The fort of Annapolis Royal had never looked more foreboding.
Andrew stared at the numerous regimental standards flying from the towers and ramparts. The martial air was heightened by the cracking of muskets in target practice and the squadrons dressed for regimental inspection shining and sweating in the afternoon sun. A second line of sentries stationed out beyond the fort’s main gates seemed like harbingers of the news he feared to find inside. Andrew found himself tense and worried long before the inner gates were reached.
Trumpets sounded within the fort. Andrew and his men were forced to step aside as a mounted troop galloped past. Andrew recognized the officer in charge, an outpost adjutant as he had once been himself. Andrew called out, “What news?”
The officer turned to him, gave a salute of recognition, and grinned with such fierceness Andrew felt his blood chill. The man shouted back, “War!”
Andrew gathered himself as best he could and signaled his men onward. He turned in his saddle as their horses clip-clopped across the wooden drawbridge. The men who followed were as dusty and weary as he. Still, he felt obliged to order, “Button your tunic, Corporal. You men, dress that line. All right, show some pride, the general’s eyes are upon you.”
The words were rote, a warning passed through countless generations of colonial soldiers arriving at the main garrison. Only today it happened to be true. General Whetlock was indeed standing by the parade ground’s flagpole, addressing a group of officers.
Andrew slipped from his horse, tossed the reins to the standard-bearer, and hurried across the dusty ground. The general noted his arrival with, “Ah, Harrow. You made it, then. Any trouble along the road?”
He snapped off his best salute. “No, sir. Why? Should there be?”
A murmur ran through the line of officers, not quite a chuckle. Yet Randolf Stevenage was not the only one to sneer in Andrew’s direction. Andrew ignored them as best he could. He knew officers here at the main garrison were prone to consider soldiers stationed at outlying forts as scarcely better than colonials.
The general cut into his thoughts with, “You haven’t heard the latest, then.”
“We’ve been riding hard for two days, General. We haven’t seen a soul on the road.” Which in itself was exceptional for that time of year. Not a drover, not a cart, not a French trader, not a single person.
“Join me in my quarters.” The general turned back to the gathering and continued, “You men have your orders. Any questions?”
There was a chorus of “no sirs” in response. The general nodded. “Very well. Carry on.”
Andrew went back and directed his men to decamp and see to their mounts. He then turned to follow the general indoors. He was initially glad to see Randolf Stevenage mount up and ride away at the head of another troop. But Stevenage paused by the main gates to shoot Andrew a look of pure triumph, a very disconcerting signal from the man at the best of times. Now, when the fort was full of shouting and trumpets and standards and dust and men, it caused Andrew the greatest of unease.
“Come in, Harrow, come in.” From beneath his bushy white eyebrows, the general tossed Andrew a penetrating glance, one which whispered a warning to Andrew’s heart. This was as disturbing as the fort’s martial air, for the general had long been a friend of the Harrow family.
Andrew maintained a formal stance as the general unbuckled his belt and handed it to his aide. “We are still awaiting the regimental officers from Port St. John, and a few—”
A second aide knocked on the door. “Begging your pardon, sir. Colonel Lewis and his men just rode in.”
“Have them join us immediately.” The general unfurled a large map of Acadia upon his desk as he waited. Andrew felt a pang of unspoken danger as he spotted regimental numbers scrawled along both shorelines of his beloved Cobequid Bay. The general studied the map as he asked, “What was the status of your region when you left, Harrow?”
“Peaceful, sir. May I ask—”
“All in due course. How many men did you leave at the fort?”
“Scarcely two dozen, ten of them on the sick list with influenza. But my orders were to report here with the strongest contingent possible. Sir—”
The clump of heavy boots cut him off, and he turned to greet six men in dusty uniforms. The senior officer led them in, saluted the general, and said, “Colonel Thomas Lewis reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Excellent. Gentlemen, you know Captain Harrow, I presume.” There were nods all around. “Right. I suppose you also have not heard the latest news. No, of course not. Well, not all of it is bad. Let us get the worst out of the way first. Gentlemen, I regret to inform you that General Braddock has been killed in action.”
There was a murmur of disbelief about the room. General Braddock, a legend in his own time, was a man of great military bearing with a string of victorious battles to his credit. General Whetlock continued. “Ten days ago there was a battle at Monongahela. The general led an expeditionary force, some of the men seasoned troops from England, the rest colonials from the south, conscripted and rather ill-trained. They were met by eight hundred French regulars, reinforced by an uncounted number of Indians.”
The number was staggering. Andrew’s fort at full contingency held merely sixty men, and with that he was expected to cover a territory stretching four days’ ride in every direction. Eight hundred regular soldiers was half as many as the British army had to control all of Acadia.
“The British goal was Fort Duquesne,” the general continued. “I regret to say they never made it. They were forced to withdraw and took heavy losses. General Braddock fell while directing their retreat.”
There was a moment’s stunned silence before Colonel Lewis said, “Begging your pardon, sir. How heavy?”
“Our losses were—well, quite heavy indeed.” The general’s cheeks fluttered with his sigh. “We lost upward of five hundred men. The French lost twenty-three.”
Surreptitiously, Andrew scanned the other faces in the room, noting a growing and bitter desire for revenge. He shook his head, only a fraction, wishing there were something he could say, something he could do to halt the momentum building toward catastrophe.
“The other news is better.” General Whetlock attempted to gather himself and put on a more positive face. “A second force, this one of navy and marines out of Halifax, has attacked and successfully defeated Port Royal. Which means that the French no longer have sea access anywhere along the Bay of Fundy.”
But which also meant that the army’s defeat only looked worse in these officers’ eyes, Andrew realized. Colonel Lewis’s tone grated harshly as he said, “Your orders, General?”
“Yes. Quite right. On to the future.” General Whetlock took in the map and the entire province of Acadia in one broad sweep of his hand. “Gentlemen, yesterday the senior officials of French Acadia were gathered in Halifax. They will not be allowed to leave.”
Andrew gripped the windowsill behind him, forcing himself to remain steady, though he heard the words with mounting panic.
“Governor Lawrence has determined, with the accord of the senior army and navy officials in Acadia, that there is too great a risk of the French settlers using our current losses in the field as an opportunity to revolt.”
Andrew cleared his throat. “Sir, excuse me, is there any evidence of this happening?”
“There have been stepped-up attacks on every road in Acadia, except your own.” Whetlock’s gesture waved the exception aside. “But that is beside the point. What we are dealing with here is the threat.”
“Quite right,” Lewis murmured, shooting Andrew a warning glance.
“The French have refused time and time again to take the oath of allegiance to the British Crown. They have been warned. They have flouted our warnings. They will now pay.”
No. The cry of Andrew’s heart was so strong he thought it was audible. He felt a sense of cold sickness sweep through his being. It cannot be. They are not a threat. We live in peace.
“We could march in and wipe out the enemy, of course,” General Whetlock continued, “but Governor Lawrence has decided that since this particular lot has been peaceful in the past, we should follow some moderating course. Grant them a semblance of political freedom. Despite the fact that this direction puts us to a great deal of trouble— and expense.” He straightened from his map and commanded, “All the French settlers of Acadia are to be gathered up forthwith and loaded onto His Majesty’s vessels. They will be taken to the French provinces further south, or back to France itself.”
“About time,” muttered Lewis. “Ship them off to where they can do no harm.”
Andrew protested, “They are doing no harm here.”
“That will do, Harrow!” General Whetlock clearly was ready for such a comment from him. “Colonel Lewis, you and your men are to make a sweep southward, as far as Antoineville—you see it here on the map. Return with every French person of every village along this route. My aide has lists ready. Check them carefully. Ships are scheduled to arrive here the night after tomorrow. Which means you must move swiftly.”
“Swift it shall be, sir.”
“Men, women, children. Allow no one to escape. You have four villages to cover. Conscript whatever carts and wagons you require. Confiscate anything of value. All that the French leave behind is to become property of the Crown. Any questions?”
“None, sir.”
“Very well. Make haste, sir. And be back on time.”
Whetlock accepted the salutes and motioned for Andrew to remain where he was. When the room was cleared, he said, “Close the door, Harrow.”
“Sir.”
When Andrew had returned to stand before the general’s desk, Whetlock snapped, “There is only one thing which keeps me from court-martialing you on charges of disobeying direct orders in the face of the enemy.” Whetlock’s gaze and words lashed with fiery rage. “Which, I remind you, carry a penalty of death by hanging. That one item, Harrow, is the respect I hold for your family. I had heard you were growing too fond of your French neighbors. That is why you were called out and another garrison sent in to take over.”
Whetlock shook his head, the muscles in his neck cording like an aging bull. “Captain Stevenage has come upon some most disquieting news. Until now I tended not to believe him. But that comment in the face of Colonel Lewis, with us at war …”
“Might I ask what Stevenage has reported?”
“Mrs. Stevenage received word from someone in Edward that your wife has been seen consorting with the enemy.”
“Impossible, sir.” But Andrew’s mind was trapped by the picture of Matty Dwyer, the drover’s wife. “My wife has never in her entire life had contact with any enemy of England. I must protest in the strongest—”
Angrily Whetlock waved him to silence. “Harrow, you are hereby ordered to take your men and clear out the two French villages north of here. You will then report back here and surrender to me your resignation from His Majesty’s forces.”
This time Andrew was unable to mask his horror. “Sir—”
“Your alternative is to be drummed from the corps, your good name scarred with the brand of a dishonorable discharge.” General Whetlock leaned across the desk, rage burning in his eyes and his voice. “Disobey me on this and I will see you sent back to England in irons! Is that perfectly clear?”