“Bring him in here,” General Murray said, as Kennedy, Parnell, and MacKim dragged in the prisoner. Captain Lindsay already stood beside Murray, gently sipping at a glass of claret.
Even after the surgeons had patched him up, the Abenaki was a sorry sight. Weak from loss of blood, and with a bandage over his chest and left arm, he drew himself to an impressive height and glared at the British.
“Well, my fine fellow,” Murray said. “It seems that the fortunes of war have not favoured you.” He waited for Kennedy to translate as MacKim and Parnell stood at attention, bayonetted muskets ready if the prisoner tried to escape or attack the general.
The warrior said nothing, staring at Murray in an open challenge.
“With your permission, sir, may I speak to him?”
“Please do, Lieutenant.” Murray adjusted his wig slightly as he contemplated the Mohawk.
Kennedy spoke to the prisoner, quietly at first and then with more violence. “I am telling him that the French are defeated, sir.”
“Indeed.” Murray stood with his back to the fire. “Translate exactly for us, please, Kennedy. I’d like to hear what you are saying, word for word.”
“Yes, sir,” Kennedy said and hesitated. “They think differently from us, sir. Some of the language may not make sense.”
“Word for word, Lieutenant, if you please.”
“Yes, sir.” Kennedy glanced at Lindsay, who nodded and repeated, “Word for word, Lindsay.”
“As you wish, sir,” Kennedy said, “I told him that the British were formerly women and now have been altered into men. I said we were as thick all over the country as the trees in the woods.”
MacKim watched Murray as Kennedy spoke. The general seemed slightly amused by the lieutenant’s words but without any show of dissent.
“Continue, Kennedy.” Murray sipped at a glass of French claret.
“I told the Abenaki fellow that the British have taken the Ohio, Niagara, Ticonderoga, and Louisbourg and now lately taken Quebec.” Kennedy stopped to draw breath as the prisoner looked curiously at the maps on the wall. “I said that the British would soon eat the remainder of the French in Canada and all the Indians that adhered to them.”
“Cannibals, by George,” Murray murmured. “I didn’t know we had descended so far.”
“I meant we would defeat them, sir.” Kennedy sounded miserable, as if talking to the general was a greater ordeal than facing Canadians and Indians in the winter-cold woods.
“I gathered that, Lieutenant,” Murray said and stopped as the Abenaki began to speak, with his words rolling sonorously around the room.
When the prisoner finished, he lifted his chin in pride and spat directly into the fire.
“What did the rude fellow say, Kennedy?” Murray asked. “Word for word.”
Kennedy took a deep breath. “He said, ‘You are all deceived. The British cannot eat up the French; the British king’s mouth is too little, his jaws too weak, and his teeth not sharp enough. Our father Onontio – that’s the Governor of Canada, sir – has told us, and we believe him, that the British, like a thief, have stolen Louisbourg and Quebec from the Great King while his back was turned, and he was looking another way.”
“Interesting concept, by God,” Murray said. “Continue, Kennedy.”
“Yes, sir. The prisoner said that now the Great King has turned his face and sees what the British have done, he is going into their country with a thousand great canoes. He said the Great King’s warriors would take the little British king and pinch him till he makes him cry out and give back what he has stolen, as he did ten summers ago, and this your eyes will soon see.”
Murray raised his eyebrows. “Well now, could you translate that, Kennedy?”
Kennedy pondered for a moment. “I think the Indians believe that the French will come back to Canada in strength, sir, and try to remove us.”
“I see.” Murray poured more claret into his glass and topped up Lindsay’s. “I’ve little time for the French or for anything that comes out of France. Ask the fellow if the French have any intention of attacking us in Quebec, Kennedy. Don’t bother to translate your words for me.”
“Yes, sir.” Kennedy spoke to the prisoner again. “He said that the French are fighting for their great king and will soon bring the big guns to batter the walls of the city and eat up all the British here.”
“Big guns?” Murray looked concerned. “Which big guns, Kennedy? Does he mean a siege train? Ask him what artillery are the French bringing?”
Kennedy tried again, but the Abenaki clammed up and said no more.
“It’s no good, sir. Either he doesn’t know any more, or he’s not willing to tell us anything.”
Murray nodded. “I see.”
“I could get him to talk, sir,” Kennedy suggested.
“You mean we should torture the fellow?” Murray shook his head. “No, Lieutenant. We’ll leave the headhunting, scalping and burning to the Canadians and savages. We are British soldiers and don’t resort to such tactics. Lock him in the guardroom for the present.”
“Yes, sir,” Kennedy said.
“You did well, Lindsay, capturing this man and deceiving the French,” Murray said.
“Thank you, sir.” Lindsay gave a short bow. “I thought if we spread false intelligence, we could lure the French into an ambush. Give them a taste of their own medicine.”
“Quite a novel idea,” Murray said and lowered his voice, “although it does prove there are spies within the city. We’ll have to improve our security, Lieutenant, and watch what we say in front of the civilians.”
MacKim heard no more as he escorted the prisoner outside General Murray’s quarters in Fort Louis and into the city.
MacKim saw the woman as he returned to barracks from the guardroom. His mind was busy with Lindsay’s words, as the captain claimed the credit for ideas that had originated elsewhere. The woman turned a corner as MacKim approached, but he glimpsed the colourful shawl she wore over her head.
That’s Ranald’s shawl! That’s the shawl that Ranald’s sister gave him when he left Inverness.
“Here, you!” MacKim shouted and hurried after the woman. “Come back here!”
The women glanced over her shoulder, lifted her skirt higher and ran, sliding on the frozen slush that covered the ground. MacKim followed, coming closer with every stride until the woman turned up a narrow alley. Only a few steps behind, MacKim grabbed at the shawl and held tight, bringing the woman to a halt, uncaring that he gripped her hair beneath the material.
“All right, you,” MacKim growled. “That shawl is not yours. You stole it from the 78th’s barracks.”
The woman twisted and tried to back away, her eyes wide in a pinched, hungry face. Shaking her head violently, she replied in French, speaking so rapidly that MacKim had to order her to slow down.
“What did you say?” He felt no sympathy for the woman.
“I didn’t steal the shawl.” The woman was young and might have been pretty if hardship and hunger had not etched deep lines on her face.
“Then where did you get it?” MacKim shook her roughly.
“I bartered for it.” The woman tried to break away, but MacKim’s grip was too powerful.
“Where?”
“Over there. I’ll take you if you let go.”
“Take me.” MacKim relaxed his grip, and the woman tried again to escape, as he had anticipated. Grabbing her a second time, MacKim held her arm tightly. “Take me,” he repeated, hearing the hard edge in his voice. “Take me, or by God, I’ll hand you over to an officer!”
“No!” The woman paled and turned away. She led MacKim to what had once been a beautiful house set within extensive grounds. Now it was a shell, with shattered walls thrusting to the uncaring sky and piles of broken masonry cowering under a covering of snow. The number of footprints around the front door told their own story.
“In there,” the woman said.
“Come with me.” MacKim pushed the woman ahead of him. If she were leading him into a trap, she would take the first ball.
The building’s interior was as stark as the exterior, except for the small crowd of people gathered around a central fire. They looked around when MacKim entered, and some backed away.
“What’s happening here?” MacKim shouted, threatening the group with his musket. “Selling stolen property is against the law!”
The half dozen women and two men stared at him, with three pinch-faced children standing as near to the fire as they dared without actually sitting in the flames. MacKim looked around what had once been a splendid room. “Who here stole from the 78th?” He held up the tartan shawl with his anger growing. “Who stole this?”
The crowd stared at him and began speaking in French, so rapidly that MacKim could not understand a single word.
“You!” MacKim pointed to a woman who stood in the centre of the crowd. “I know you! You sold me a gallon of spruce beer. Tell me who robbed the barracks of the 78th, the Highlanders.”
The beer seller started, shook her head and spoke in a torrent of French. Realising that MacKim was alone, the two male civilians began to recover their courage and moved towards him.
“Take one more step, and I’ll spit both of you,” MacKim snarled, meaning every word.
“Bread!” The little boy ran into the room and pointed to MacKim. “Bread,” he said again as his mother followed.
“What’s happening here?” The boy’s mother pulled back her son and held him close.
“I’m looking for a thief,” MacKim said, glad to calm things down now his initial anger was diminishing.
The mother frowned. “One of the British soldiers who looted our houses, perhaps? Or the British generals who wish to steal our entire country?” She was handsome rather than beautiful, with strong features around a sharp nose and clear eyes.
“The thief I seek stole this shawl from a friend of mine.” MacKim could not acknowledge the justice of the woman’s remarks.
“You have your friend’s shawl back,” the woman said. “You should be happy. I have a dozen British grenadiers living in the house they stole from me.”
MacKim lowered his musket, knowing he would not use it against people who scrabbled to survive. “I’m looking for a piece of beadwork,” he said. “It’s not large or valuable, but it means a lot to me.”
“Why?” The woman turned her clear eyes onto him with a gaze as penetrating as any MacKim had experienced.
“A woman gave it to me,” he said.
“A woman?” The clear eyes nearly smiled as they assessed him.
“If you find it, let me know.” MacKim found himself uncomfortable under the woman’s scrutiny. He gave a little bow. “And thank you for the spruce beer.”
“It keeps the scurvy at bay,” the woman said. “As army bread fights starvation, Corporal MacKim.”
“You know my name?”
“Hugo asked who you were,” the woman said. “Corporal MacKim sounds better than the Bread Highlander.”
“Hugo is your son,” MacKim said. By now, he had forgotten why he had entered the house and ignored the crowd around the fire.
“I know,” the woman agreed solemnly.
“He’s a fine boy,” MacKim said. “I was wondering what his mother calls herself.”
The woman backed away as if afraid where the conversation might lead. “She calls herself Madame Claudette Leclerc.”
MacKim bowed again clumsily. “Madame Leclerc,” he said. Attempting to be polite after years in a barrack-room was not easy.
“Mama.” Hugo was looking up at his mother, evidently desperate to speak, but she hushed him with a shake of her head.
“Come along, Hugo,” Mrs Leclerc said. “It is time we were gone.”
“But Mama,” Hugo said. “We always stay here longer, and the Bread Highlander is here.”
“Come along.” Mrs Leclerc hustled him out of the door, leaving MacKim feeling isolated in a room full of Canadian civilians.
“Pardon me,” MacKim said and backed away. If he was no closer to finding the barrack-room thief, at least he had Ranald’s shawl, and he had seen the Canadian woman’s face and learned her name.