched in the Vatican . . .”

“Which has been looking for retribution ever since England split from the Holy Church. Thousands of innocents died then because of the words in prayer books. If the Vatican wishes to change the hearts of thousands, it sends out an army of monks. If it wishes to change an entire country, it sends out a handful of Jesuits. The Jacobite prince is desperate and embittered, but he is a devout Catholic living in Rome. By himself he has been powerless. But a few words spoken in the right ears in the Vatican brought an epiphany, that the Roman Church and the Jacobites might have common interests with the French in the New World. When their conspiracy succeeds, every river between here and the Atlantic will run with blood.”

Woolford lifted a stick and twisted it in his hands until it broke. “It's all too fantastic, Duncan. There is no proof. Every question is answered by a riddle.”

“That's the point. It isn't about the riddles, it's about the riddler.”

“You mean the half-king.”

“No. The half-king's is someone's soldier. There is a hidden chain that reaches through the old Jacobites to the exiled prince in Rome. I know the links to Rome now. But at the other end, there has to be someone close to army secrets, someone who understands the movement of Highland troops and paywagons. This is a clockwork maze of gears, but every clock has its mainspring. Something's been bothering me ever since Oswego. Why was Colonel Cameron so protective of Rabbit Jack and the poet of death?”

Woolford shook his head. “Ridiculous. Cameron is more English than I am. Amherst trusts him implicitly. They say he was assigned to Calder's staff to keep Calder in line. Amherst values him so highly he brought him back to help plan the battle.”

“Brought him back?”

“A fast escort of provosts riding with extra mounts brought him from Calder's column yesterday. He's the ranking officer of the Highland regiments.”

“What exactly did he do for Calder?”

“His adjutant, responsible for administration. Same as for Amherst, at least for the rest of the campaign. Overseeing the quartermaster, the infirmaries, deployment schedules.”

“Including the paymaster?”

Woolford hesitated before nodding. “And the paymaster.”

“Who would have been responsible for the report on the payroll robbery?”

“He would have been.”

“Get it.”

“Impossible.”

“You run an intelligence network for Calder. You have ways.”

“I don't spy within the army, Duncan. Stealing such a report would be a hanging offense.”

“You can only hang once.”

“You are the one who accumulates capital offenses, not me.”

“I am thinking more of how you are going to help me ransom the Council's children.”

AN ARMY WON battles on the strength of musket and sword. It won wars on the strength of oxen and wagons. General Amherst was famed not for his ability in a battle line but for his prowess at moving huge amounts of men and supplies to where they would do the enemy the most damage. Duncan could not help but admire the temporary city that Amherst was building. Hundreds of men worked at erecting tents, digging latrines, cutting and hauling wood for scores of fires, even raising high poles for regimental colors.

Woolford nervously watched Duncan as they paced along the neat
rows of freshly excavated earthen bunkers where kegs of gunpowder were being stored.

Duncan paused to watch one of the blue-coated artillery officers step into a pit and begin marking kegs with a piece of chalk. “Why does he do that?”

“An artillery officer's world revolves around chalk marks. Marks to show when a batch of powder was tested last, marks to distinguish the coarse powder for the big guns from the fine, which is saved for small arms. Marks to show the age of the powder. Marks to show whether the powder came from the Birmingham works or the Durham works, since each has its own characteristics. In the field, kegs have to be marked for delivery to specific batteries. They all have their own codes. And that is just the powder. There is also the shot. The munitions will go to half a dozen batteries being built along the southern bank. Those expecting to face troops will receive grape shot, those planning to face ships will get chain shot.”

“There's almost no roads on this side. So they must be carried by porters. The kind of menial job Amherst would expect the tribes to do.”

Woolford nodded. “He has lots of Mohawks already here.”