They arrived at the farm near sunset, the smell of smoke thick in the air. Émile had been keeping the St Lawrence to his right for most of the day, sun at his back, watching their three shadows grow longer and longer as his anxiety increased. Mercer was bound at the wrists—for show, more than anything—and Topek was riding a little behind, hand on his rifle, ready eyes locked on the forest on either side of them.
Gauthier had told Émile he’d know Tremblay’s roost when he saw it, and how right he was: what had been a plain old farmhouse was transformed into a tavern and a brothel, with more horses tied outside than seemed possible, and the sounds of drunken laughing and shouting and all manner of sounds echoing into the fading light.
They tied their horses a little further than the rest, and Émile made another check of Mercer’s bonds. The rope had chafed his wrists, and though he looked like he wanted to complain, he didn’t dare…not with so much at stake.
“Remember,” said Topek, under his breath, “Tremblay’s all about manners. He offers, you take, but you offer something back. I don’t want to get shot over decorum, got it?”
“Got it,” nodded Émile, and led their sad little troupe to the front door.
The guards there, two tough men with hands on their pistols, adjusted their stances at the sight of the intruders. There was no doubt they were lethal. The only question was whether they were patient, too.
“Back on down,” said the one on the left, in accented English. “Private gathering.”
“We have business with Monsieur Tremblay,” said Émile, in French. “He will want to see us.”
The two men exchanged curious glances, then the left one leaned in the door to confer with someone on the inside. The right one eyed Topek uneasily: the darker skin, maybe. Or the ample weapons. Probably both.
The guard turned back around: “What’s your business?”
Émile gave Mercer a little shove forward. “Mr Mercer, as requested.”
That sped things up considerably. The doors opened to them, and they were led through the main floor of the house, which was full of drunken debauchery that seemed imported directly from Montréal. Émile had been warned that Tremblay’s tastes were eclectic and overblown, but he hadn’t really appreciated what that meant until he saw it. No wonder there were so many horses out front…it was like a traveling circus merged with a Roman orgy, packed into whatever home they could commandeer.
Tremblay sat in the back, tucked into a corner with a harem crawling all over him. He was shirtless and drunk, his thick moustache still speckled with foam from the beer he paused drinking to greet his new guests.
“Ah, Mr Mercer!” he called out in English. “Still alive, I see.”
He waved a hand to the side, summoning help. “My pistol, Jean!” he called in French.
“Mr Tremblay,” said Mercer, head bowed low. “I’m so sorry for the situation, but I—”
Topek slapped him, hard. Mercer bounced off Émile, almost falling to his knees. Topek nodded to Émile, who then said, pleasantly, to Tremblay: “I apologize for the outburst, sir. He is a slow learner.”
Tremblay grinned at the display. “And who are you, I wonder? When I put out the call, I was very specific who was to be included, and who not. And you, my dear friend, were not.”
Émile’s tone didn’t change one bit. He showed no fear. “Happenstance, sir,” he said. “Our paths intersected by chance. You see, my associate and I—” He gave a curt nod to Topek. “—have been tracking a pair of rare Egyptian statues being sold on the black market.”
Tremblay sat forward, pushing some of the women off him. “Statues?”
“Yes, sir,” said Émile. “In New York. There is quite the appetite for—”
“They stole my statues, and brought them to New York?” snarled Tremblay. “Jean! My pistol!”
Mercer was starting to tremble, trying not to look to Émile for reassurance, but doing a bad job restraining himself. Émile stepped forward to block Tremblay’s view.
“You may do as you wish, of course, Mr Tremblay. Mr Mercer has wronged you, and it is only fair. But I do worry…”
Tremblay stopped waiting for his gun and turned his full attention to Émile. “Worry about what?”
“Well, without a bill of sale, proving ownership will be significantly harder, without Mr Mercer’s testimony.”
Tremblay watched Mercer for a moment, then Topek, then finally settled on Émile. “But you said—”
“The thieves were apprehended, sir,” said Émile. “And the statues impounded. And I’m afraid that without sworn testimony from the man listed as the official importer of the goods themselves, the authorities will not agree to the release of—”
“Make him sign it,” said Tremblay, sitting closer to the edge of his seat. “A bill of sale. Sign it now. Take that instead.”
Émile sighed. “Unfortunately, Mr Tremblay, the Americans are a distrustful sort. They suspect forgeries from every quarter.” He nodded to Topek, who basked Mercer’s legs down so he collapsed onto his knees. “Of course,” continued Émile, “this is your concern, and decision to make. We simply wanted to present the full picture.”
Tremblay’s mind was working hard. He stood, pacing toward Mercer, circling him slowly like a lion about to finish its kill. “If I let him live,” he said, “you guarantee I’ll see my statues?”
“I guarantee it,” said Émile, and prayed Gauthier could deliver his end of this bargain, for both their sakes.
“And if he lives, how will you be paid? Because I won’t pay a bounty for a man who lives.”
“Understood, sir,” said Émile. “I’m sure we can find…other ways of extracting payment from him.”
Tremblay grinned at that. “What’s your name again?”
“Deschênes, sir. Émile Deschênes.”
Tremblay kicked Mercer in the chest, knocking him over, and then paraded back to his seat, spreading himself out like the king he thought he was. “Come!” he called. “Join me! You and your associate are my guests for the evening!” He gestured toward Mercer and said, to one of his men: “Tie him up in the barn. Tightly.”
Drinks were served, in which Topek partook to excess, and Émile very little. He had a very uneasy feeling around Tremblay, like there was a trap waiting to be sprung, and if he didn’t have his wits about him, he might get burned worse than before.
Two hours into the revelries, Tremblay, laying on the floor and staring at the ceiling, drunkenly recounted: “Did you know this place…this place was the site of a great battle, twenty-some years ago?”
“I did not,” said Émile, nursing his beer as slow as he could. “Anglo-American?”
“Yes, that,” said Tremblay. “Battle of Crysler Farm. The Americans thought they could come across the river and split the country in two, take Montréal for themselves, they did. My Montréal.” He slapped his chest. “Mine.”
“But they failed,” said Émile. “What stopped them?”
Tremblay chortled. “The British say it was them. Are so sure it was them. But I met the men who did it, who won that battle. Canadiens, all of them. Badly outnumbered, they routed the enemy, killed them, captured them, drove them all away. Showed them New France is not for the weak of heart. New France never dies!”
A few men around the room cheered at that call, but drunkenly, and without really knowing why. The party was winding down, whether it wanted to or not.
Tremblay noted Émile’s lack of cheering. “You disagree?” he asked.
Émile thought a moment. “No, sir,” he said. “I have just never dared say such things before. My whole life has been—”
“Lived at the whim of the British,” said Tremblay. “Yes, I know. It’s why I travel as I do. Up and down this cursed river, taking their homes and anything else I choose. Reminding them who is truly in charge here. I pay no allegiance to the English crown. And not to France, either. I am my own man, and this is all my domain!”
The men around the room cheered again, and this time it took. The women joined in, too, and soon another round of beer was being passed around, the laughing and music and dancing starting up once more.
Topek raised his glass and said a garbled quasi-French rendition of “my domain!” and then downed it all in one go. Tremblay laughed at the sight, waved a hand in the air for Jean.
“Get these two rooms upstairs,” he said. “And anything they want, that too.”
Topek understood enough French, it seemed to get the gist of that command. He leaned over to Émile and said: “He said anything?”
Émile laughed, nodded, and Topek was on his feet. He pointed to one woman, then another, then another, like he was choosing bread at a bakery. The women all looked to Tremblay for direction, and he waved his hand in the air, shouting: “Anything he wants!”
Topek and the women made their way upstairs, laughing all the way.
Tremblay got himself off the floor and settled down next to Émile, practically falling into him as he nursed another beer. “Deschênes,” he said. “Deschênes…that name sounds familiar.”
“It is a common one,” said Émile, trying to sound pleasant and calm.
“No, but…Émile Deschênes. Catches the ear. Like…” He snapped his fingers. “A spy. He was a spy. Yes, that’s it. Fought for the British against his own people. Betrayed his own kind for the English crown.”
Émile sipped his beer. “Sounds like a dangerous profession.”
“It was,” said Tremblay, watching Émile very closely. “It is.”
No one else was paying attention to what was being said between them. No one else could see the intensity of the exchange, unspoken, they were engaged in. But there was no doubt that, should it come down to it, Tremblay had his army around him, who would do as they were told without question. All Émile had was his wits.
“If I see this Mr Deschênes,” said Émile calmly. “I will pass along your regards.”
Tremblay’s eyes searched for a hint of a lie. “Or have you already?”
“Mr Tremblay, I am here to facilitate the return of your property, at no cost to you, and I—”
“And who better to do that, than a man with connections everywhere…”
Émile set down his beer. “If you’d prefer, my associate and I can be on our way.”
“No reason to leave, if you’ve got nothing to hide.”
Across the room, a man let out a bellowing laugh, but neither Émile nor Tremblay moved a muscle in response. Nearby, Jean paused at the sight of them, hand at his belt, waiting for a cue to tell him what kind of trouble was brewing: immediate, or eventual.
“This Mr Deschênes sounds like a hated man,” said Émile, calmly.
“He is,” said Tremblay. “By me, especially.”
“Then wouldn’t it be foolish of him to come into your house, and call himself by his own name?”
Tremblay tipped his head at that, like it was an interesting notion. “Maybe he seeks penance. Maybe he wants to be caught, to be beaten, to be killed for his sins.”
Émile’s face didn’t change one bit. “There are better ways to atone.” He smiled, faintly. “And besides, a spy who turned on his own kind does not seem the type to accept his faults.”
Tremblay watched him so carefully, it was like having his skin sliced open with a dull knife. Jean waited for his orders. Émile waited for his fate.
“True!” laughed Tremblay, out of nowhere. “A coward now and forever.” He slapped at Émile’s knee, his smile returning full-force. “And you’re not a coward, my other Émile Deschênes. You are a madman, like me.” He waved a hand in the air. “Another round!”
“Actually,” said Émile, matching the smile, “I’ve had a few too many already.” He stood, making a show of being unsteady. “The outhouse is…?”
“Disgusting,” laughed Tremblay. “Use the bushes off to the left.” Émile headed for the door, and Tremblay called out to add: “And if you trip over someone, drag ‘em back in before the coyotes get ‘em!”
It was hot outside, but nowhere near as hot as it had been in the farmhouse. Émile staggered off to the left, passing a pair of drunk men passed out in the dirt. He ignored them, kept heading for the bushes, and disappeared inside.
Mercer flinched at the sound of someone at the door, cowering against the post he was tied to. But when he saw it was Émile, he eased up…slightly. His face was bruised, worse than before, and not by Topek’s hand.
“What’s going on?” he whispered, eyes darting toward the door. “Is everything—”
“Everything is fine,” said Émile, checking their surroundings carefully. “I think I can make this work, if you continue to play your part.”
“As the abused gentleman at the mercy of tyrants?” laughed Mercer. “Oh, I think I can manage.”
Émile pulled a wedge of bread and a handful of cheese from his pocket and handed it over to Mercer’s bound hands. Mercer shoved it into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten for weeks, instead of hours.
“You’ll need your energy, come morning,” said Émile, then slipped him a small knife. Sharp, but eminently concealable. “And this, if things go wrong.”
Mercer took it, looking terrified of what it might mean. “But…”
“If you run,” warned Émile, “there will be no saving you.” He took a step back. “But if Tremblay swings another direction, I won’t have your blood on my hands.” He patted his right bicep. “Stab once, then run.”
Mercer had never stabbed a man before, let alone used a knife to save his life. But he didn’t argue, because he could tell arguing wasn’t in his interests. He slipped the knife between his wrists, hidden away, and gave Émile a terrified nod goodnight.
Émile pushed the farmhouse door open, a drunkard over each arm, and caught his breath. Tremblay looked up at the commotion, and grinned. “Ah, you found some!” he laughed. “Drop ‘em anywhere.”
Émile set the two men down as best he could, then staggered over to Tremblay, sweat glistening on his face. He took the beer he was offered, and downed it in one go.
“Thank you,” he said, setting down the glass. “They were heavier than they looked.”
“Stupid is bulky,” said Tremblay. “So I assume you weigh next to nothing at all, hmm, Mr Spy?”
Émile ignored the taunt, checked nearby glasses like he was hunting for more drink. He found a half-finished shot of whisky, swallowed it fast.
“Alright,” he said, slapping Tremblay on the shoulder, pretending to be too drunk to make smart decisions. “It’s been a long day. With your permission, I would like to get some rest.”
Tremblay watched him carefully. “Permission granted.”
Émile gave him a mock salute, and then made his way over to the staircase, up to the second floor. He stumbled as he got there, catching the railing and pulling himself back up, but just barely.
“Sleep well, Mr Deschênes!” called Tremblay, as Émile climbed out of sight.
Upstairs, the drunken act burned right off. He paced down the hall, listening at doors, trying to find…aha. He knocked lightly, then opened the door to see Topek passed out on a bed with the two men draped over him. Snoring loudly, but alive. Good.
Émile closed the door and carried on until he found his own room, empty with just a single candle to light it.
He checked out the window, peering across the yard to the barn. There was a chair outside, like someone was meant to be guarding Mercer, but no one was there. He hoped it would stay that way. He prayed Mercer would think of the big picture, and not just his momentary fears. Acting on impulse was a dangerous thing.
Émile took off his waistcoat and shirt, hanging them by the window to catch whatever breeze came through. Then he lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and tried to remember the last time he’d slept on an actual mattress.
That night, before the fire, at Ada’s. When Maggie had fled, and Béatrice…
When he’d abandoned everything for a cause that wasn’t his. Again.
He pressed his palms into his eyes, trying to block out the memories of what had happened before, and since, but they were too many, and too stubborn to ignore. He heard the sounds of cannonfire, wood splintering out like sparks from a fire, men drowning, men chained and drowning, and he saw her eyes as he slipped away, hand outstretched, wondering why.
A sound at the door.
A creak, very faint, but there. Then, someone turning the knob, trying not to make a sound.
Émile dashed to his waistcoat, felt for—no, he gave the knife to Mercer. He wished he’d let Gauthier give him a weapon. He searched the room for something he could use, but before he had a chance, the door opened and—