Distant Fires (11 page)

Chapter 7
 

Felippe held out his spyglass for Armand, focusing on the rocky pine-topped cliffs rising before them on the distant shore. It had been a day since they had entered the mouth of Lake Ontario, and the difficulty in negotiating the rough currents nearer the shoreline soon forced a move to the safety of open water.
 

In the six days, since embarkation from Montreal, the weather had been mild—too mild some days; the bare backs of the crew quickly turned a rosy brown as they sedulously laboured, hour upon hour, dipping their oars into the smoky blue of the oft-turbulent river, and thence to the great expanse of Lake Ontario. Accompanied by several Indian guides, their crew members,
supplies of lead shot, fresh meat, medicinal compounds, sleeping equipment, knives, brandy (to be given to the natives), and three additional canoes, they considered themselves fully prepared to meet the hardship; having seen little over the past week, with overnight stops at a number of privately-owned outposts. But soon they would arrive at their first official stop, Fort Niagara. From there, they were told, the going would get tough.
 

Armand marvelled at the enormity of the freshwater sea and surrounding land. For all its forbidding appearance, the colony was indeed beautiful, and to see it laid out upon a map...so vast!  It would seem unthinkable to travel such distances in France with nary a town or village in sight. Here, there were open skies, distant hills, thick forests of maple, larch, and white oak, or tall stands of birch, bull rush and fern clinging to the shoreline...it was all so alluring to the imagination, and somehow made him wish he were a boy again; to live like the infamous Courier de Bois, the French adventurers and fur traders he had yet to meet, with their carefree, nomadic lifestyle and native ways. Much as he had become a decisive and learned man of action, there remained within his core much more than a vestige of the romantic idealist, a yearning for the simpler life.  
 

Paradoxically, just as Louise had been the catalyst in his quest to become a man of power and influence, so was she now at the centre of his willingness to subvert it. Although he found
interest in making his mark for the good of this new land, he no longer had an overriding need to prove himself to another, for, in gaining her love, he had realised his innermost ambition.
 

As chief administrator, he had already installed a number of improvements—the construction of a stone building to preserve public records, an increase in shipbuilding, sending parties out in search of minerals, and educating the public through lectures on law... he was proud of his accomplishments. But now, his every waking hour was given to thoughts of another sort. Were he left the choice, all he truly wanted out of life was to be with Louise, to know her again, to share with her, to make love without the fear of discovery, and in their own marital bed.
 

And then, perhaps, a child. It was not too late. A living expression of their love, their days spent contentedly on a small estate...better yet, to remain here, in New France, away from the judgements of their society. Daydreams, unrealistic notions...  
 

“A storm is brewing, my friend,” said Felippe, adjusting his pewter-grey wig, which had shifted on looking up.
 

Yanked from his reverie, Armand looked to this guileless man, the sole source of his unhappiness, and wondered what it was that he felt for him.
 

While it was true that in their youth, Felippe had shown a carefree and venturesome side, years of living the soft life had returned him to the slightly stodgy, carefully cultivated creature he was originally cast.
 

Amongst themselves, the men made no secret of their regard for Felippe—not that he was despised, but Armand had overheard the jokes, watched as he unintentionally carried on with his fine clothes; this, while sharing a craft with men accustomed to toil and hardship. In a land where, he had creditably come to realize, neither social nor political standing were honoured or rigidly entrenched.
 

Yet, notwithstanding the caricature Felippe had become, Armand knew he was still a man worth reckoning. This was the only man who had coveted his beloved, enjoying those immeasurable domestic moments and delights, for the many years that he had been denied. And only this man now stood between their happiness. It was difficult to hate a man who was as much a victim for being unaware…  
 

“How soon before we reach the fort, Captain?”  Felippe enquired, as the wind suddenly picked up, lifting the waves around the crafts. Over the span of a few short minutes, the winds had risen, and the mid-afternoon skies had darkened into clouds of swollen bruises. The weather,
thought Armand, which had been balmy and clear—with the exception of a day—since leaving Montreal, was evidently due for change.
 

The Captain, Renard, frowned, responding directly, “We look to be heading for something of a squall, sir. It is hard to say, but with a little luck, we may arrive by evenfall.” Then he added, under his breath, “I don’t like the look of this.” Turning to his men, he had them make for a position nearer to shore, while steering clear of the precipitate commotion of water near the bluffs.
 

Precisely at that moment, a bolt of lightning lit the sky, followed by a powerful roll of thunder whose reverberation could be felt to the very bowels of the lake, unleashing a heavy blanket of wind and rain that lashed upon them in torrential assault. It was a downpour of such intensity that within the span of minutes, they were taking on more water than they could put out.
 

Of all the experiences Armand had known at sea, this was the most meteoric and perilous. The craft pitched over and under, rolling erratically, making it difficult for the men to maintain balance.
 

While the Captain shouted orders over the near-deafening roar, Armand worked with the men to keep from capsizing, as the craft surged and dove over the criss-crossing waves. Rain pelted his eyes as he strained to gather their position. They were nearing shore, but he could see that their frantic efforts might not be enough.
 

“Men overboard!” he heard suddenly. Breaking to the side, with several of the crew, he stared down into the water that seemed a vast, swirling cauldron. Within the roiling mass of noise and confusion, two heads, a distance apart, bobbed like corks upon the surface.              
 

“Some rope!”  Yelled Renard, followed by an incredulous “Oh dear God! How could this have happened...the Governor?”  
 

Fear beyond Armand’s experience took hold from within, unleashing a fleeting cavalcade of questions and emotions. His mind vaulted in indecision. Who would help him? Should he be helped? Why did the others seem frozen on the spot? Here, the very man whom had been the object of his jealousy, a man that, moments before, he had himself sneered, almost despised...would he honour a commitment to spare this man or regard this as providence, perhaps the only chance he might ever have for true happiness? Could he be that merciless...?
 

Then again, what of Louise? Would she glory in her newfound freedom, knowing that a faultless accident had been at its cause, or fail to forgive what she perceived as an act of treachery, in not doing his utmost to protect him? The question was...could he forgive himself, ever wondering if the life of an innocent man, or—dare he say—
friend
, could have been spared?
 

Instinct and conscience merged in the voice of Louise, silencing his thoughts. In the fraction of an instant he felt himself falling, plunging through the froth and spray.
 

He remembered the sides of the craft swaying perilously near, the extreme cold, and...a flash of terror in Felippe’s’ liquid eyes. He didn’t know how many men were in the water—sailors often did not know how to swim—but he saw the other man nearest the Galiote receive aid.
 

“Help me!” Felippe gurgled, flailing his arms in desperation, as Armand attempted to reach him.
 

Pulling himself hard against the waves, he could see Felippe was flagging in his efforts to stay afloat. The onslaught of rain and terror had caught up with him.
 

“Felippe... don’t struggle…” he gasped, breathlessly attempting to encircle his arm about his neck and shoulder.  
 

Feeling the presence of another, Felippe began to grapple for him, ever more desperately hampering his aims.  
 

Locked in what was more a combat than a rescue, a gigantic wave overtook them, plunging both under.
 

In the ensuing battle to surface, Felippe, flailing in panic, found himself gripping Armand’s legs, in such a way that the latter was forced to struggle like a seal in a fisherman’s net, growing further exhausted by the second.  
 

A rope was flung to Armand. Twisting, straining, he made a valiant attempt to reach it, but the waves, the rain, and the cold caught up with him.  
 

His arms became useless. He was losing consciousness and found himself feeling weightless as a marionette, dragged down, down, into the cold, gloomy depths, by his friend, this friend whom had once again become his nemesis. He knew that he had tried for her...tried for all of them...he had not failed...and in his last image, he envisaged the warmth of Louise’ smile, reflecting her approval.  
 

...........................
 

Soon after she finished her bath, Louise brightly prepared for her son’s visit, by first selecting a gown of pale yellow chintz with tiny white rosettes from the wardrobe of her spacious guest room.
 

While Marie coiffed her hair, she sat at her vanity table, powdering herself as she talked and laughed animatedly. So engrossed was she in her own happy thoughts, that she failed to notice Marie excuse herself to answer the door.
 

A minute or two elapsed before Marie returned, tiptoeing from across the room, visibly pale and shaken.              
 

“...And strangely,” Louise continued, with a laugh, “the letter stated that the Comte de Voisier left his estate to his youngest daughter, is that not charming? Marie...? Marie, what is it?  Is there something wrong?  Why do you look so?”
 

Marie, fighting hard for control, stared at her mistress, desperately searching for a gentle way to convey her message. She began to speak but her stoicism failed her, and tears erupted from her eyes, in an outpouring of pity and horror.
 

“I have something to tell you, Madame... He... They...” she trailed off, losing herself in hysterical sobbing.
 

 “Well, tell me girl, speak up!  He? They? What do you mean? Say something I am able to understand!” Louise shrieked.
 

The hapless girl collapsed on a chair. Louise stared at her, wishing to shake her, punish her for behaving so ridiculously, for causing her heart and mind to race and thereby shatter her cheerful state. She was about to upbraid her for this, when the door burst open, and in swept Madame Girald with arms outstretched, her face etched in concern.
 

“Oh, my dear, dear Louise, is there anything I can do...it’s a tragedy...simply terrible...both...it’s simply unthinkable …”
 

In a jarring instant, it all became clear, but the pain was so searing, she felt like a dagger had split her skull. Words began to tumble from Helene’s mouth, but only those with relevance managed to slip through Louise’ consciousness.
 

“...Storm...Felippe...Comte Leger tried to save him...both drowned …”
 

She was lying down, and they were loosening her gown. A physician was brought in. She was given a sleeping draught.
 

It was not, could not, be so. She was being punished...gone...every cherished thought and hope she had ever had...gone forever.  
 

“There you are, my love?” she cried, in her stupor. “You gave me such a horror...do not be afraid, draw nearer…” The face of Armand rose before her. “I knew it,” she gasped. “I...I knew it was impossible...you would not leave me...why did you frighten me so?”
 

“No, it is not father, it is I, Nicholas. Maman, your son, Nicholas. Do you not recognize me?” His voice was shaking with emotion. “Papa is gone, but I am here, I’ve come to take care of you...now rest.”
 

She did not wish to argue. Instead, she let the medicine overtake her, spiriting her away from torment and confusion, and into a reality of her own devising.
 

Chapter 8
 

Shanata slept on and off for the first few days, as she made a gradual recovery from the effects of shock and fatigue.
 

When she awoke on the morning of the fifth day, she was able, at last, to focus on the strange sounds, odours, furniture, and materials, which surrounded her. At first, she thought she was in the Spirit World, but memories of unfamiliar faces and events returned to haunt her, and when she pinched herself, she knew that she was really there. The room was dark, but light filtered in from a hallway, where she could hear the sick and injured in other rooms, some crying, others moaning or shrieking for assistance.
 

A woman, pleased at finding her awake, appeared in the doorway. She was carrying a lamp, and behind her a younger woman with bushy black eyebrows, entered carrying a large washbowl and cloth.