Surrender

  He closed his eyes and sank back against the tree trunk, his throat parched, his mouth bitter with the taste of gunpowder, his nostrils full of the stench of blood. His left shoulder ached where a ball had pierced it. His cheek still trickled blood, cut by woody shards from a tree blown apart by a French cannonball. A shell fragment from that cannonball had cut a groove across his thigh. Still, his wounds were small—though they might not have been had Morgan not jerked him out of the way of a falling branch. It had been large enough to crush a man.

  All around him were the cries and moans of the injured and dying. Regulars lay by the hundreds before the abatis like broken toy soldiers, their bodies mangled, the grass beneath them stained with blood. Six times Abercrombie had ordered them to attack, and six times the redcoat officers had dutifully led their men across the field toward death, valiant victims of their own loyalty and their commander’s arrogance. Beyond the mangled bodies stood the French breastworks, defiant and intact.

  Never had Iain seen anything like it—such senseless death. He and his men had done their best to pick off the French soldiers, killing them by the scores. But there were not enough Rangers to cover the entire length of the breastworks, and without artillery there was no way to deprive the French of their cover. And although the Rangers were not out in the open, they’d paid a high cost as well. When the French had realized where the gunfire was coming from that was killing their men, they’d turned their artillery toward the trees and tried to pound the Rangers into the ground.

  Between them, Iain supposed he and Joseph had lost nearly thirty men, with just as many badly injured. They’d had only enough time between attacks to see to their dead and wounded before Abercrombie had ordered the fray to begin anew.

  “I didna ken one man could be both so stupid and so stubborn.” Morgan sat down beside Iain, his face black with gunpowder and beaded with sweat, his eyes dark with weariness of battle. “He doesna change the plan of attack but sends more men out to die. The bastard is no’ fit to command. Let me see your shoulder.”

  “Quit hoverin’ over me. Aye, I ken that’s what the three of you are doin’.” Iain pushed his hand away. “See to Cam. He took a ball to the chest.”

  “There’s naugh’ to see to.” Morgan handed Iain a water skin, then began to dress his shoulder. “He died sometime during the last attack, may God rest his soul. Charlie Gordon lost his head to a cannonball.”

  Morgan’s words struck Iain like a fist. He crossed himself, sadness and rage twined in his gut.

  Cam had been a brave man—amongst the best. He’d been with Iain since the beginning. Charlie had been but eighteen.

  Iain felt sick—sick of death, sick of killing, sick of war. “Have you seen Connor?”

  “He went after more powder, balls, and flints.”

  Iain drank, then tossed the skin to Dougie, who sat in stunned silence behind a nearby tree. He stood, slung his rifle over his back. “Let’s get our wounded out of here.”

  Aware that the French marksmen were still watching, they kept low, tending those whose injuries, like Iain’s, were light, and sending those who needed care on to the surgeons’ tents. Not twenty minutes had gone by when Iain heard the drums beat again—but this time they were ordering the army to withdraw.

  Iain heard his men cheer, heard the relieved shouts of Regulars whose lives had been reprieved. But he heard something else as well—the calls of French officers organizing their men into squadrons. Montcalm was going to return the favor of their visit with a counterattack.

  Connor dashed up to him, face blackened with war paint and gunpowder, hair slick with sweat. “Abercrombie sends word we’re to cover the retreat.”

  Morgan spat on the ground. “He stirs up the hornet’s nest and then runs, leavin’ us to deal wi’ the sting.”

  “’Tis the first wise thing he’s done all day.” Then Iain called to his men. “Form up, laddies. Montcalm is sendin’ his men to bid us farewell.”

  He thought of the miles of forest that lay between them and their whaleboats. He thought of the redcoats, limping their way over unfamiliar territory. He saw the fatigue on his men’s blackened faces, not a man amongst them unscathed.

  Then he loaded his rifle.

  Chapter 31

  It was for Betsy’s sake that Annie went with Uncle Bain and Lord William into the fort. Though she’d planned to remain in the cabin, she’d refused to leave Betsy alone with Uncle Bain. She’d rushed forward to embrace the girl and had seen the haunted look in her eyes. In that instant, she’d known that whatever Betsy had survived these past months was far more terrifying than what she herself had endured.

  Uncle Bain had tried to separate them, to have Betsy billeted in his quarters, but Annie had stopped him. “’Twould be most unseemly. Would you shame your host?” she’d said in her haughtiest voice. “Betsy shall stay with me and attend me as she used to do.”

  Lord William had placed them in a room beside his own quarters, which he’d yielded to her uncle in a gesture of hospitality. Annie didn’t like being so close to Uncle Bain, but at least the door to their room had a lock—which she’d used as soon as Betsy’s trunk had been delivered. Then she’d gone to the window and thrown it open, leaning out so that Iain’s men would see her and know where she was. She’d spotted two Stockbridge standing nearby. One of them nodded in acknowledgment, and some of the fear in her belly had eased.

  She was not a prisoner.

  Then she’d turned to Betsy. The two of them had held each other and wept.

  “I’d despaired of e’er seein’ you again, my lady. He told us you’d been waylaid and killed, but I kent in my heart he’d found you. I feared the worst. ’Tis my fault. I told him where you’d gone. I am so sorry!”

  “’Tis I who am sorry. I should never have left you wi’ him. He told me he’d beaten you and—”

  Betsy squeezed her eyes shut. “Please dinnae speak of it. It lies behind us now. But you must tell me how you came to be here in the wilderness.”

  And so Annie did, starting from the terrible moment Uncle Bain had found her to the day Iain had departed for Ticonderoga. She told Betsy of the brand her uncle had given her, of the long journey over the sea, of the humiliation of being sold and stripped of her clothing. She told of the Abenaki attack and her flight through the forest and awakening in Iain’s bearskin coat. She told her how Iain had gotten her safely back to the fort and taken a hundred lashes for disobeying orders to save her. She told her how she’d fallen in love with him and had married him in the forest and now carried his child. She told her how she feared for Iain and his men and longed to see them all safely home again.

  “Is he a bonnie man?” Betsy asked, a shy smile on her lips.

  “Aye, he is bonnie. And braw. And he willna let Lord Bute harm us.”

  If he yet lives.

  Then Betsy stood, crossed the room to her trunk, and opened it. From within she retrieved a silver-handled brush, a delicate porcelain doll in a pink silk gown, and something small wrapped in parchment.

  The silver-handled brush that had belonged to her grandmother. The porcelain doll her father had given her for Christmas so long ago. Rose soap.

  Annie held the soap to her nose, felt a hot rush of tears at the treasures that lay in her lap. “Oh, Betsy, you are far too kind.”

  “I thought if you truly were alive you might be missin’ a bit of home.”

  Then Annie said what she’d wanted to say for months. “If ever I caused you unhappiness as your mistress, I ask you to forgi’e me. I didna understand what it means to wait hand and foot upon others until—”

  But Betsy pressed her fingers to Annie’s lips, tears filling her blue eyes afresh. “You were ne’er a burden, my lady.”

  Annie felt a weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying lift from her shoulders.

  William sat in the dark in his study and sipped his cognac, chess of no interest to him, Campbell’s heavy snores coming from the floor above him. He’d insisted Ca
mpbell take his room and that Lady Anne and her maid be billeted in the guest quarters beside it. Not that he’d wanted to give up his feather bed in favor of a stiff pallet in his drawing room, but it had been the only way to keep an eye on Lady Anne’s safety. Campbell had agreed with obvious reluctance, no doubt hoping to avoid the suspicion he would have otherwise aroused if he’d insisted on the lot of them staying in the more austere barracks.

  William knew Campbell was trying to keep him away from Lady Anne. He never left her alone with him, not even for a moment. Whatever the truth was about his niece’s plight, Campbell didn’t want William to hear it. And that made William wish to hear it all the more.

  But no one would tell him anything. When he was nearby, Lady Anne lapsed into silence, and Lord Bute brooded or prattled on about unimportant matters. William’s lone attempt to question the maid in private had so terrified her that for pity’s sake William had ceased his interrogation and left her in peace—but not before he’d seen the dark bruises round her neck.

  There was only one thing he knew for certain: Annie feared and hated her uncle and did not wish to return with him to Scotland. He’d seen the shock and horror on her face when she’d first spied Campbell. He’d watched as she’d walked to meet them, head held high despite her fear, and he’d admired her courage.

  William did not wish to see her leave for Scotland either, yet why he should even consider interfering was beyond him. If Lady Anne stayed it would not be to warm his bed, but Major MacKinnon’s. William had little to gain and much at stake should he anger Campbell. While William was of royal blood and had his grandfather’s ear, Campbell was a peer and sat in Lords. His political influence and the fact that he was a Scot made him a valuable ally for His Majesty. Earning his wrath might set William at odds with his grandfather, putting at risk any hopes he had of earning a real title and lands of his own.

  If only he had a clear and legal reason to intervene . . .

  Campbell had wanted him to intercede, but in an altogether different fashion.

  “Is there no way you can order this MacKinnon to the front of the battle and see to it he dies?” he’d asked.

  Never having been called upon to commit outright murder, William had been taken aback, though he’d done his best to cover it. “Major MacKinnon is most often in the forefront of the battle and has survived three years of the worst fighting. However, if you think it would help, I should be glad to offer Lady Anne my counsel.”

  Campbell had laughed, a nervous sound. “That willna be necessary. She’ll no’ have her way in this, but will be guided by me. We’ll leave in the mornin’.”

  William wasn’t so certain. He sipped the last of his cognac and stretched his legs out before him. Then he heard the soft click of the knob turning, knew his man had arrived.

  “My lord.”

  “Is it as I suspected?”

  “Aye, my lord. Two Rangers left shortly after the lady was brought here. They headed north.”

  “To fetch Major MacKinnon.”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “Excellent.” William stood, walked to the chest where he kept his coin, and retrieved a small purse of sovereigns. “I have another assignment for you—two. First, find whoever is in command of the remaining Stockbridge and bring him to me.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “Second, I need you to spy on a household, to hear all that is said within its walls without being seen, and to report back to me all that you heard.”

  “I am your humble servant, my lord. Whose household?”

  William turned and tossed the purse to him. “Mine.”

  Annie awoke to the startling and wonderful news that Abenaki warriors had been sighted in the forest around the fort, wearing war paint and shouting their battle cries. They had yet to do more than fire a few harmless arrows at the walls, but their presence was enough for Lord William to insist that her uncle not leave for Albany for another day or two.

  “They will slaughter and scalp any British subject who crosses their path,” Lord William explained as they finished their breakfasts. “To set out while they command the forest would be an act of suicide.”

  Uncle Bain was not pleased. “Why do you no’ send your troops out and drive them away? ’Tis a strange way to win a war.”

  “They’re hoping to lure us outside the walls into an ambuscade. Though we see but a dozen amongst the trees, there are likely hundreds more waiting to attack from hiding. With most of my troops at Ticonderoga, I cannot risk an attack. If we amuse ourselves by not responding, as we did just six weeks past, they’ll eventually lose interest and go back to their villages. Isn’t that right, Lady Anne?”

  She met Lord William’s gaze, found him looking at her with a strange intensity. “Aye.”

  Six weeks past, it had been Rangers pretending to be Abenaki in order to keep Lord William occupied and away from her. But Lord William knew that, or at least suspected it—she could see it in his eyes. Was he perhaps trying to tell her the same ruse was being used now? Could he be trying to help her?

  She stared into his gray eyes, then looked quickly away, not wanting to arouse her uncle’s suspicions. But inside her belly, hope blossomed.

  After breakfast, she settled herself in the drawing room with her sewing, hoping to get a chance to speak with Lord William privately. Surely Uncle Bain would need to use the privy sometime. But her uncle seemed to recognize her aim and did not leave the room, making idle chatter with Lord William until Annie thought she would go mad.

  Then a soldier rushed through the door and drew Lord William away on a matter of some urgency, and Annie found herself alone not with Lord William, but with Uncle Bain. She rose, walked toward the door, certain no good could come of this, but he blocked her path.

  “’Tis past time you and I spoke, Annie.” He cupped her shoulders in his big hands.

  She shrugged off his touch, pushed past him. “I’ve naught to say to you. You’re a murderer and a betrayer of kin.”

  His voice followed her. “Your mother came to my bed of her own accord.”

  Annie whirled about, her heart hot with rage. “You lie!”

  He stood looking out the window, and Annie knew he was watching for Lord William’s return. “I speak the truth. I reminded her of your da’, just as I reminded you of him. She was a woman at the height of her beauty and very lonely.”

  “She warned me about you. She told me no’ to trust you.”

  But he wasn’t listening. “At first she enjoyed our little games. Aye, she enjoyed a bit of pain, your mother did.”

  “Uist! I willna hear you speak of her thus!”

  “But then I wanted more.”

  “You killed her just like you killed the others. I heard her weepin’. I saw you. Your hands were round her throat.”

  He spun about to face her. “You didna see what you think you saw. I tell you this, little Annie. Your mother came ere she died.”

  “Nay!” Annie screamed the word, tears sliding down her cheeks, her sewing clutched to her breast. “You are vile beyond imagining.”

  But he had turned back toward the window. “Aye, perhaps so. But the needs and desires of great men are different from those of other men. I need to feel my lovers’ lives in my hands, to feel the power I have over them, in order to spend. You wouldna understand.”

  She took a step back from him, cold chills running down her spine. Listening to him was like getting a glimpse through the doorway to hell. “You think you’re a great man—you who find pleasure in the pain of others? You branded me, burnt me with iron, and you enjoyed it! That is no’ the action of a great man, but a demon or a madman.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. “Most of the time, they recover and start to breathe again. But sometimes . . .”

  “You’re depraved!”

  “I thought by sendin’ you over the water, I could silence you yet keep you alive—my own dear brother’s child. But then I got the letter from Lord William.” He laughed. ?
??Quite the coincidence that you should find your way to him. And then I knew I had to have you wi’ me.”

  He turned to face her, his gaze hard. “You’ll come wi’ me to Scotland, Annie, and that’s the end of it!”

  “Why can you no’ leave me in peace? I’ve no’ told Lord William a thing. I love Iain, and I willna be separated from him.”

  “You’ll forsake that traitor MacKinnon and come wi’ me to Scotland, or you’ll be buried with that bastard you’re carryin’ still inside your womb!”

  She pressed a hand to her belly, instinctively shielding her baby. “Iain will kill you for this!”

  Then she turned and fled.

  Iain crossed himself, closed Lemuel’s eyes, pulled the woolen blanket over the young man’s ashen face. Twenty-six Rangers, eighteen Stockbridge, and more than thirteen hundred redcoats and provincials dead—for nothing. Fort Ticonderoga stood exactly as it had before the British army had arrived. Iain doubted that French losses topped five hundred.

  It would be one thing had the French defeated them in a cleverly planned ambuscade or slain them by virtue of overwhelming numbers. But Abercrombie had known the abatis was there. He’d been warned about the need for artillery, and yet he’d sent his men against it time and again, forcing his troops to flounder through branches and tree trunks while the French cut them down at their leisure.

  The neach dìolain deserved to be shot.

  At least the retreat had not been as bitter as he’d feared, Montcalm being too clever a strategist to allow himself to be drawn far from the protection of the fort. Abercrombie’s stupidity had saved the day for the French, and Montcalm had seemed not to wish to tempt fate.

  Iain stood and made his way out of the hospital tent toward the place where his men were encamped for the night. His left shoulder ached fiercely where the surgeon had cut it to remove the musket ball. His body longed for sleep, his mind for the forgetfulness of dreams. But before he could seek his own comfort, he needed to see to his men.