“You’ve reported to the English how this happened?”
“I have told them, yes.” A smile. “I can’t say whether any of them wrote it down.”
“Tell me.”
“They were marching a detachment of our men towards some place called Hempstead. I was at the back, as is my place, and when we came to where the road bent on ahead and none could see, an English corporal and one of the private soldiers of their escort came behind and one of them—I couldn’t tell you which it was—dealt me so hard a blow across my back with the butt of his firelock that I fell there and could neither move nor call for help. And having me then at their mercy, both of them, still with their firelock butts, began to beat me. I lost count at thirty blows.”
“They meant to murder you?”
“I did not think to ask them their intent,” the sergeant answered with his usual good humour. “But I expect my purse was of more interest to them than my life, because they took that with them, even though it only held a crown, two dollars, and some coppers.”
“And they left you there for dead?”
He shrugged. “One did return, and held his hand above my mouth to see if I still breathed, but being less than trusting by this point I held my breath, and being satisfied that I was dead he gave me one last blow upon my stomach and departed.”
Jean-Philippe could feel an echo of that blow in his own stomach, where deep anger had begun to burn.
As if aware of this, La Réjouie said, “I was found by local people, and they cared for me and saw that I was carried back here to New York, to Dr. Talman, who has treated me most expertly and with great kindness.” As though he were speaking to a child needing reassurance, he remarked, “There are good people here as well, sir.”
“Yes,” said Jean-Philippe. “I know there are. But I will see the ones who did this to you brought to trial and punished. I’ll see you get justice.”
He’d have promised more, but already the sergeant’s eyes were drifting closed again, his bandaged head turning with heaviness against the pillow as the urgent sleep of convalescence claimed him.
Jean-Philippe sat half an hour after in the chair beside the bed, but seeing that La Réjouie was not about to waken he rose quietly and left the room.
Downstairs, he found a newcomer had joined the gathering in the de Joncourts’ parlour.
Captain Wheelock, rising now to greet him, could not possibly have known just how unwelcome Jean-Philippe found the mere sight of that red uniform.
In French, the captain asked him, “You have seen your sergeant?”
“Yes. Have you?”
“No, I’m afraid I only got back yesterday. I have been in the Jerseys.”
“But you are aware what happened to him?”
Wheelock raised a shoulder and admitted, “I’ve heard some of it.”
“Then let me tell you all.” Aware that there were children in the room, he drew the English captain to one side so they’d have privacy to talk, and there repeated what La Réjouie had said to him, concluding with, “I will expect that charges will be laid.”
“Yes.” Captain Wheelock’s frown seemed genuinely troubled. “I should never wish for such a crime to go unpunished. I’ll let General Amherst know of it. You have my word.”
He had the sense that Captain Wheelock’s word would not be lightly broken. With his anger damped down to a place where he could keep it well controlled, he told the captain, “Thank you,” and they took their seats among the others.
He was careful not to look too soon towards the woman who in fact drew all his interest, though he caught her flowered gown just at the corner of his vision. He tried purposely ignoring it, as much as he ignored that she was talking to Bonneau. He could not have understood their conversation anyway, because they spoke in English, so instead he focused on their hostess, who had brought him coffee. And her son, who seeming much the age that Jean-Philippe had been when he’d first joined the Troupes de la Marine, was chafing at the need to sit politely in his chair.
This one will never settle long enough to be a man of leisure . . .
Smiling faintly at this shadow from his boyhood, Jean-Philippe acknowledged him with one brief nod, upon which the lad must have felt emboldened to speak up in his clear voice.
“Captain Bonneau says you were raised among the Indians.”
His mother cautioned, “Robert, that is not the way to start a conversation.”
Jean-Philippe could see no harm in it, and said as much. “Captain Bonneau exaggerates. I spent a winter living with the Seneca, when I was near your age, but that is all.”
“Without your mother and your father?”
“Yes, it was myself alone.”
Evidently this held some appeal, and yet the boy asked, “Were you not afraid?”
“Of course. We always fear what we don’t know. I was a long way from my home, and it was coming on to winter, and I did not speak the language.” As he said those words he wryly thought again how life had brought him round full circle. “But the people I was with were very kind.”
The boy, uninterested in kindness, wanted stories of adventure. “Did you learn to dance a war dance?”
“No. It was not time for war,” he said. “We hunted, and I learned to make things.”
“What things?”
“Snowshoes. Arrows. Shoes and leggings that work better in the woods to keep your feet and legs warm.”
Only one of those held any interest for young Robert. “Did you have a bow and arrow of your own?”
“I did.”
Respect at last. The boy said, “I would like to live among the wild men, too.”
“They are not wild,” said Jean-Philippe. “They’re every bit as civilized as we are. Maybe more so.”
“But they torture people.”
“So do we. Have you not seen an execution?”
“No. Maman won’t let me.”
Jean-Philippe took the reminder there were some things children did not need to learn too early. “Well, when you have seen one,” he said simply, “you will know we have no right to call another nation cruel.” He paused to drink his coffee, and then added, because ignorance was always to be fought, “I still have friends among the Seneca. Their nation is a part of a great federation, the Haudenosaunee. They have government and rule of law and farms and houses, just like us. Before we came, they also had great towns, big forts, but we have ruined those. The miracle is that they will still speak to us at all. Remember that, if you should get your wish to live among them.”
The boy’s eyes had grown wide. “I will.” He sat a little straighter. “And I will not be afraid.”
“Good. You’ll find most people, when you get to know them, are not what you were afraid they’d be. They’re only people.”
He’d been unaware of anyone else listening until Madame de Joncourt said, “That is a lesson for us all. But Robert, do not think to run away from home just yet to live among the Seneca, or I will have to send Lieutenant de Sabran to track you down and bring you back to me again.”
Her elder daughter joined their conversation with, “Or Captain Wheelock. He has also spent time in the northern forests, have you not?”
The captain smiled. “In campaign tents. It’s not at all the same. And please don’t give me anybody else to find. I’m afraid I shall never be able to make a complete list of those I’m already in charge of. The gaolers have no general list, and several of the prisoners were taken from the barracks and the gaol here without anybody leaving a receipt, and several others in the Jerseys have been carried off by flags of truce,” he said, “from Philadelphia. No doubt they are already on their way to the West Indies.”
The boy Robert asked, “What is a flag of truce?”
“A ship,” Wheelock explained, “carrying prisoners of war to be exchanged, and so it flies a special white flag to let everybody know that it is not to be molested, and it also carries papers that can prove it has permission from our government to
sail to a French port. At least, that’s what it’s meant to be. Except these days more often it’s a ship whose owners have done nothing more than buy the white flag and the papers for a secret fee, so they can sail around our laws and sell their cargoes to French ports. If they have a prisoner aboard, so much the better, but if not, they’ll carry anyone who can speak French.”
The youngest of the girls now gave a solemn nod that bounced her curls. “Like Monsieur Laine,” she said. “That’s what he does. He gets to ride on ships, and always brings back sugar.”
In the small, uneasy silence following that statement, Captain Wheelock raised a hand of reassurance. “I heard nothing of that. Honestly, unless your Monsieur Laine is on my list, I have no room within my brain to mark his name. It’s filled already with the names of several hundred prisoners and one ensign named McDonald we’ve apparently misplaced.”
He seemed uncommonly relaxed within this house. And then he turned and smiled down at the young woman beside him and she smiled back, and Jean-Philippe then knew exactly what Bonneau had meant when he’d said the de Joncourts’ eldest daughter was more fond of red coats than of white.
There must, he thought, be twenty years in age between the English captain and young Jeanne de Joncourt, but the captain’s heart showed plainly in that moment. Jean-Philippe could not help wondering if his own face revealed that much when he was watching Lydia.
It made him more determined not to look in her direction now.
He did it so effectively she had to say his name twice over before he reacted to it. As he turned his head she said in very careful French, “Please leave.”
An unexpected order. He was less than sure how to respond till Jeanne de Joncourt laughed and spoke to Lydia in English and corrected her by giving her the proper words in French, and then he understood, but he gave Lydia the space to save her dignity and ask it over.
“May we leave, please?”
“Certainly.” He stood, and took his leave, and thanked Madame de Joncourt once again.
Bonneau said, “Come, I’ll walk you out.” And downstairs while they waited for Madame de Joncourt to fetch Lydia her cloak, Bonneau said low and privately, “Don’t worry. I will keep your sergeant company, and send you word if he grows worse.”
“If he grows worse, he’ll need a priest.”
“You know they are illegal in this colony.”
“So I am told.”
The faintest smile. “I’ll see if there is one that can be found among the Irish.”
“I am in your debt.” There are good people here as well, La Réjouie had said. And that reminded him he owed a debt to someone else. “Tell Captain Wheelock that the ensign he says he’s misplaced, Ensign McDonald, is a prisoner of the Seneca near Fort Detroit,” he said. “At least, that’s where he was when I was taken at Niagara.”
Bonneau looked at him. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. I saw him there myself.”
“I meant you’re sure you want to tell him?”
“Captain Wheelock is a man of honour. And his list is long enough.”
Bonneau’s smile this time was more broad. He aimed it straight at Lydia as she approached them, wished her a good day in English, and turned one last time to Jean-Philippe. “Keep well, Lieutenant de Sabran. I’ll see you in the spring when we reclaim Quebec.” Clapping one hand firmly on his shoulder he said, “Oh, and by the way. Your mademoiselle? She’s twenty.”
With a wink he stood back while Madame de Joncourt let them out into the street and closed the door behind them.
It felt colder than it had been, with a raw wind that chased sharply down this narrow lane between the houses, and he knew if he could feel it cutting through his heavy coat then she, with her light cloak, would feel it keenly, so his mission then became to guide her quickly to her brother’s house, where she’d be warm.
For all the missions he had led, this should have been an easy one. He’d led his men by night through fields more treacherous than this—the slow, mud-churning wheels of carts and waggons crossed by swifter, finer carriages were nothing when compared to rolling cannon fire. And crowds, no matter how large they might be, were nothing when compared to enemies concealed by shadows.
That there was a crowd, growing more raucous by the minute, should perhaps have been a warning to him.
But as he prepared to cross the street she took his arm of her own choice, before he’d offered it, and he looked down at that and she looked up at him, and that left all his senses fully occupied.
He’d always thought her eyes were blue. In fairness she had rarely ever looked directly at him, and the few times that she had she’d looked away, not held his gaze this long. But now he saw with clarity her eyes were green, the colour of new leaves.
And he forgot the cold, the wind, the people pushing all around them, and the chaos of the rolling wheels and skittish horses.
When the first brick struck his shoulder he was unprepared.
His first thought—that it had been thrown at him on purpose—quickly vanished when he saw that many in the crowd around them were now foraging for stones and clods of mud and broken bricks and any other refuse they could find, their voices rising, their attention fixed upon the cart now drawing near to them, a frightened-looking man of middle age crouched in its open back, exposed to all their fury.
Jean-Philippe had seen men carted through the streets before. He knew how swiftly any crowd could turn to open riot.
Acting from instinct he angled his body so it would shield Lydia’s, sweeping her back into the recession of a doorway that, while closed, would give her shelter. Pressing close, he wrapped himself around her so the blows would strike him first.
They did. Repeatedly. A clump of mud and small stones that had missed its target struck and shattered on the doorframe and he felt her jump and start to tremble, so he bent his head and murmured words of reassurance, low and calm over the wailing of the injured man, and all the ugly shouts of his tormentors.
Fear, he knew, was mostly in the mind, and he would spare her that. He’d long since learned to channel his own fear to action, so it was surprising to him now to feel it twist within his chest—a fear not for himself, his safety, but for hers. It lingered even when the mob had passed them by, the angry tumult growing fainter down the street, and there was no more danger.
Stepping back, he gave them both the space to breathe. Her face was pale, and she appeared to still be shaking but she only drew her cloak a little tighter as though wanting him to think it was the cold, and he had seen enough cadets who did not wish to show him weakness that he recognized her brave attempt to seem more strong in front of him, and though he was not fooled by it he understood her need to make the effort. Having satisfied himself she was unharmed, he waited for her to collect herself sufficiently to leave the sheltered doorway, then he offered her his arm again, and once again she took it, holding tighter to him this time, and they crossed the street in silence.
But the feeling, strange and new, stayed firmly lodged beneath his ribs, as though once having taken hold it was now part of him, and he had no idea what to do with it.
We always fear what we don’t know, he’d told the young de Joncourt boy.
And walking now with Lydia’s gloved hand upon his arm, her warmth beside him, Jean-Philippe admitted there was truth in what he’d said. Because in all his twenty-seven years, with all that life had dealt him, he had not known anything like this.
Charley
The taxi would have flattened me if I’d been looking to the right, but as it was I had just time enough to leap back, out of range.
Niels always said the way to tell a true New Yorker was to watch the way they crossed a street. “They’re always three steps off the curb to start with,” he’d say. “Daring cars to hit them.”
I was not a true New Yorker. I stayed safely on the sidewalk till the light had changed, but even so it could be an extreme sport, crossing streets in New York City, and today I n
eeded to take extra care because of what I carried.
Sam had built a custom crate for me—exactly measured, light, and narrow—adding wooden handles at the sides to make it easier to carry, but even something built as well as Sam could build it wouldn’t have been able to survive a speeding taxi, and until the day was over what was in the crate officially belonged to Isaac Fisher. So I took my time.
The fact that I had Isaac Fisher’s painting in my hands was an achievement in itself, and Frank had made sure everybody knew it. “In my whole entire life,” he’d told the board, “I can’t remember Isaac giving anything to anybody. Well, he gave me chicken pox, but even then he argued I should pay him fifty cents for all the time I got to spend home sick from school. So, well done, Charley. No one else here could have done it.” He had gallantly left off the “told you so” he could have added, because he had told me I should go alone to Isaac Fisher’s house.
I’d thought that I should take Malaika with me. “She’s so good at doing deals.”
“And that’s exactly why you shouldn’t take her. Never set two salespeople against each other.”
And that had reminded me. “How did you know that Tyler was a salesman?”
“Tyler who?” But he’d been smiling. “Kiddo, there are salesmen in this world, and there are salesmen. There are ones like Lara and Malaika, honest ones that want to treat you right so they can have your business back again. But then there are the ones with shiny shoes, and smiles from here to here, as slick as snake oil. Guess which kind your Tyler was?”
I’d had to smile myself. “His shoes were shiny.”
“Yes, they were.”
“What kind of shoes does Isaac Fisher wear?”
“Well, that depends,” he’d said, “on who he’s dancing with.” He’d poured himself a cup of coffee. “If it’s you, he’ll probably wear good, old-fashioned loafers.”
“Why is that?”
“You’re nice.” He’d said that gruffly, in the tone he used when giving out a compliment. “And to old guys like me and Isaac, nice girls are about as rare and powerful as Kryptonite.”