Rogue's Hostage (11 page)

In the end, it was a man of God whose actions sealed the fate of Fort Duquesne of the Blessed Virgin at the Beautiful River.

The irony of it was not lost on Jacques. The idea that a pacifist stood a better chance of ending the hostilities in the Ohio Country than the two armies currently on a collision course was too farfetched to believe, yet that was exactly what might happen.

When Captain de Ligneris had heard of the missionary’s presence in the area, he’d dispatched half a dozen officers, Jacques included, to the village of Kuskuskas, thirty miles from the fort. Despite his irritation at the man’s meddling, Jacques had to respect the courage of this modern-day Daniel who had walked so willingly into the lion’s den.

On the evening of November 20, Jacques and six of his fellow officers entered into a native building to meet with Christian Frederick Post, emissary from the governor of Pennsylvania to the western Indians, and sixteen representatives of the Delaware and Shawnee tribes. In a corner, Alain Gauthier set up a small writing desk with the paper, pens, and ink pots necessary to keep careful records of the meeting.

The missionary had been housed in a sugar cabin where, in the spring of the year, the Indians boiled the sap of the maple tree into sugar. A sweet scent pervaded the building, a piquant counterpoint to the smell of sweaty bodies.

As the evening shadows threatened to engulf the building in darkness, several Indian women came to light a fire in the center of the room. As the fire warmed the room, the tenseness of the meeting rose also. Despite the cool weather outside, the crowded conditions inside the hut raised the temperature until Jacques was uncomfortable in his wool uniform.

The French stood by and watched as Post tried to convince them to give up the fight against the English. Though he had been amply supplied with wampum, the mild-mannered Mennonite missionary’s nervousness was apparent. Yet his words, spoken in the Delaware language, were strong and eloquent.

Jacques walked up to stand beside Gray Wolf, who was listening intently to what Post had to say.

In a soft voice, Gray Wolf translated the gist of the speech, that a great conference had been held at Easton, attended by the Six Nations of the Iroquois and nine other tribes. In return for peace on the frontier, the English had signed a treaty promising not to settle or hunt beyond the mountains. Finally, Post urged the chiefs in attendance to return to their homes and fight no more.

When Post was finished, Crazy Badger, who had never been known to walk away from a fight, challenged him. "Why should we believe your lies? When the English decide they want our lands, they will break the treaty and cheat us again."

Shingas, a chief of the Delaware, rose to apologize to the missionary. "No one here is to molest this man or anyone with him. It is for the chiefs of the Delaware and Shawnee to decide what must be done."

After the chiefs left to confer in private, Jacques turned to Gray Wolf. "Crazy Badger has the right of it, my friend. If you abandon the fight against the English now, you will only have to fight them again later."

Gray Wolf studied him, his expression grave. "That is easy for you to say. This is your fight, not ours."

"No," Jacques denied with a shake of his head. "It is yours, as well. The English are land hungry. They will push and push until there is nothing left for your people or mine. We are not interested in colonizing the continent."

Gray Wolf folded his arms across his chest. "Then why did the French claim our land for their king?"

Jacques waved a hand in dismissal. "That was a warning meant for the English. A way to keep them from spreading westward from the coast, not an attempt to take land from your people. Who do you trust?"

Gray Wolf bared his teeth in a predatory smile. "I would be a fool to trust any white man."

"What about Post?"

Gray Wolf nodded thoughtfully. "Post is our brother. He speaks our language. He has taken a Delaware woman to wife."

"But surely you do not trust the English," Jacques insisted.

Gray Wolf’s answer was an expressive shrug. "My people will have to deal with the victors in any contest between French and English. And at the moment, I doubt the English can be stopped."

Jacques swore under his breath. "How can we hope to win when our allies desert us?"

Gray Wolf countered with the one argument Jacques could not refute. "We were at peace with the English until the French came to our lands. We traded with them, and received better value for our furs than we have been getting from Canada. This is not our battle."

Jacques’s reply was sharper than he intended. "Then you will fight next time on your own, and I wish you the best of luck." A bitter sense of betrayal welled inside him. Frustrated, he turned on his heel and walked back to confer with his fellow officers.

The French were allowed to speak first. Alain Gauthier spoke for Captain de Ligneris, who claimed to be ill. It was no secret around the fort that his illness was caused by too much wine.

After Alain reiterated what Jacques had already discussed with Gray Wolf, he held up a string of wampum and offered it to Captain Pierre, a chief of the Delawares. The French knew the decision had gone against them when the Indian knocked the belt from Alain’s hands and kicked it. Others joined in the game until the room was filled with jeers and swinging feet. Even Crazy Badger seemed to forget his objections to the English proposals.

Jacques exchanged an incredulous look with a pale Alain Gauthier. It was as clear a message as Jacques had ever seen.

Stunned by the outcome, he walked out into the dark, moonless night. Outside, he breathed a sigh and watched it frost in the cool air. Overhead, stars twinkled brightly, but the cold reminded him it was only a matter of time until the arrival of the first snowstorm.

The sooner the better, he thought. The advent of winter would stop the British in their tracks and buy the French more time. But time to do what?

Under normal circumstances, winter quarters meant a break from the hazards of campaigning. A chance to rest, eat, drink, gamble, and woo the women of the town. The thought of spending the next five months in Mara’s arms flashed through his mind briefly, but the chances of that were slim. A cessation of hostilities would give her brother a perfect chance to ransom her, and Jacques would have to let her go.

Much as he hated the thought, he could not ask her to share the hardship of a winter at Fort Duquesne. They were cut off from Canada, running out of food, and without allies.

It was just a question of which disaster struck first, the snows of winter or the fire of the British guns.

* * *

Mara stood by the river and waved good-bye to the Bernards, as the
bateaux
holding them and the Illinois militia floated downstream.

The bleakness of the landscape matched the chill in her heart. The last of the fall leaves had fallen to the ground, leaving bare branches silhouetted against a gray sky. A cold wind brought tears to her eyes, destroying the promise she had made to herself not to cry. Sophie and Babette had wept openly at their departure, and though they had pleaded with her to join them, she had refused.

Jacques had told her about the meeting between the Indians and the missionary. In the week since, the Indians had deserted Fort Duquesne while the British army had drawn nearer. A few days ago, after a scout had reported the enemy was a scant twelve miles away, Captain de Ligneris had decided to abandon and destroy the fort rather than let it fall into British hands.

The fort’s inhabitants were being sent in several directions. Also headed for Illinois were the remaining British officers, Cameron Shaw among them. Mara had been sorry to see him go, for up to the last, she had harbored hope that the two of them could escape and join the English.

Squaring her shoulders, she headed for the trading post. A gust of wind blew a brown leaf in front of her. She watched it being buffeted aimlessly above the ground, just as she had been swept up by the winds of fate and dropped in this cursed place.

Time was running out for them all. Unless something unforeseen happened in the next few days, the English army would reach the Ohio. Before that happened, the French planned to blow Fort Duquesne skyward. It was a last desperate act of defiance, one she could understand, for she had formed her own mad scheme, one that offered her a last chance of escape.

Tonight she planned to go to Jacques and offer him one final bargain—her body for her freedom.

She did not doubt he would accept her offer. Had he not made his desire for her clear enough? The only question was whether she had the courage to go through with her plan. She tugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, in part because of the chilling wind off the river, but also to still the trembling that had started within her from fear and anticipation.

Entering the trading post, she barred the door, wanting no interruptions while she prepared for this evening’s rash gamble. Her steps echoed in the empty building, reminding her how alone she was at this moment. She hurried into the living area and closed the door to conserve the warmth from the fireplace. Before leaving, she had coaxed the fire, then piled a good-sized log on top, an extravagance she could seldom afford. There would be no need to extinguish the coals when she left, for fire would only aid the destruction of the fort. For now, she could burn as much as she desired.

She sat by the fire, unbraided her hair, and slowly brushed it. The warmth of the flames and the rhythmic pull of the brush soothed her until she felt almost boneless. Her eyes drifted shut, and for a moment, she considered abandoning her plan. It would be so easy to crawl into bed and sleep the sleep of the blameless. But sleep would not win her freedom.

With a sigh, she rose and walked to the bed where she had laid out the mended, blue silk gown. She and Sophie had tried hard to salvage it, carefully sewing up the tear in the sleeve. The repairs were obvious, and she had not been able to remove the rusty stains where Vache had bled onto the skirt. It was not fit to wear again in public, but for tonight it would serve.

Changing into the gown, she noticed that it no longer fit as snugly as it once had, but everyone at the fort had lost weight. Lacking a mirror, she checked her reflection in the wavy glass of the window. It was the best she could do on short notice. Despite her denials, Jacques had boasted that she would wear the dress for him one day. And now that day had come.

It was time.

Resolutely, she threw a shawl around her shoulders and left the trading post, trying not to feel like a prisoner marching to the gallows.

* * *

Jacques rolled up a clean shirt and put it in his knapsack. The need to pack light meant only necessities. Unless the English suddenly turned around and marched eastward, the remaining French soldiers would soon be on the march north to Fort Machault.

He had managed to keep Mara from being sent to the Illinois country by reminding his captain of the expected ransom. When Alain had accused him of being obsessed, he had not denied it.

Jacques yawned and flexed his sore shoulders. He and Alain had spent the day planning how to set the explosion to destroy the fort, including inspecting every barrel of gunpowder in the magazine to separate the spoiled ones.

He had just removed his jacket when someone knocked on the door. Opening it, he was stunned to see Mara. "What is it, madame? Is something wrong?"

She bit her bottom lip and glanced quickly around the room. "Is Alain here?"

A pang of disappointment shot through Jacques. Would she never seek him out? Her hair was unbound, a golden cloud spilling around her shoulders. She looked like a woman meeting her lover, and he found it impossible to keep the chill out of his voice. "Alain is on duty."

"Good. Then we will not be disturbed."

To his complete amazement, she walked into the room, barred the door, then turned around and removed her shawl. He caught his breath when he saw that she wore the blue silk. He stared at her cleavage as his stomach twisted in a hard knot of need. It was a struggle to keep his response under control. Swallowing hard, he said, "You were able to mend the dress, after all."

She smiled a bit ruefully. "Not as well as I’d hoped, but I wanted to wear it for you one last time."

Jacques shook his head to clear it. Was he asleep and this episode some strange dream? He walked toward her and lightly touched her arm. She was real. Dear God, this was no dream. Caught between disbelief and enchantment, he wondered why she had come to him. "To what do I owe this visit,
chérie?
Dare I hope that you were lonely for my company?"

She made no reply, just pulled his head down, her hands tangled in his hair. Gently, she touched her lips to his in a tentative caress. He stopped trying to still the spiraling desire in his loins. With a groan, he settled his mouth on hers, gently at first, then coaxing, demanding more from her. His hands spanned her slender waist, drawing her to him, marveling at the contrast of cool silk and the heat of her flesh underneath. Slowly, he caressed her side, then cupped her breast in his hand, feeling the nipple grow taut.

She froze for a second, then made a slight movement against the pressure of his hand.

"Mara," he breathed and drew back to look at her face. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, her color high. Though befuddled by longing, he was yet aware that she was behaving oddly. With a sigh, he removed his hand from her breast and made one last attempt to keep his honor. "I don’t understand, Mara. What is happening?"

Her eyes darted away from his nervously. "Do you remember the day you brought me here?"

He smiled at the memory. "How could I forget? You barred me from my own quarters."

She waved a hand in the air. "Not that. I am referring to the bargain we made. I agreed to be more obedient if you…"

"If I stopped trying to seduce you," he finished. "And I was unable to keep my end of the bargain. Did you come here just to remind me of that?"