Journey to Victory Read online

  Journey to Victory

  “Patriots and Seekers” series

  Book One

  Lyn Cote

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  Published by Lyn Cote

  Copyright 2011 Lyn Cote

  Formatted by Polgarus Studio

  Dedication:

  This book is dedicated to my faithful readers for their support.

  Table of Contents

  Part One Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Two Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Three Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Excerpt—Journey to Honor

  Part One

  Chapter One

  British Canada, July 1774

  Tonight, I’ll lie beside some stranger as his wife. Christiane blinked away the bright morning sunlight but could not blink away the dread. Once again she had embarked on another journey that would change her life. She sat between her Algonquin father Shaw-nee-awk-kee and his son in a birch bark canoe. To the rhythm of the dipping paddles, they were gliding farther down the Ottawa River. In the cramped space, she hugged her knees to herself and pressed her forehead against her tattered skirt.

  She glanced sideways into the remorseless current, wishing for time, for control. But instead, the river, shimmering with molten sunlight, gave her glimmers of the past—candlelight on silver, soft lace against skin, frosting on the tip of the tongue. But she’d fled France with her father, here to Canada and then… She thrust all thoughts of the past year aside. She had to face today. Tonight, I’ll be some stranger’s wife.

  The thought brought fear, a rush of sensation—as if the bottom of the canoe, her protection, parted, and she was plunged into the cool water. She fought her way to the surface of this feeling, gasping for air, pushing down panic. She pressed her face harder against her knees. I will not shame myself. Ever.

  ***

  When they reached the trading post on the western shore, the bronze summer sun gleamed low through black tree trunks. The two Algonquin beached the canoe and without a glance backward, headed toward the crude fort.

  Christiane took a deep breath, reciting a half-remembered prayer to herself. She climbed out of the canoe and heard the squish of the wet sand under her worn-thin soles. Staring at the flimsy stockade of slender tree trunks bound together, she walked inside.

  After living a few months among the Algonquin, she was startled that white men now looked strange to her with their beards, knit caps, buckskin breeches, and colorful plaid cotton shirts. As she passed by, the men stopped. Their heads turned and they nudged each other in the ribs.

  She heard soft appreciative exclamations in French, “La belle, la jeune fille.” Many of them followed her, murmuring to each other. She ignored them with the cool reserve her mother had taught her. Still she hurried to close the gap between her and Shaw-nee-awk-kee.

  The rough tavern door stood open to the muggy night air. “Stay here,” Shaw-nee-awk-kee muttered to her at the doorway. Her body stiff from hours in the canoe, she leaned back against the open door, only then noticing how large the cluster of men who’d followed her was. Some of them passed on inside, their eyes averted. The bolder ones formed a semi-circle in front of her. A warm blush crept up to the roots of her hair.

  She would never have willingly shown herself like this—unkempt and with stained and worn attire—to her own countrymen. She tried to conceal herself in the dusky shadows, pressing herself back against the rough-hewn logs. To avoid their stares, she gazed inside the tavern.

  Holding up two fingers, Shaw-nee-awk-kee ordered ale. The barman thumped two mugs of beer onto a raw oak slab. Both Indians took the draughts in one long swallow. After belching politely, Shaw-nee-awk-kee passed the bartender a coin and then announced in a patois of French and English, “I look for white homme. Man who want wife.”

  The barkeep looked puzzled. Catching the direction of the other men’s glances, he stepped around the bar and gawked at her. “Blanc,” he said.

  “Oui, white daughter.” Shaw-nee-awk-kee motioned for another round.

  “Your daughter?” The barman asked, tapping the keg again.

  “Oui, I find. I keep.” Shaw-nee-awk-kee lifted his mug and paused. “You know man who want wife?”

  “I don’t know,” the barman stammered. There was a heavy silence. Outside, one of the men standing around Christiane took a step forward and lifted his hand toward her cheek. She jerked her head aside, warning him away with a look. He stepped back.

  Then a spirited voice issued from the crowd inside. “What do you want for her?”

  “You already have a wife, Jacques,” the barkeep answered.

  “Only a squaw. I could use another.” There was laughter over this.

  Christiane radiated white-hot shame. Going to the highest bidder—wasn’t that what she’d tried to escape in France?

  Then another man spoke up, “But this girl’s white, Jacques, a Christian. It’s all right to have two Indian wives, but…” He was stopped by a chorus of agreement.

  There was another lull. Finally, a man of medium height came forward. “Let’s see the girl. I have no wife,” the Frenchman said.

  Christiane tried to see what he looked like, but the fading daylight deepened the gloom moment by moment.

  Shaw-nee-awk-kee called her. She looked up, wishing desperately that she could turn and run. Instead, she lifted her chin and forced herself to walk into the tavern. Inside, the odor of stale beer and warm bodies struck her, almost making her sick. But she bit her lower lip and walked to Shaw-nee-awk-kee.

  Reaching out an arm’s length, the Frenchman turned her chin toward the daylight to see her face better. He then placed his hands on her shoulders and rotated her in a slow circle. The concentration of the crowd was intense—as intense as her embarrassment. Christiane wanted to scratch a maddening itch in the middle of her back. But gritting her teeth, she kept her hands at her sides.

  “Is she a virgin, Indian?” the Frenchman asked.

  Still flaming, Christiane took refuge in lowering her eyes.

  The old Indian nodded, then asked, “What you offer?”

  Before the first Frenchman could respond, another spoke up, “One moment, Paul. You’re not the only one without a woman to winter with.” This second man rose from an up-ended log he had been sitting on and strode forward to face the first.

  Soon three more suitors swarmed around Christiane.

  She shivered at the change around her. The sleepy atmosphere of the tavern had come alive with loud antagonism, rivalry. She cast around for a way to escape.

  “What is going on here?” a cool English voice sliced through the room. The clamor evaporated.

  All eyes, including Christiane’s, turned to the red-and-white uniformed captain. He was tall, slender, yet solidly built. His straight brown hair was pulled into a neat club at the back of his neck. Clear blue eyes shone against his tanned face. Christiane guessed that he was in his thirties, about double her age. His regular features were set sternly toward the company. He didn’t appear to be a man she’d like to cross.

  From her Irish father,
Christiane had learned much about English rule in Canada. Although the European population of Canada was still mostly French, the government had been British since the French and Indian War, a decade earlier. She surmised that here the British monitored the flow of furs down the river and watched Indian activity. This man was the authority here. And at the captain’s arrival, the tension in the room seeped away. The men around her parted, giving way to the officer. Would this work in her favor or no?

  “Mademoiselle, Captain John Eastham of His Majesty’s Army, at your service,” he said in precise French and removed his tri-corn hat and performed a formal bow.

  Stunned by this sudden forgotten courtesy, Christiane managed to incline her head in his direction. She studied this stranger more. Why do you treat me like a lady, sir? Is it mockery? Yet his concerned expression showed no obvious scorn.

  With all the aplomb she could muster, she replied to his courtesy with a deep curtsey, her hand gracefully holding her worn-out skirt. “I am Christiane… Martin,” she improvised in French, the language the captain had used. She was no Martin, the most common surname in France. She was from the notorious, notable Pelletiers.

  The barman stepped forward, answering the captain in careful French, “This Indian has brought his daughter to find a husband for her, mon capitaine.”

  The Englishman studied her and then the gray-haired Indian, his aloof expression hiding all thought. “Mademoiselle Martin, how do you come to have an Indian for a father?”

  The simplicity and the incisiveness of the question gave Christiane pause. No one else here had asked why she’d come with Algonquin. How much to tell? Straightening, she sensed by the men’s sudden intense concentration on her that the captain’s question had struck them all similarly. Yes, why did a white girl belong to an Indian, the disgruntled faces of the men appeared to demand.

  Tension still choking her, she cleared her throat. “Less than a year ago, he found me alone in the forest and took me in.” That is all you need to know. And what would you think if I answered you in English, sir?

  “Why were you alone in the wilderness?” the captain continued.

  “I was with my father, but he…died,” she replied, omitting all the incriminating details about her treasonous father’s flight from the British crown and his murder in Canada. The captain, after all, was English, not likely to view an Irishman with favor.

  “Then this Indian did not kill your father?” The captain rested his hand on his sword hilt, a silent sign of his authority, a silent gesture of his readiness to defend…her?

  The room stiffened with alert attention again. Christiane wondered why he’d asked this question. Then she realized that he was establishing her foster-father’s right to seek a husband for her. “No sir.”

  “I see,” the Englishman said. “And he has provided for you as his daughter?”

  She nodded and the men around her relaxed. That much had been done for her. But since she didn’t speak much Algonquin, she had no clear idea of why he’d done so or why he’d decided she must come here and be married to a white man.

  The captain studied her further. “Mademoiselle, do you agree to this then? Do you wish to find a husband here?”

  At this, the crowd’s tension spiked again. How odd that she could feel their emotions swirling around her as if they were natural forces. It has been a long time, Captain, since I’ve been asked for my opinion about even the meanest matter.

  Christiane repressed an instinctive denial. Of course, she did not want to marry a stranger. But did she have a choice? Could she face the wilderness alone with the Canadian winter coming in mere months? Shaw-nee-awk-kee’s declaration of her virginity had established her as a decent woman, but she would need a husband to keep this distinction. Otherwise, she’d be easy prey for any unprincipled man.

  Christiane sighed. “I have no other choice. Shaw-nee-awk-kee no longer will take responsibility for me and I have no family to turn to. Yes sir, I need to find a husband here.” At her calm acceptance, the men relaxed their tense positions.

  The captain scanned the men. “A show of hands, please. Which of you, as yet unmarried, would be seriously interested and able to marry this young woman?” There was a slight hesitation and then a forest of hands sprang up. “That is what I feared. The question is how to decide fairly who will pay the bride price that I assume this Indian will require.”

  “We could bid for her,” someone offered.

  “I find that a distasteful solution,” the Englishman replied crisply. “She is not an African slave.” Again, he looked over the intense, but silent men. “Very well then,” he spoke to her, “This will take thought. Mademoiselle, tonight you will sleep in the guardhouse under the King’s protection. Tomorrow at noon I will make the announcement of how this interesting dilemma will be handled. All men interested, be in front of my door then. Mademoiselle, if you please, come with me.” He offered her his arm.

  Again, his formal courtesy prompted manners from her past. Christiane rested her hand lightly on his sleeve, feeling the strength of his arm under her palm. As if at a garden party, she strolled beside the captain out of the dim and crowded room into the cooling night breeze. She let out her breath bit by bit. She’d won a reprieve—just a night long—but still a reprieve.

  Walking beside the captain over the rough turf, she looked sideways at him. The tail of his dark hair swung back and forth between his broad shoulders. His back was ramrod straight and his eyes never glanced her way, the picture of the rigid, correct Englishman. But for once she was glad to have an Englishman in charge, especially one so efficient. Her nerves jittered as they reached the one-room guardhouse. Had it all been a ruse? Would the captain leave her here alone?

  After exchanging salutes with the guard who stepped a few paces away, the captain paused in front of her. “I wish I had better accommodations for you.”

  The breeze brought his scent to her, some clean soap. She drew it in, savoring the remembered fragrance of spring flowers and heavy perfume. Being so close to this man, the first gentleman she’d encountered in a very long time, made her hold herself tightly together. “Merci, Capitaine.”

  She kept her chin level. She had no cause to bow her head to this man. But he had been kind. “You have been more than gracious.” She waited for his next move.

  He bowed and turned to leave. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, alone and uncertain. Was she relieved or disappointed?

  ***

  In the morning, Christiane leaned back against the cramped wooden tub, luxuriating in the warm water. She sniffed again the bar of lavender-scented soap she caressed in her hand. The captain had sent breakfast, a bath, and clothing. On her bed were her new clothes, the common dress for a peasant girl—a white blouse gathered at the neckline, a white apron over a dark brown skirt, and matching bodice that laced up the front. Her grandmother would have been appalled at the outfit. However, after losing everything but the tattered clothes on her back, Christiane was thrilled with it. But the most wonderful part of all was the undergarments. Two full cotton petticoats, edged with white eyelet, a shift, and a camisole. Where had the English captain gotten them?

  Rising at last from the tepid water, she slowly blotted her body dry. Laying the damp towel around her shoulders, she rummaged through her small leather pouch. Then she began absently stroking her thick hair with a bone comb. Her earlier fears had been dulled by a nourishing breakfast and all the gifts that had come to her. But now her mind turned to the fact that this night she would have…a husband.

  She’d fled Paris hoping to become a married woman. But never could she have envisioned such circumstances as the ones which were now hers. She looked down at her naked self. She hoped wryly that her husband, in contrast to Parisian tastes, preferred thin women, with arms and hands darkened by the sun.

  To prolong the enjoyment of her new clothing, she began to draw on each piece slowly, feeling it glide over her skin, enjoying the sensation of being washed c
lean and fragrant with lavender. Her mind kept returning to the Englishman. What had brought him to this outpost? Did he long to return to civilization, too? Did he feel as trapped as she did? But then men were rarely trapped. They made the decisions, not women.

  ***

  Near the appointed hour of noon, Captain Eastham called at the door, “Mademoiselle, may I enter?”

  “Oui.” Christiane stood up, dressed in her new finery with her hair neatly pulled back into a chaste braid.

  He strode into the room and then stopped. “Very nice,” he commented.

  She blushed at his approval. For some reason, she had become breathless again. “Who should I thank for these lovely clothes, sir?”

  “Your husband.”

  Her eyes flew open wide. “I have one already?”

  “No, no, forgive my attempt at humor. What I meant was that your new clothes are part of your bride price. You will pardon me, but this idea of paying the bride’s father for his daughter is quite strange, don’t you agree?”

  “No doubt a dowry would seem absurd to Shaw-nee-awk-kee,” she countered lightly, though her stomach quivered in a dangerous way. “Your French is very good,” she said, trying momentarily to turn his focus from herself.

  “Merci, I had an excellent French tutor as a child,” he said with a small grin.

  She wondered what he would say if she responded in English that she had had an excellent English tutor as well as an English-speaking father.

  “To the matter at hand,” he said, looking defensive, “I did manage to sober the Indian up sufficiently to set a price for you.” He became more serious. “Would you like to hear how your husband will be selected?”

  She clasped her hands together, her palms moist. Unable to meet his eyes, she stared down at the well-packed dirt floor. “Oui,” she whispered.