Edge of reason, p.21
Edge of Reason, page 21
Kennedy studied the enemy through his telescope. “Some of those regulars look clumsy,” he said. “What do you think, Sergeant?”
MacKim focussed the telescope. “They stand like Johnny Raws,” he said. “I think de Levis has stuck a uniform on every Canadian he could find.”
Kennedy smiled. “That’s what I think, too,” he said. “I wonder how long they’ll stand when Bragg’s or Amherst’s veterans fire a few volleys at them?”
“They have artillery as well,” MacKim said, indicating the two French artillery pieces in the centre of the column.
“If they march in that close formation,” Dickert nearly licked his lips in anticipation, “we’ll cut them to pieces.”
“If they march into the pass,” Kennedy said, “tree all and fire when they come within range.” He pointed to the Canadians and Indians who trotted ahead of the main French force. “These boys will be the most dangerous for us. I’ll take most of the Rangers and hold them back, Sergeant, while you thin the main column with your riflemen.”
MacKim nodded. He searched the Canadians for the tall man with the tattooed face, but the distance was too great to make out individual features. There were many tall men among the Canadians.
The cavalry trotted past the most forward French forces, and the leader reported to a small group of officers in the centre of the column.
“That must be de Levis,” MacKim said. “Riflemen, see if you can pick him off.”
Dickert shook his head. “The range is far too long, Sergeant. Our ball would not carry a quarter of the distance.”
MacKim nodded. “A pity. Killing their commander would dishearten the French even before the battle started.”
“There won’t be a battle today,” Kennedy said. “Look.”
De Levis listened to the Canadian commander and issued orders. The bulk of the French turned around and withdrew.
“They’re not coming,” Dickert said, with disappointment in his voice. “They’re not going to force the pass.”
“Very sensible of them,” Kennedy said. “Chisholm: present my compliments to General Murray and tell him what’s happening.” He studied the French through his telescope. “Tell him that de Levis and the main body of French have declined battle, but they have sent their Indians and some Canadians forward, no doubt to harass our rear.”
As Chisholm hurried back with the message, the Indians and Canadians entered the pass.
“Now it’s time for the fighting, boys.” Kennedy could not hide his satisfaction. “Feel free to shoot any of the enemy you like, and the more, the better.”
As Kennedy’s Rangers engaged the most forward elements of the French, General Murray sent a company of lights to reinforce Kennedy’s Rangers. After that, he began his withdrawal to Quebec, picking up the British forward detachments from St Foy and Lorette en-route.
MacKim knew Murray’s strategy, but his own world had shrunk to a series of encounters with the Indians and Canadians as the Rangers and light infantry protected the British rear. MacKim fired whenever he saw a target, fighting automatically without any rancour. He knew the enemy’s calibre and took no chances, remaining in cover with as much skill as any colonial backwoodsman. The Canadians and Indians flitted among the trees, firing and ducking away in much the same manner as the Rangers.
“They’re not pressing too hard,” Dickert said, aiming carefully and firing. “That’s one less, anyway.”
MacKim agreed. “No, they’re only occupying our attention. I don’t think they’re keen on forcing us back. De Levis must know he far outnumbers us; he’s looking for a battle where he can smash us, rather than killing a few men in skirmishes.”
“Fire and withdraw, boys,” Kennedy reminded. “Don’t let them pull us forward into their traps.”
The rearguard followed Kennedy’s orders, firing and retreating, keeping the French at bay without exposing themselves unnecessarily as the British withdrew back to Quebec. Once they cleared the woods, the Canadians and Indians became more cautious, and the Rangers moved slowly.
“This isn’t chess,” Chisholm said. “This is some child’s game. De Levis is harbouring his men.”
“He’s got something planned for tomorrow,” MacKim said. “Why doesn’t he use his artillery? He could fire on Murray’s column.”
“Maybe he’s short of ammunition,” Chisholm said. “Some Rangers destroyed his power-store, remember?”
As Murray marched from Lorette to St Foy, emptying the outposts of men and occasionally stopping to form up and challenge the French, de Levis kept his distance. The Canadian and Indian skirmishers took the brunt of the fighting without inflicting many casualties.
“Murray is performing well,” Kennedy said, leaning against a tree to reload his musket. “I doubt we’ve lost more than a handful of men, yet he’s relieved the outposts and faced off the French.”
MacKim nodded. “Aye; De Levis has done well, too, sir. He’s captured our outposts with minimal loss and forced us back to our main defences. I’d call this day a drawn encounter between the generals.”
“Here they come again,” MacRae warned and fired a moment later. The Rangers and lights withdrew step by step, until they reached the British redoubts outside Quebec when the Indians and Canadian attacks petered out.
“They’ve given up,” Ramsay said, leaning on his musket.
“Or they’ve chased us back to Quebec.” MacKim peered into the distance. The evening light was fading, with the Canadian skirmishers only a faint smudge in the distance. “Both sides can claim this day as a victory.”
Kennedy stepped on top of a rock and extended his telescope. “Tomorrow will be the testing day,” he prophesied. “I can’t see de Levis giving up now, and Murray is too proud a man simply to wait behind Quebec’s walls.”
“What do you think will happen?” MacKim asked.
“We’ll see tomorrow,” Kennedy said, “but whatever it is, they outnumber us by at least three to one, and half our men are sick with scurvy. I can’t see the outcome as anything but gloomy.”
MacKim loaded his musket. “There will be a battle tomorrow, then,” he said.
I might be with you again tomorrow night, Tayanita. Wait for me.
Tayanita was already there, standing seven paces away with her arms at her side and her braided hair hanging below her left shoulder.
I’m coming, Tayanita.
21
Claudette touched MacKim’s sleeve as he entered the Rangers’ barracks. “You’re back,” she said softly.
“I’m back,” MacKim agreed.
“And all your men.”
“They’re not my men. I’m only a sergeant.”
“I know your rank,” Claudette said.
“Should you not be hiding?” MacKim hissed. “You know the general’s orders about Canadian civilians!”
“There will be a battle tomorrow.” Claudette ignored MacKim’s words. Her eyes were shielded as if she did not wish MacKim to read her thoughts or her emotions.
“I believe so.” MacKim nodded. He slumped onto his cot with Claudette a few steps behind.
“Your General Murray is preparing for a battle.”
MacKim nodded again. “The French will attack the same wall we came for last year, and General Murray will take out the garrison to defend the city, as Montcalm did.”
Claudette sat on the cot at MacKim’s feet with her legs folded under her. She touched his leg. “You might get killed.”
“That’s part of the soldier’s bargain.”
Claudette waited for a moment, but MacKim had no more to say. “Try not to get killed,” she said.
“I’ll try,” MacKim said.
Claudette removed his bonnet and looked at the broad scar on MacKim’s head. “Somebody scalped you. I saw the mark when you rescued Louis.”
“A Canadian did that,” MacKim said. “With an Indian and an English renegade.”
“Not many men survive being scalped.” Claudette touched MacKim’s scalp with hard but gentle fingers. She bent closer to inspect the wound. “Does it hurt?”
“It did at the time,” MacKim said. “I still get headaches, but not so often.” He did not mention the nightmares, when he woke up bathed in a cold sweat and the Canadian’s tattooed face close to his while the renegade watched. Nor did he mention the recurring image of Tayanita, who walked beside him through the forests.
“I’ve never met a scalped man before,” Claudette said, bending to have a closer view.
“I was fortunate,” MacKim said and, for some reason, added, “They murdered my woman.”
Claudette’s fingers hesitated for a second, and then she continued with her massage. “The woman Tayanita,” she said.
“How do you know that?” MacKim struggled to sit up until Claudette pressed him back down.
“I made it my business to find out,” she said. “I know you were trying to desert with the woman.”
MacKim took a deep breath. “You seem to know a lot about me.”
“I do, Sergeant Hugh MacKim of the 78th Fraser’s Highlanders and Kennedy’s Rangers.” Her fingers eased from his scar to his face, closing his eyes. “Sleep, Sergeant MacKim. You will need all your strength tomorrow if there is a battle.”
MacKim did not object, although he found it pleasant to lie there with Claudette massaging his head.
“Your men respect you,” Claudette said, with her accent not quite French, yet very pleasing. “And some fear you.”
“Fear me?” MacKim opened his eyes.
“They think you have a streak of madness in you.” Claudette did not look at MacKim’s face. “As if you wished to kill everybody, or have them kill you.”
“They may be right,” MacKim said. “Who told you that?”
“The Highlander with dreams in his eyes.”
“MacRae.” That was about an accurate a description of MacRae as MacKim had ever heard.
“Your MacRae could be a poet or a sage,” Claudette said. “Or a killer, but he reads men from the inside.”
MacKim sat up. “Where are you living now, Madame Leclerc?”
“Safe in Quebec.” Claudette looked around when somebody came into the room, saw it was Harriette and continued. “The man you seek is dangerous.”
“He is.” MacKim knew that Harriette was pretending not to listen but noting every word. “Do you know him?”
* * *
“His name is Lucas de Langdon,” the woman said at last. “That is the name of the Canadian who killed your woman. He wears her scalp on his belt, and yours beside it.”
MacKim heard her words as if from far away, yet they still penetrated his exhaustion. “How do you know that?” He saw Tayanita at the opposite side of the bed, fingering her braided hair.
“Because he’s my brother,” the woman said.
MacKim was silent for a moment as he digested the information. “Are you sure?”
“I am sure,” Claudette said, now holding MacKim’s eye.
“Dear God in heaven,” MacKim said. “How long have you known we are enemies?”
Claudette smiled for the first time since MacKim had known her. “There are few secrets in New France,” she said. “What your General whispers to his secretary, the birds in the trees sing to the voyageurs in Lake Ontario before the secretary’s ink is dry.”
“I can believe that,” MacKim said.
“Lucas and I are half-brothers,” Claudette said. “He is a Metis, half-Canadian, half-Ottowa.” She smiled again, looking suddenly shy as she dropped her hair across her face. “Such a lot of halves for a full man.”
“Are you close?” MacKim asked.
Claudette did not reply at once. “We are blood,” she said, “but not close.” She looked away. “He is a dangerous man, MacKim.”
MacKim nodded. “He is the best man I have met in the forest. But Lieutenant Kennedy is also good.” He closed his mouth, hoping he had not said too much.
“Sleep, Sergeant MacKim,” Claudette said.
When MacKim closed his eyes, he was aware of Tayanita’s scent and the beadwork in his left hand. Yet, he still felt Claudette’s touch lingering on the scar left by Lucas de Langdon’s scalping knife.
22
That night, de Levis advanced the main French army towards Quebec. They occupied the former British outpost of St Foy, and their Canadians and Indians pushed further forward across the Plains of Abraham. With the British scouts withdrawing before them, the Canadians halted when they were only a couple of hundred yards from Ursule Redoubt, at Quebec’s outer defence line.
“Long rifle shot,” Kennedy mused as he saw the advanced French positions dim in the spring morning. “Could you reach them, Dickert?”
“Yes, sir.” Dickert balanced his rifle on the parapet and sighted on the closest of the Canadians. “I could blow his head off if you give the word.”
Far behind the scouts, more French were filing up, with the regulars in white uniforms further back and the Canadians and Indians in less disciplined units. Flags floated above each French regular regiment, the colours of glory, the rallying marks if they were hard-pressed, and the symbols of honour in victory. To the men of each regiment, their flag was as important as life, the physical embodiment of the regimental soul; they would die to defend their colours.
As MacKim peered across the undulating plain, he heard the drums, faint in the distance, tapping the men to battle. He knew that, if he survived to old age, he would never forget the sound of military drums. The drums were the heartbeat of any army. Now the French were issuing their challenge as their drums announced their return to the Plains of Abraham. The future of Quebec and possibly of Canada depended on how General Murray responded to de Levis’s invitation.
Kennedy studied the French through his telescope. “I can’t tell the number,” he said, “But I estimate about eight to ten thousand.” He took a deep breath. “Their van is creeping closer,” he said. “Dangerous men, these Frenchies.”
“I see the van,” Dickert said. “May I fire, sir?”
“What? Oh, yes, fire away,” Kennedy had not finished speaking before Dickert squeezed the trigger, with the other Rangers marksmen taking the lieutenant’s words as an order and also firing. The nearest Canadian crumpled at once, and others fired back, although MacKim could not see the fall of their shots.
“They’re firing short,” MacRae said with satisfaction.
“Keep it up, Rangers.” Kennedy did not need to tell his marksmen to keep under cover and not waste ammunition. The Rangers were all well-trained, experienced soldiers.
As Kennedy’s marksmen and the Canadians continued their long-range duel, General Murray called the light infantry and Volunteers together by beat of drum. The General sounded, followed by the Assembly. Major Dalling commanded the lights, while Captain Huzzen was in overall command of the Rangers. MacKim only knew Huzzen by reputation, as Kennedy’s Rangers were a distinct body, separate from the official company in Quebec.
The Volunteers came from various regiments and even some civilians, with the active Captain Donald MacDonald of the Highlanders in command. They filed out of the gate with the drums rattling, once-scarlet uniforms now faded and patched, but muskets clean and oiled and the men moving with the casual confidence of veterans, although many reeled with scurvy, or coughed and sneezed with colds and influenza.
The lights formed up in extended lines and moved forward, taking advantage of every scrap of cover as they advanced against the boldest of the French skirmishers.
“Stop firing, boys,” Kennedy said, as the Rangers lined the parapets to watch the progress of the light infantry. “You might hit our men.”
As the lights advanced, the French skirmishers withdrew, some still firing but offering only minimal resistance. When they were out of sight, the drums recalled most of the lights, with a thin line remaining to watch for further French advances. The main French army, having issued its challenge, withdrew, leaving the ground nearly empty, dappled by the morning sun as if waiting for the blood sacrifice of battle.
“First blood to us,” Kennedy murmured. “They’ll be calling for the Rangers soon, boys, so get yourselves ready. Forty rounds of ammunition, bayonets and hatchets and whatever other weapons you might need.” He glanced over the Plains and screwed up his face. “No need for snowshoes now, so we’ll move faster and lighter.”
As Kennedy predicted, General Murray had the drums rolling soon after, with every regiment forming up with weapons and entrenching tools. MacKim looked for the 78th. He knew the scurvy had hit them hard, yet hundreds of men answered the tap of the drum. Most looked like walking skeletons, pale and haggard, staggering with weakness yet still willing to fight, still forming up behind the colours.
Chisholm shook his head. “I heard that there were nearly six hundred of Fraser’s in hospital yesterday, with scurvy and frostbite. Now, most are in the ranks, refusing the surgeon’s orders so they can fight.”
MacKim felt a surge of pride; although he was a Ranger, fighting with men he trusted and respected, his heart was still Highland, and the skirl of the pipes stirred his blood like no other sound on earth.
“God bless you, men of Fraser’s Highlanders,” he murmured.
Chisholm nodded. “Aye, maybe we should be with the lads, Hugh.”
“Maybe we should, at that,” MacKim agreed. The urge to follow the pipes was strong, and he inched closer.
“No.” Kennedy shook his head in emphatic denial. “I need you here; you are Rangers now.”
With the city drained of civilians, there was no crowd to cheer the army into battle. Instead, there was a worried collection of soldiers’ wives, a few camp followers and some soldiers too injured to fight. MacKim allowed his eyes to drift across the anxious faces, searching for Claudette, although with no expectation of seeing her.
At nine o’clock, Quebec’s gates opened, and Murray’s three-thousand-strong army marched out. Murray was in front, with drums beating and each regiment with its colours flying overhead. MacKim watched the men, gaunt with hunger, staggering with scurvy, huge-eyed with fatigue and deprivation, and wondered that they could march, let alone hope to fight a well-fed, much larger French army.
