by Pamela Clare
Lieutenant Rillieux leaned back in his chair, his face a wide grin. Alone of the younger officers, who favored their natural hair, he wore a powdered wig, the white a marked contrast to his olive skin and dark brows. “Let him do his worst.” Amalie stifled a gasp. How could he tempt fate in such a way when it could mean the deaths of his own men? He’d do far better to pray for peace!
But Lieutenant Rillieux didn’t seem to realize he’d said something thoughtless. “We shall drive Amherst back into the forest just as we did his predecessor. My men are ready.” “Were they ready when MacKinnon and his men attacked that last supply train?” Bourlamaque raised an eyebrow in clear disapproval. “We lost a fortune in rifled muskets—not to mention several cases of my favorite wine. No matter how well you prepare, the Rangers seem to stay one step ahead of you.”
Amalie’s belly knotted, as it did anytime she heard mention of MacKinnon’s Rangers. They seemed to be everywhere and nowhere, these men who had killed her father. Although Papa had reassured her that there was no such thing as chi bai, she’d begun to wonder if her cousins were right. Perhaps the Rangers weren’t men after all Lieutenant Rillieux’s nostrils flared, and he bowed his head in apology. “My regrets once more for your loss, monsieur. The MacKinnon brothers are formidable adversaries, but we will break them.”
“Let us hope so. Perhaps now that the eldest MacKinnon has been released from service, the Rangers will fall under poor leadership.”
“I doubt that, monsieur. Morgan MacKinnon is every bit the woodsman, marksman, and leader that Iain MacKinnon was. It would be foolish to underestimate him. But arrangements have been made. As I said, my men are ready.” Amalie wasn’t ready. She hadn’t forgotten last summer’s battle and feared the prospect of renewed bloodshed. Her grief for her father was still keen, her dreams filled with musket fire and the cries of dying men.
If only this accursed war would end! Life would be free to blossom again in New France. Sails would fill the harbors, bringing not soldiers but men and women who wanted to build homes and raise families here.
And what will you do, Amalie? Where will you go when the war is won?
Bourlamaque, who was now her guardian, believed that it was past time for her either to take vows and serve Christ or marry and serve a husband.
“I would see you safely settled,” he often reminded her. “It is my duty to your father.”
But Amalie had no desire to return to the dreary life of the abbey. It seemed to her that she’d drawn her first real breath when, after sixteen years, she’d left its walls. There she’d felt listless, as if some part of her were trapped in slumber. Here at Fort Carillon, in her father’s company, she’d been truly happy. She’d felt alive.
She supposed she ought to marry, and yet in her grief she had not the heart for it. Bourlamaque assured her that a husband and children were the answer to her sorrow, and she knew he believed a swift marriage would be best for her. Still, she had hoped to make a love match like her parents. She wanted a husband who cherished her and whom she cherished in return, a man who, like her father, would value her opinions more than her obedience, who would see her as more than a helpmeet and the mother of his children, who would truly see her.
Certainly Lieutenant Rillieux, while possessed of many admirable qualities, was not such a man. After her father’s death, he had begun to show an interest in her, pressing his suit with her guardian despite her insistence that she did not wish to be his wife. He did not seem to understand that his disregard for her opinions was the very proof she needed that they would not make a suitable match. And so she had pleaded bereavement, feigning confusion over which path to take—that of a novice or that of a wife—and Bourlamaque had relented in his efforts to find her a husband. Yet she knew her reprieve wouldn’t last. Neither Monsieur le Marquis de Montcalm nor Monsieur de Bourlamaque wished her to remain at Fort Carillon any longer than was necessary, insisting that the frontier was no place for a woman without a husband. If it hadn’t been for MacKinnon’s Rangers, whose lurking presence made the forest around Fort Carillon perilous, Bourlamaque would have sent her back to Trois Rivieres when Montcalm had traveled north to Montreal. But the destruction of several supply trains and the loss of almost thirty soldiers to the horrid Scotsmen had convinced him that she was safer for the moment staying at the fort.
What will you do if the British prevail and the war is lost, Amalie?
She could not journey to France, for she knew no one there. Nor would she seek out her mother’s kin, whose customs and language were strange to her. From two different worlds, she seemed to belong in neither.
The thought doused the last spark of her appetite. She was just setting her silverware aside when she heard it. The sharp retort of musket fire.
Then the front door flew open and a young sergeant dashed inside, a look of excitement on his face. He stopped when he saw Bourlamaque and saluted smartly. “It is MacKinnon’s Rangers, monsieur! We have them!”
Morgan knew it was a trap the moment the first powder keg failed to explode.
He’d waited until it was dark. Then with Connor and their Muhheconneok allies to guard the retreat, he’d crept along the riverbank with a small force of Rangers to fire upon the kegs and ignite them. But, though he knew for certain he’d hit his mark and the others theirs, not a single keg had gone up. Now the French were alerted to their presence, and with no explosions or fire to distract them, they would come after the Rangers with their full strength.
“Fall back!”
Even as he shouted the command, the French opened fire—but not only from the walls. At least twenty infantrymen stood on the deck of the ship moored behind them, muskets aimed at the pier below. ‘Twas like shooting ducks on a pond. Morgan and his men were trapped in a crossfire. “To the river!” He drew his pistol, felt a ball whiz past his cheek, and crouched down to make himself a smaller target, peering through the darkness to account for his men. Killy. McHugh. Brendan. Forbes.
All running back to the riverbank.
Where was Dougie?
Then the forest behind them erupted with musket fire as the combined forces of the Rangers and the Muhheconneok—almost two hundred men—returned fire. They staggered their fire, giving the enemy no chance to breathe, sowing panic among the French, particularly those on the ship, who seemed to realize all at once that they were far outside the fort’s walls.
That’s the way, boys!
Morgan took cover behind a battered hogshead, aimed his rifle at one of the soldiers on the ship, and fired, watching out of the corner of his eye as, one by one, his men reached the riverbank and dropped out of sight, Killy cursing all the way. “Bastard sons of whores!”
But where was Dougie?
And then he saw.
Dougie lay on his back near the stack of kegs, reloading his rifle, a strip of white tied around his thigh. “Go on! Go!” But Morgan wasn’t about to leave without him. He’d led his men into this trap. He would bloody well get them out—all of them.
He glanced toward the riverbank, saw McHugh, Killy, Brendan, and Forbes nose their rifles over the top of the bank and take aim, ready to cover him. He hurled his rifle, his claidheamh mor, and his tumpline pack to Killy and got ready to run.
And then it came—the Muhheconneok war cry. It rose out of the forest, primal and raw, terrifying the French, turning their attention away from the pier and giving Morgan the chance he needed.
Blood thrumming, he drew in a breath, dashed out from behind the hogshead, and ran a jagged path toward Dougie, barely feeling the ball that burned a path across his forearm or the one that creased his hip.
“A fine time to get shot, this is!”
But Dougie was ready for him, crouching on one knee, his injured leg stretched out beside him. “You’re daft, MacKinnon!” Morgan dropped down, took Dougie onto his back, and forced himself to his feet. “Och, you’re heavy as an ox! And you stink!”
His gaze fixed on the riverbank a hundred feet away, Mor
gan ran, Dougie’s added weight pounding through the straining muscles of his thighs to the soles of his moccasins, his heart slamming in his chest.
“You run like a lass!” Dougie shouted in his ear. “Can you no’ go faster?”
But Morgan didn’t have the breath to do more than curse.
“Mac-diolain!” Whoreson!
Sixty feet. Fifty. Forty.
A roar of cannon erupted behind him, the French firing their twelve-pounders at the forest just as they had last summer, trying to turn the shelter of the trees into a charnel pit. Jeers coming from the trees told him the balls had fallen short of the mark—this time.
Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten.
Morgan sucked breath into his aching lungs, drove himself forward, hurling both of them over the edge. They tumbled, arse over elbow, down the embankment to the sand below. No sooner had they landed than McHugh and Forbes took Dougie between them and hurried him along the river toward the forest beyond.
Young Brendan clasped Morgan’s forearm, helped him back to his feet, then hurried after McHugh and Forbes, already reloading.
Killy held out Morgan’s rifle and his pack, a smile on his scarred Irish face. “You bloody daft Scot.”
Another blast of cannon.
Morgan slipped the tumpline over his head, tucked his sword into place, grabbed his rifle, and then began to reload, shouting over the din. “Help McHugh and Forbes! I’ll cover our backs in case those bastards on the ship try to follow!” “Aye.” Killy turned and was gone.
Morgan got into position, peeked over the edge of the riverbank, picked a target on the darkened deck of the ship, and fired. Reloading quickly, he kept up a rapid fire, glancing over to watch his men’s progress until they disappeared among the trees. Then, feeling a rush of relief, he cast one last glance at the fort walls—and felt something strike him in the right shoulder.
Instantly, his right arm went numb, falling useless to his side. Something warm and wet trickled down his chest. Blood.
He’d been shot.
It was then the pain struck, forcing the breath from his lungs, driving him to his knees.
He heard a shout of victory and looked up to see a French soldier high in the ship’s rigging, musket raised over his head.
So this is how it ends.
The thought ran through Morgan’s mind, detached from any fear.
But no’just yet.
Unable to load and fire his heavy rifle with one hand, he dropped it to the sand, withdrew his pistol, aimed, and fired, ending the soldier’s celebration. But other soldiers had climbed into the rigging to see what their comrade’s cheering was about, and before Morgan could take cover, several fired.
A ball ripped through his right thigh, the shock of it like fire and ice.
And Morgan knew it was over. He fell onto his side, forced himself onto his belly, and tried to crawl for cover, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“Morgan!”
He recognized Connor’s voice and saw his brother emerge from the forest at a run, Killy, Forbes, and McHugh behind him.
“No, Connor! Stop!” From somewhere nearby Morgan heard the tromp of hundreds of boots and knew the gates of the fort had been thrown open. Were the French planning a counterattack? “I am lost already! Get the men out of here!” Even in the dark, he could see the anguish and horror on his brother’s face as Connor realized he would not be able to reach him in time to keep him from the swarming French. His strength all but spent, Morgan met Connor’s tormented gaze, his chest swelling with regret, grief, love. Gathering all his breath, Morgan shouted. “Beannachd leat!”
Blessings go with you, brother!
And dinnae mourn me overlong. Tell little lain—
But Morgan never finished the thought.
The last thing he heard before darkness claimed him was Connor’s anguished cry.
TWO
Amalie crawled out of bed early the next morning after a fitful sleep, dawn peeking through her window, the night’s shadows still clinging to her mind. She poured water from a porcelain pitcher into its matching bowl and splashed her face, the water’s chill helping to wash away her weariness and her lingering sense of dread. Although last night’s fighting had ended quickly and the enemy had been driven away, war had followed her into her dreams, her slumber troubled by cannon fire, dying men, and that terrible, haunting cry. It had risen out of the forest like the howl of demons, sending chills down her spine, making her blood run cold. “It is the Mahican war cry,” Bourlamaque had told her, seeing her fear. “The Abenaki have one very similar. Have you never heard it?”
“N-no, monsieur,” she’d answered.
He’d looked down at her for a moment, seeming to consider her. “I forget that you’ve never actually lived among your mother’s people.”
Then he’d dismissed her, sending her to her room to await the outcome of the skirmish, while he’d gone with his officers. Determined to put the night and its fears behind her, Amalie dried her face with a linen towel, then sat on her bed, loosed her braids, and began to work out the tangles from her hair. The Mere Superieure had tried many times to get her to cut her locks, but Amalie had steadfastly refused—not her only rebellion.
“A woman should be humble in all she does, Amalie,” the Mere Superieure had scolded. “Such willfulness endangers your soul.”
Amalie had tried to explain that her long hair was but a way of knowing her mother, a way of being close to her. Though she could not remember her mother, her father had told her many times how her mother’s dark tresses had hung to her knees.
“Like a river of black silk,” he’d said.
But the Mere Superieure had brushed this aside, saying it was far better for Amalie to know God than the woman who’d borne her. It had taken a letter from Amalie’s father to decide the matter, though the Mere Superieure had required her to wear her hair up, lest its beauty stir envy in the hearts of the other girls.
Of course, the other girls hadn’t envied Amalie at all, but had teased her about her darker skin and the strange color of her eyes—neither green nor brown, but both. The few times she’d seen her Abenaki cousines—her female cousins—they’d done the same in reverse, calling her pale, laughing at her eyes and teasing her about her hair, which was more brown than black and hung not straight and smooth like her mother’s, but in tendrils.
Amalie did not resent their teasing; she could see for herself that what they said was true. She was different. Her mother had been half Abenaki, and Amalie was but a quarter. Her features were neither French nor Indian. She was truly as her mother had named her—Child of Twilight.
“In her eyes, you were neither day nor night, sun nor stars, but a mingling of both,” Papa had explained.
Sweet heaven, how she missed him!
Fighting a sudden pricking of tears, Amalie shifted her thoughts to the day ahead. If she hurried, she might be able to weed Bourlamaque’s garden before the sun grew too warm. She braided her hair and tied it up with the blue silk ribbon her father had given her, then slipped into her stockings and petticoats. She would have liked to go without her stays, but Bourlamaque did not tolerate undress at his breakfast table. She left them loose instead, then pulled on her gray linen gown. She had just opened her bedroom door when shouting erupted from downstairs.
“It goes against my conscience as a surgeon and a Catholic! If you wished him to die, why did you bring him to me? Better to have let him perish where he lay!”
Amalie recognized the voice as that of the fort’s surgeon, Monsieur Lambert.
“I do not wish him to die!” Bourlamaque spat out each word. “I wish him to live so that I can wrest from him all he knows! I cannot interrogate a dead man!”
“You do not mean only to interrogate him. That I could understand and condone. You mean to hand him over to the Abenaki, who will burn him alive!”
Chills skittered down Amalie’s spine at the thought of anyone suffering such a fate, even an enemy.
“Have you forgotten the number of Frenchmen and Abenaki these men have slain, or the Abenaki village they destroyed two winters past, or the supply wagons they’ve pillaged, stealing medicines you needed to treat our men?”
Amalie felt her pulse leap.
Had they captured one of MacKinnon’s Rangers? Captured and gravely wounded, it seemed.
“I’ve forgotten nothing!” Monsieur Lambert’s voice shook.
“But I took an oath to heal men, not to harm them!” “Then heal him!” Bourlamaque’s shout made Amalie jump, his words booming through the little house. “What befalls him when he leaves your care is a military matter and none of your affair!”
For a moment there was silence.
Although she knew Monsieur de Bourlamaque was doing his duty, Amalie found herself feeling pity for Monsieur Lambert. On the one hand, healing this Ranger and turning him over to Bourlamaque would save French lives, appease an important French ally, perhaps helping to win the war. On the other, saving the man’s life so that he might suffer torment surely went against all a doctor was trained to do. “Very well, monsieur, I shall do my best to save his life,” Monsieur Lambert said at last. “But know this—I will treat him with the same diligence I would any officer. I will not deprive him of laudanum as Lieutenant Rillieux demands, nor will I suffer your soldiers to abuse him.”
“I expected no less, mon ami. Leave young Rillieux to me.
But how do we know this man is truly Morgan MacKinnon?” “One of our partisans claims to have met him and recognized him, and when I spoke the name, he opened his eyes.”
Not just a Ranger, but their leader!
And then Amalie understood why it was so important he survive.
“If you need anything—“
“I should like Mademoiselle Chauvenet’s help in tending him once I’ve removed the balls from his leg and shoulder. He is shackled and greatly weakened, so she will be in no danger. She speaks the English tongue and has a deft hand at healing, and I fear my young attendants harbor too great a hatred for these Rangers to care for him reliably.”