The Plains of Abraham

Chapter 4

If I could see the men, they could see me. I ran along the bank, dragging the canoe rather than paddling it because I'd be more visible on the water. But I could only run so far before tiring. Still within sight of the men, but far enough away for ambiguity, I put the canoe back into the water. This time the devil was after me.

"Go, Wilbur, go." I prayed they hadn't spotted me. But one look ahead, at the smoke puffing from our morning fire, and I realized it didn't matter.

"Malcolm!"

He was still too far away. I paddled hard, my breath coming in short, painful bursts.

"Malcolm! Malcolm!"

He emerged from the trees with an armload of spare bark.

"Malcolm!"

He dropped the bark and ran to meet me. As I landed on the bank I gasped my words. "They're ... they're on their way."

"Calm down. Who's on their way?"

"Them." I pointed downstream. He stood up to his full height and shielded his eyes against the sun. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.

"Help me hide the canoe," he said.

Together we dragged it into the woods and camouflaged it with branches and leaf litter. "The fire," I said.

"There's no time."

We split up, each going in the direction we'd previously taken when searching for birch trees. I had the musket; the only way Malcolm could kill someone with it was if the person snatched the gun from his hands and committed suicide. As I hurried through the woods I kept an eye out for a tree to climb. If the men didn't have dogs, they wouldn't be able to search the trees.

A mature oak appeared, one with a branch within reach. Most of the oak's leaves had fallen. But if I climbed high enough I'd be hard to detect. They'd have to be looking for me, directing their scrutiny to the top of that particular tree.

By now the men had had enough time to reach the camp. There was no missing it—smoke still billowed from the fire. I didn't hear any dogs. So I waited. The question was whether to climb the tree or keep running.

There was also the question of where Malcolm was, how far he had gotten. What he would do, without a weapon, if they caught him.

Men crashed through the woods. The noises were uncomfortably close. I slung the musket over my shoulder and climbed the oak.

They passed my position only fifty yards away, carrying black powder rifles and pistols. One wielded a sword, swinging it back and forth in front of him like a machete. I'd seen his face somewhere before.

Another man spoke, one with a deep, authoritative voice. "Are you sure you saw something?"

The voice was familiar. As its owner turned in my direction, I recognized his face as well. Karl Rasmussen, captain of the martinets. He had a round head, short-cropped hair, a long nose, and a dark beard so thick it made him appear half bear.

"I saw something moving near this spot, I swear it."

"Was it a man?"

"I think so."

"What do you mean, you think so?"

"It was a man."

"Spread out," Rasmussen ordered. "Find him."