UNTAMED by Pamela Clare
“Or incite them to open rebellion.” William glanced at the clock.
Ten minutes till the changing of the guard.
Amherst stood, pointed an accusing finger in a gauche display that William found almost amusing. “This is your doing for keeping a company of Jacobite spawn in your service!”
“Until Morgan MacKinnon was sentenced to hang, our relationship with the Rangers was rather cordial.” That was an exaggeration, of course. The MacKinnon brothers held William in contempt, but they had fought hard for him. “Under my command, their woodcraft and marksmanship have served His Majesty well, helping to turn the tide of this war. In my opinion, such skill excuses a bit of insubordination. I measure loyalty by action on the field, not by obsequious behavior.”
“Since you get on with them so well, go and quiet them! At the very least, stop those infernal pipes! I’ve a long march tomorrow and must sleep tonight!”
“As you wish.” This was what William had hoped he’d say. For, although he was certain Governor DeLancey would respond, he was not at all certain the reply would arrive in time to spare Major MacKinnon’s life. If DeLancey were traveling or indisposed, it might be weeks or even months before an answer came.
Clearly, it was necessary to take other measures. William set his glass aside and strode out of his study, calling to Lieutenant Cooke. “Fetch me Major MacKinnon’s effects, Lieutenant. I’m going to Ranger Island. I shall return them as a token of His Majesty’s good will.”
“Aye, sir.” The lieutenant’s eyes went wide, but he hurried to do William’s bidding, returning quickly with the major’s tumpline pack and broadsword. “Shall I accompany you or arrange for armed escort, my lord?”
“That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant.” William took the pack and sword and walked out the front door, leaving his lieutenant to stare after him.
His pulse unusually rapid, he walked across the parade grounds, passed through the first gate, and crossed the drawbridge to the outer gate, where guards snapped to attention when they saw him, the screech of pipes seeming to echo through the fort. Beyond the gate stood thousands upon thousands of canvas tents stretching in long rows, almost eleven thousand soldiers encamped and ready for tomorrow’s march north to Lake George. William would wager that not a man among them was asleep amidst this din. He turned to his left and was soon crossing the bateau bridge that joined Ranger Island to the rest of the fort. Two Rangers stood guard on the western end of the bridge, their contempt for him written clearly on their faces. They spoke to one another in Gaelic when they recognized the major’s sword. From behind them, the wail of the pipes died down—only to begin anew.
The taller of the two—a lieutenant William recognized as the man whose life Major MacKinnon had saved, the one called Dougie—stepped forward. “Do you see, Brandon? The feckless German lairdie has come to gloat afore Mack and Connor. Shall we let him ashore, or shall we run him through wi’ Morgan’s claidheamh mor and let the river ha’ him?” William met Dougie’s gaze unwaveringly, certain the man wanted to kill him, and just as certain that he would not. “If you value Major MacKinnon’s life, you will take me to his brothers at once.”
With many a muttered Gaelic curse, Dougie led William through the camp, which fell silent at his approach, its inhabitants watching as William passed, the silence broken by strange bird calls as the Rangers slowly surrounded him like a pack of wolves. By the time William reached the major’s cabin, both MacKinnon brothers were waiting for him, Lady Anne watching from the doorway, holding a sleeping baby in her arms.
Iain MacKinnon stepped forward, jerked the pack and the sword from William’s hands, and gave them to his brother. “You’ve got bigger cods than I thought, comin’ here tonight alone.”
“Or perhaps you’re just a bloody fool!” Captain MacKinnon thrust the tip of the sword into the ground. William met the elder MacKinnon’s rage-filled gaze, drums beating out the change of guard in the distance. With any luck, there’d soon be no one at the gate who knew that he’d left the fort alone. “I’ve taken quite a risk in coming here—“ “Like the risk Morgan took when he saved Dougie’s life?” Captain MacKinnon glared at him, his tone of voice implying that the risk William had taken was no risk at all. William ignored him. “There is little time, so let us dispense with the pleasantries.”
Captain MacKinnon opened his mouth to speak again, but his older brother held up a hand to silence him. “Come inside.”
“Lady Anne.” William bowed his head respectfully as he passed. Even in the candlelight he could see she’d been crying, the grief in her eyes stirring something like guilt in his chest—a curious and unpleasant sensation. The door closed behind him.
“What in God’s good name are you doin’ here?” Iain MacKinnon stood before him, arms crossed over his chest. “I’ve come to halt whatever ill-conceived plot you’re concocting to rescue Major MacKinnon.” William held up his hand to still their protests. “In the pack, you’ll find your brother’s effects, as well as two British uniforms. I suggest you each put one on.”
“What?” The elder MacKinnon gaped at him. Captain MacKinnon opened the pack, staring in disbelief as two complete uniforms tumbled to the floor. “You’re daft! I’ll no’ wear that!”
“On the contrary, Captain. I rather think you will.”
Morgan leaned against the wall of his cage, looking through the iron bars of his window at the night sky. An almost full moon hung in the heavens, sending a shaft of silver light through the window to the straw at his feet. Would that he were chi bai. He would climb the moonbeams to freedom, then lift Amalie into the sky beside him and fly away to someplace where this accursed war and its hatreds could not touch them.
“Tha moran ghradh agam ort, dh’Amalaidh” My love lies upon you. Amalie.
He was not afraid to die, but he did not wish to leave her, could not bear to leave her. For although his brothers would care for her and any bairn she bore him after his death, no man would ever love her the way he did.
She’d endured so much already—the loss of her mother so young, her father’s death in battle, Rillieux’s assault. Now she was about to lose her husband. Alone and in Wentworth’s keeping, she would have only her prayers to comfort her through the long watches of the night. Aye, tonight would be hardest upon her.
And what if Amherst and Wentworth should force her to watch him die?
The thought made Morgan’s empty stomach churn. If only he’d been able to see her, to speak with her one last time, but that neach diolain Wentworth had not permitted it. He hadn’t even had the courage to face Morgan himself, instead sending the chaplain, a thin man who’d looked at Morgan through cold, dark eyes and told him he was going to Hell. Morgan had sent him away—but not before he’d wormed from him the news that Amalie had recovered and that Annie had been to see her.
“I’m told the silly girl fainted because she’d refused to eat until you were set free!” the chaplain had said, as if it were the most absurd thing he’d ever heard.
Morgan had been deeply touched by Amalie’s loyalty, and yet she could not help him by hurting herself. She would need her strength in the days to come, the more so if she were with child. “Be strong, a leannan.”
All was silent now, the last refrain from McHugh’s pipes having died away just before the changing of the guard. Had Amherst or Wentworth gone to Ranger Island and forced them to stop playing under threat of punishment? Perhaps they were too drunk to go on. Or perhaps Dougie was singing the newest verse in “The Ballad of Morgan MacKinnon,” in which Morgan died not at the hands of the French, but at the end of a rope.
If Morgan looked far to the left, he could see the gallows, a ghostly outline in the dark, its shadow stretching toward him in the moonlight. There was no scaffold beneath, no trapdoor, only a single hogshead. Rather than permitting him to fall and die quickly of a broken neck, it was clear that they planned to kick the hogshead from beneath him, leaving him to strangle slowly, twisting and jerking in the noo
Dancin’ in the winds is better than burnin’ alive, laddie.
Aye, it was. He would have to remember that tomorrow when the life was being slowly choked from his body. Not that Morgan had consigned himself to death. He knew Iain, Connor, Joseph, and the men would do all they could to free him, knew he must be ready for anything. And yet what could two hundred men do with eleven thousand redcoats encamped before the gates? He could only hope that their loyalty wouldn’t drive them to attempt something foolhardy. He wanted no one to die on his account.
Morgan heard voices—the guards muttering to each other. He’d already dismissed it from his mind when something bumped against the door—hard. He turned in time to see the unlikely sight of two redcoats entering and dragging two unconscious soldiers behind them.
Morgan rushed to the bars, pressed his face against the cold iron, trying to get a better look, trying to figure out who among the British Regulars would want to help him. Then one of the redcoats spoke.
“Och, these bloody breeches are cuttin’ into my cods!” “For God’s sake, Connor, you whinge and yammer like a dog! I’ve seen your cods, and they’re no’ that big!”
Morgan stared in disbelief as Iain and Connor, dressed as British Regulars, dumped the unconscious guards on the floor and began to search the men’s pockets for the key. “Holy Mary, Mother of God!”
A sharp knock came at the door, startling Amalie awake. “Miss Chauvenet?” Amalie opened her eyes to find herself fully dressed and kneeling on the floor, her cheek pressed against the bed, Morgan’s rosary clasped in her hand. Confused, she glanced about, her dream of being held in her husband’s arms fading—and with it all happiness.
“Morgan.” She whispered his name, felt as if she were saying farewell, despair forming a hard lump in her throat. “Miss Chauvenet! I say, are you awake? Are you dressed?” It was the young lieutenant—Lieutenant Cooke. He’d come to escort her to Morgan’s execution. The realization struck her with the force of a blow, her stomach turning, her heart thumping painfully behind her breast.
She slowly rose to unsteady feet, not noticing how sore she was from a long night of kneeling at prayer, her gazed fixed in horror on the door. She struggled to find the will to speak, to still her trembling, to stop her tears. “Y-yes, monsieur.” The key turned. The door opened.
Lieutenant Cooke stood there in a state of utter deshabille, no wig to cover his short brown hair, no coat or waistcoat over his shirt, no stock to adorn his throat. He met her gaze, a strange look in his eyes. “Forgive me, mademoiselle, but Brigadier-General Wentworth wished me to warn you. Major-General Amherst has sent for you. He wishes to question you.” As he spoke, there came raised voices from below stairs.
“B-but why? Wh-what did I—?”
The lieutenant’s lips curved into the barest hint of a smile.
“Major MacKinnon—he has escaped! The morning watch found the two sentries from first watch shackled together in his cell, and the major was gone. Four sentries were found at the postern gate unconscious. We’ve already searched the fort and Ranger Island and have not found him . . .” Though the lieutenant continued to speak, Amalie did not hear him, his words drowned out by the rush of her own pulse, hot tears spilling down her cheeks, the terrible fear she.’d carried these past days giving way to a surge of relief. Morgan had escaped! He had escaped!
She raised Morgan’s cross to her lips and kissed it. From below came the sounds of Amhert’s shouts, but she felt no fear. So long as Morgan was alive and free, there was nothing that Amherst or Wentworth could do to hurt her.
THIRTY-ONE
Amalie held onto the side of the bateau, its rocking motion leaving her queasy. The late afternoon sun beat down upon her from a cloudless summer sky, the inconstant breeze her only respite from the sticky heat. In the distance, boats were already going ashore, the vanguard of a fleet of hundreds descending upon Fort Carillon, just as the British had done a year ago.
She could not see the fort yet, but knew Monsieur de Bourlamaque had already been warned of the British Army’s arrival, just as Montcalm had been warned last summer. Soon the forest would echo with the beating of drums, the tramp of boots, the clatter of swords in sheaths as the British army surrounded the little outpost.
It seemed like only yesterday . . .
If the fort should fall, stay close to Pere Francois. I will come to you if I can. If aught should befall me, Pere Francois will take you to Montcalm or de Bourlamaque. They will keep you safe.
Nothing will happen to you, Papa!
Amalie squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to cry. In truth, she did not know how to feel. So much had changed since then. Even she had changed.
Now the land her father had died defending for France—the very ground in which he was buried—would fall into British hands, his sacrifice and her loss for naught in the end. And yet, no blood would be spilled this time, for, as Morgan had told her, Monsieur de Bourlamaque was under orders to abandon the fort and march northward. She was grateful for that at least.
Her gaze was drawn once again to the shore and the dark wall of the forest beyond. Somewhere among those hills, amid those trees, she had lived the happiest days of her life. And now those hills, those very trees, sheltered Morgan, concealing him from men who would shoot him on sight or hang him from the nearest strong branch.
Perhaps it was just her imagination, but from the moment the army had left Fort Elizabeth, she’d felt Morgan nearby. The night they’d camped near the ruins of Fort William-Henry, where Amherst’s men had built hasty ramparts, she’d sworn she’d heard the Rangers’ special whistle. And today as they’d crossed the wide waters of Lac Saint-Sacrement—what the English called Lake George—she’d felt him watching her.
He was out there. She knew it.
But so did Amherst and Wentworth. They’d set a watch upon her, but not where Morgan could see the guards. Spread out around her, her gaolers seemed to be ordinary British soldiers going about their duties. But their weapons were always at hand and their gazes never wandered far from her, except to watch the forest. It hadn’t taken Amalie long to understand that Amherst and Wentworth were using her as bait. Amherst had been beside himself with rage the morning after Morgan had escaped, his pride clearly bruised at being bested. She’d been made to wait in Wentworth’s study while Amherst finished questioning Iain and Connor, both of whom had challenged Amherst to explain how they could have gotten past eleven thousand regulars—and the sentries at the gates—without being seen.
“No matter what you’ve heard from the Abenaki, we cannae fly, sir,” Iain had said, the grave look on his face betraying no hint of humor.
Amherst had not been amused. “Your men are a disgrace, Captain MacKinnon!”
Connor’s eyes had narrowed. “You wouldna say that if you were in the forest and under attack, sir. Nay, then you’d think us the fairest sight that ever you’d seen!”
Amherst had ignored this.
“The sentries said they were set upon by two men, and though they did not see the men who attacked them, I find it curious that Major MacKinnon happens to have two brothers here at the fort, both of whom have served as Rangers and are known for their stealth!”
“They also said the men who attacked them wore British uniforms, sir. Perhaps ‘tis your own men you should question.” Amherst glowered at Iain, then turned on Amalie so suddenly it made her gasp. “What do you know of this, Miss Chauvenet?”
Though Amalie was certain Iain and Connor had been behind Morgan’s rescue, she’d let nothing of her thoughts show. She’d stepped forward, lifted her chin, and met Amherst’s accusing gaze. “I know only that I prayed for such a miracle through the night, and that today my prayers have been answered.” The pride in Iain and Connor’s eyes when they’d looked at her had warmed her heart, and she could almost hear Iain’s thoughts.
That’s our Amalie.
T
Lieutenant Cooke appeared beside the boat, his friendly face a welcome sight. “If you’ll give me your hand, Miss Chauvenet, I’ll help you ashore.”
“Merci, monsieur. You are most kind.”
He carried her through ankle-deep water to the sandy bank, then set her down and led her through the bustling soldiers toward her tent, which had already been set up on the western edge of the encampment. There she found Amherst and Wentworth, their heads bowed together.
“If he comes for her, it will be tonight,” Wentworth said.
“We must be vigilant.”
Amherst nodded. “I’ve ordered my sharpshooters to open fire the moment he appears.”
Amalie’s stomach, still queasy, seemed to fall to the ground.
She found herself hoping Morgan would not come for her. And yet if he didn’t come, if he could not reach her, she would soon be in Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s keeping—and she would likely never see him again.
She glanced toward the forested hills, her gaze seeking the shadows, her thoughts winging skyward.
O, Morgan, mon cher, mefie toil Be careful!
Stripped down to his breeches, painted white and black to blend with the shadows, Morgan lay on his belly, watching through the spying glass as Amalie endured another supper with Wentworth and that whoreson Amherst Her long hair spilling down her back, her sweet face rosy from too much sun, she picked at her meal, her gaze shifting furtively to the west, as if watching for him.