As winter increased its bite, the cold grew more severe. Men relieving sentries found them frozen to death, while others reported to the hospitals with severe frostbite in fingers and toes. Some exhausted soldiers contemplated suicide to escape constant suffering.
“We’re heading over the St Charles again,” MacKim thundered, as he and Ramsay passed a group of civilians.
“When?” Ramsay asked.
“In three days,” MacKim said.
They walked on, with MacKim wondering if he was too obvious. He knew that others of Lindsay’s Rangers were spreading the same information, each man putting in more details for the spies to report so the French spy-masters could place the pieces together and come up with another ambush.
“I’ll buy some of that spruce beer,” MacKim said to the seller.
“Can you afford it?” The gaunt-faced woman looked MacKim up and down. “Most of you private soldiers have no money.”
“I have enough,” MacKim said, “unless you’ve put the price up.”
“It’s threepence a gallon,” the woman said.
“It was less last time.”
“Are you buying or complaining?” the woman asked. “The officers don’t complain about the price.”
MacKim glanced at Ramsay. “What do you think?”
Ramsay shook his head. “No, Corporal. We won’t get to drink all of it before we cross the St Charles, and then somebody will sneak into our quarters and steal it anyway.”
The woman shook her head. “When are you crossing the St Charles?”
MacKim glanced around as if searching for a French spy. “Thursday afternoon,” he said. “We’re going to leave a picket there to surprise the French.”
“You’re brave men going out there when the Indians are around,” the woman said. “But the price is still threepence.”
Shaking his head, MacKim walked away, with Ramsay unhappy at his side. “You shouldn’t have told her about the picket,” he said. “It’s meant to be a secret.”
“That’s the idea,” MacKim said. The ale seller was the first person who had shown any interest in the forthcoming expedition. He resolved to watch for her in future.
The small boy was waiting at the barrack-room door with the now expected bottle of spruce beer in his hand. He looked disappointed when he noticed what MacKim was carrying, grabbed his bread and ran. The woman was waiting for him at the street corner. When MacKim shouted “Thank you,” she gave a shy half-smile before hurrying the boy away.
“One day, that woman is going to speak to me,” MacKim said.
Ramsay nodded. “Yes, Corporal. I wonder if she’s the spy?”
MacKim shook his head. “A spy would ask questions, or at least listen. That woman never comes close.” Yet he watched her retreating back, unconsciously noting the sway of her hips. “Maybe one day she’ll speak,” he repeated.
The reconstituted Lindsay’s Rangers set out from Quebec on Thursday afternoon. They left shortly after two, fifty men marching single-file across the thick ice, with their snowshoes sounding hollow and their reflections clear on the frozen water.
“Winter’s strengthening its grip,” Parnell said. “The worst is yet to come.”
The forest opposite was dull green, glinting where the light caught the snow.
“Keep five paces apart,” Lindsay reminded them, as MacKim watched Kennedy and the new men, wondering how they would cope with conditions across the river. Once again, he stepped into the woods, with his snowshoes padding on the surface. Since their last abortive expedition, General Murray had established a strong fortification immediately beside the passage, with a timber palisade and a section of grenadiers.
“Victory,” Sergeant Speakman gave the parole.
“Britannia,” came the laconic countersign as a burly grenadier eyed them up. “Where are you boys off to?”
“We’re patrolling for the Canadians,” Butler replied.
The grenadier gave a gap-toothed grin. “Best of British to you, Rangers. If you don’t come back, the Indians will return your heads.”
“Aye, no doubt,” MacKim said.
The first few hundred yards were easy, with the path well-trodden, and then they passed the outlying pickets and marched on. Once again, MacKim felt the trees close around him, with every bush or shadow hiding a possible enemy. Lindsay’s Rangers moved more quietly than a British line regiment, but with more noise than the more experienced Rangers with whom MacKim had served on the previous campaign. Given time, they would improve, but that depended on luck as much as anything else. MacKim knew the Indians would hear them, if any were present.
After an hour, Lindsay called a halt. “This is as far as we go, boys,” he said. “We’ll establish our base here and send out fighting patrols to search for the enemy.”
“We’ll post pickets as well,” Kennedy growled.
Using their training, the Rangers created a defensive perimeter with logs and hastily dug trenches, while Kennedy posted four pairs of men on picket. Half the men manned the barricades, with Lindsay remaining in charge of the base camp while Kennedy took out patrols in all directions.
“Sergeant Speakman, Corporal MacKim; you are with me,” Kennedy said. “The better we know this terrain, the easier it will be to defeat the French.”
Ramsay started as some animal dislodged snow from an upper branch, the sound like the thunder of drums through the silent forest.
“We’re not the first here.” MacKim pointed to the ground, where the distinctive marks of snowshoes showed where men had walked.
Kennedy knelt beside the tracks. “Indians and Canadians,” he said and looked up with a twisted grin. “I think.”
“Are they here now?” Ramsay looked around nervously.
“I hope not,” Kennedy said. “It defeats the purpose of the picket if they see us.”
The patrol was uneventful if a strain on stretched nerves, and they returned as the light began to fade.
“We’ve dug you a nice little nest twenty yards in front,” Lindsay said.
“Thank you, sir.” Kennedy glanced over the work. The Rangers had created a narrow trench behind a fallen tree and piled snow around as natural camouflage. Even from ten yards away, Lindsay’s nest was hard to see.
“Now we have the hard part,” Kennedy said cheerfully. “MacKim, you and I remain here, with privates Parnell and Ramsay, both volunteers. The rest will return to Quebec once they have emptied the contents of their pouches.”
Mystified, the men handed over what they had carried from Quebec until a strange pile lay in front of Kennedy. As they worked, MacKim checked the surroundings, touring the pickets to ensure no prowling Indians watched them. The forest remained silent, save for the occasional animal sound and a distant bird.
“You’d best get away, sir,” Kennedy said to Lindsay, who was looking nervous. “MacKim and I know what to do here.”
“That would be best,” Lindsay said. “We’re only a burden.”
When Lindsay led the Rangers away, MacKim suddenly felt vulnerable.
“Come on, Corporal, we have work to do.”
“You lads, keep a sharp watch,” MacKim ordered, and Ramsay and Parnell took stations fifteen yards on either flank.
MacKim and Kennedy created four dummies from the pieces of wood and cloth the Rangers had carried. Once the figures were vaguely human, MacKim covered each in a scarlet uniform, complete with the mitred hat of a grenadier, and Kennedy placed ten pounds of gunpowder in a pouch inside the tunic of each dummy.
“There now.” Kennedy glanced at the sky. “The last of the daylight is disappearing, boys. Time we got ourselves ready.”
Carrying the dummies to the strongpoint that Lindsay had created, Kennedy and MacKim placed each one in a position of defence, with worn-out muskets as weapons.
“Nearly there,” Kennedy said. Using a powder-horn, he laid three thin trails of black powder back to the position he had chosen for his small party to spend the night, merging them at one point close to him. “Let’s hope the Frenchies don’t see that.”
“They won’t see it in the dark,” MacKim said.
“We’re going to have a cold night,” Kennedy observed, as the four Rangers prepared to wait. They had created a small dug-out, necessarily shallow because of the frozen ground, with fallen trees as protection and branches pulled on top as camouflage. Each man faced a different direction, with the tension brittle in the air. MacKim thought he saw Tayanita standing in the shadow of a bush, blinked, and the vision had vanished.
The light faded and died. A wind grew, whistling through the branches, masking sounds so that the men started at the drip of falling snow and the creak of a tree. Ramsay shifted uneasily until MacKim placed a hand on his shoulder, calming him down.
MacKim found his mind wandering, so he forced himself to concentrate on the world around him, peering into the darkness.
Am I going mad? Has the death of my brother and Tayanita brought me to insanity? I might be a lunatic, for no sane man would volunteer to sit out here inviting an attack by Abenakis and Canadians. Can I regain my sanity? Do I want to? For a sane man would be a poor soldier, never taking any risks, cowering behind cover whenever the fighting started. I thought I saw Tayanita in the trees; it was only a shadow, and the war playing on my nerves.
The bark of a cannon sounded through the dark, with the shot miles from the Rangers’ position.
“Sit tight,” Kennedy whispered.
The cannon had woken MacKim from his reverie, so he heard the sound. It was faint, but he recognised the scuff of a snowshoe on the ground.
“They’re close,” he whispered, wishing he could communicate without making a noise.
MacKim saw the forms sliding across the snow, alternatively appearing and disappearing among the trees. He was unsure of the number, guessed at a dozen and tapped his foot against Kennedy’s leg.
The lieutenant nodded to signify that he had also seen the enemy.
One Canadian stopped ten yards from where MacKim crouched. For a moment, MacKim saw his face, marked with spiral tattoos, and the scalps that adorned the belt around his waist.
That’s the man who murdered Tayanita!
MacKim felt the hatred grip him and nearly rose to attack. He wondered if his scalp was there, alongside the fine blonde hair that had undoubtedly belonged to a child, perhaps the daughter of a settler. The Canadian moved on, silent in his snowshoes. With his musket in his hands and a knife thrust under his belt, he looked like the predator he was. The squat renegade was next, moving in a half-crouch as he slithered across the snow.
MacKim breathed again. He could feel Ramsay trembling at his back, sensed Parnell’s tension, and eased his cold finger onto the trigger of his musket. His hands felt so numb that he wondered if he could press the trigger when the time came. The Canadian nodded towards the false position, lifting a hand to show four fingers, and the raiders moved forward, one man touching a low branch, so a shower of snow descended. Instantly, the whole force froze into inaction, deadly statues in the night.
Kennedy tapped his foot against MacKim’s, who passed the signal on to Ramsay. MacKim felt the tension mount further, waiting for Kennedy to make his move. The lieutenant did not rush, but waited until the raiders clustered close to the false position. Hiding his tinder box behind the fallen tree, Kennedy scraped a spark and ignited the trail of powder. Immediately he did so, the raiders heard the sound and saw the flare of powder. Two turned towards the British, eyes gleaming in the powder-light.
“Fire,” Kennedy said laconically, although MacKim sensed his tension.
MacKim was ready, with his finger on the trigger and his musket already cocked and aimed at the Canadian. The pan flashed, then the musket roared with a jet of red flame and white smoke from the muzzle. Parnell was a fraction slower, and then Ramsay, with Kennedy last of all. MacKim did not see the results of their ambush, for the raiders scattered, with some leaping into the false position and others running into the forest.
“Keep firing,” Kennedy ordered. “Make them believe there are a dozen of us here. Yell your heads off, Rangers!”
MacKim obeyed, loading and firing as fast as possible, with the movements mechanical after countless hours of parade-ground drills. He heard Parnell muttering quiet curses as he worked alongside him, with Ramsay whimpering slightly as if he fought his fear.
“Shout!” Kennedy repeated his order. “Grenadiers! At the dogs, Grenadiers!”
“Keep it up, lads,” MacKim encouraged. “We’re paying them back for the last ambush.”
The powder trails fizzled and sparked across the snow. Although two died, the third reached its destination, and the ten pounds of black powder within the dummy’s tunic exploded. The flare extended to the remaining mannequins, and their powder also blew up with a tremendous roar and a flash so bright, it dazed MacKim and his companions in the concealed position.
“Keep firing!” Kennedy ordered, as the bank of powder smoke rolled over them. “Don’t aim, as you won’t see anything, just load and fire.”
“Come on, you French dogs!” Ramsay shouted. “We’re the Rangers! Kennedy’s death-dealing Rangers!”
“Lindsay’s Rangers,” Kennedy corrected.
Loading and firing, the four Rangers blazed into the woods until their night vision returned, and then Kennedy ordered them to cease fire.
“Load, boys,” Kennedy said, “but sit tight for a moment. Wait here until I see what’s happened.” He slithered over the parapet and disappeared into the night.
“Did we beat them?” Ramsay asked. “Have they gone?”
“We don’t know yet,” MacKim said. “Keep quiet and keep alert.” He examined the surrounding forest, taking one section at a time and moving on to the next. He felt the residual heat from the barrel of his musket and loaded automatically, while somewhere in the dark, men were moaning in pain.
“Somebody’s coming!” Parnell whispered, fixing his bayonet.
MacKim heard the soft slide of feet on the snow. He took a deep breath and readied his musket.
“Here!” Parnell cocked his musket and brought it smartly to his shoulder. “I see him!”
“Victory,” MacKim half-whispered the parole.
“Britannia,” Kennedy replied.
“Wait!” MacKim pushed Parnell’s barrel down. “That’s the lieutenant!”
“There’s two of them,” Parnell hissed.
MacKim raised his musket and rested his finger on the trigger. “Ramsay! Guard our backs! Parnell, get ready, but don’t fire until we see who it is!”
The figures loomed up, vague shapes of darkness against the lesser dark of the night.
“Easy, lads,” Kennedy said. “I’ve got us a prisoner. Time to go.”
When MacKim saw the wounded Abenaki, he closed his eyes. He had a vision of Tayanita dying and had to fight the desire to ram his bayonet into the Indian up to the hilt.
“MacKim!” Kennedy urged. “Take the rear.”
“Sir!”
“I’ve scouted around,” Kennedy said. “I saw four dead men, or bits of men, and blood trails that indicate that others were injured. Then I found this beauty lying on the ground. He tried to gut me.”
MacKim grunted, knowing that Kennedy was relating only part of the story. He could imagine the bloody struggle in the dark, the lithe colonial and the muscular Abenaki warrior, until Kennedy got the better of the encounter and disabled his adversary.
The Abenaki was injured, barely conscious as Kennedy half-carried, half forced him between the trees. They moved quickly, while listening for a return of the enemy, each man except Kennedy checking their surroundings, stopping to look behind them, listening for every alien sound. Twice MacKim dropped to his knees to look behind him, and each time he saw nothing but the trees, looming in the dark.
“How far?” Ramsay asked.
“About half a mile yet,” MacKim said. “Keep quiet.”
Twice, MacKim heard the soft pad of snowshoes, only to realise it was only the slither of snow falling from a branch, and once a spatter of musketry had them diving for cover.
“It’s not near us,” MacKim said, hoping the French were not attacking the outpost guarding the causeway.
They moved on, step by step, with the night gradually fading until Kennedy hissed them to a halt.
“The grenadiers’ strongpoint is ahead. Wait here. MacKim, guard the prisoner.”
The Abenaki lay on the snow, more dead than alive as his blood seeped away. MacKim stood over him, fighting the temptation to use his bayonet.
“Are you all right, Corporal?” Ramsay asked. “You look queer-like.”
“I’m all right,” MacKim said. “Keep alert. The enemy is as likely to be here as anywhere else.”
Kennedy returned within ten minutes. “I had to warn the grenadiers that we were coming,” he said. “They’re a bit nervous and might have fired on sight.”
MacKim nodded and lifted the Abenaki. Over the river, the battlements of Quebec looked like home. He had a last look at the forest, hoping to see Tayanita among the trees, but she was not there. He was alone once more, save for his madness.