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The sun was already high in the sky when Marshal de Contades's carriage arrived at the site where the great rugby tournament would begin in just a few hours.
The Plains of Abraham were the perfect location.
Not only was the area wide and open, but there was already a field that had been used for local matches for many years. All the authorities had needed to do over the past year was improve it so that it would be worthy of such an event.
Contades stepped down from the carriage, drawn by two white horses, with the measured deliberation of a man who no longer had anything to prove. He was greeted by two dragoons in full dress uniform. He himself was exceptionally well dressed for the occasion. He wore a magnificent cobalt-blue suit, as splendid as the unusually clear sky above, and sported a brand-new powdered wig.
The old marshal looked up and smiled. It was as though God Himself had chosen to bless the tournament. The day was warm, but not oppressively so, thanks to a gentle breeze blowing in from the east.
His gaze then turned toward the St. Lawrence River, several dozen meters below. The Plains of Abraham and their magnificent rugby field overlooked the surrounding countryside. Beyond the river, after a few rows of cultivated fields, nothing but endless forests stretched to the horizon.
For a moment, he stood motionless, taking in the still largely untamed landscape.
Good. Let's begin.
Escorted by his guards, he made his way toward the playing field, which had been fenced off on both sides to keep spectators from entering. Yet the most remarkable sight was the grandstands and viewing platforms erected by the military engineers' carpenters and the craftsmen of Quebec.
Perhaps the whole structure could not rival the ancient amphitheaters described so passionately by certain scholars, but it was nevertheless an impressive sight.
Even so, it might not be enough.
He passed beneath the grandstands, a veritable wooden cathedral that seemed to vibrate like a living creature, and emerged near the center of the field. It was immaculate, resembling one of the fine gardens of Paris. The grass had been meticulously maintained, and freshly chalked lines clearly marked the boundaries of play. At each end stood two sturdy white-painted wooden goalposts connected by a crossbar.
He turned around and truly grasped the success of the undertaking.
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
The stands were already three-quarters full, even though nearly an hour remained before the opening ceremony. And new spectators continued to arrive endlessly along every road leading to the Plains.
The constant murmur of voices was almost deafening, yet not unpleasant in the slightest. The place felt alive, like a great fair. The cries of street vendors blended with conversations and children's laughter, and this was even more evident outside the grounds, where tents had been set up to sell cider, beer, still-warm meat pies, tourtières, freshly picked fruit, and honey cakes. Visitors could also buy colorful ribbons, small pennants to wave during the matches, and woodcut prints commemorating the occasion.
Contades was deeply pleased. He looked more carefully at the crowd.
Officers in uniform, merchants, clergymen, entire families, nobles, prominent citizens, coureurs des bois, ordinary travelers, and Native Americans. Few of them would likely attend every match, but they had all wanted to witness the opening ceremony and the tournament's first game.
No one—not even he—knew which teams would face each other.
"Your Grace," an aide-major said from behind him, "this way, if you please."
The marshal studied the thoroughly ordinary-looking officer for a few seconds before following him to a broad viewing platform.
From there he would be able to see everything. More importantly, he would be seen. For he had not forgotten the true purpose behind all of this: to show the British colonists that the French were not the greatest threat they faced.
Several finely crafted chairs had been arranged with generous space between them beneath a large canopy stretched overhead to shield their occupants from the sun.
Governor Vaudreuil was already there, speaking with Intendant Hocquart and several other influential figures.
They interrupted their conversation when Contades finally arrived.
"Marshal," Vaudreuil said warmly, "I am delighted that you were able to join us despite your many responsibilities."
Contades inclined his head.
"I would not have missed this day under any circumstances. I believe it will be remembered for many years to come."
"We all hope so," the governor replied with satisfaction. "And what we have prepared for the tournament's closing ceremony will contribute greatly to that. Monsieur Hocquart has seen to it personally."
The marshal bowed respectfully to the man, who was ten years his senior and dressed rather modestly for someone of his importance. Though not a military man, Contades held him in the highest regard. Unlike his predecessor, Hocquart was both honest and hardworking.
"Sir, the work you have accomplished is remarkable."
"You are too kind, Your Grace. I have merely done what was expected of me. Besides, this is not the work of one man alone. Without everyone's efforts, none of this would have been possible—not to mention the financial support of our friends gathered here."
Gilles Hocquart stepped aside as though introducing those who had helped finance the event, though there was hardly any need. They all belonged to the great families of New France, most of them from Quebec.
There was only one exception: the former mayor of Albany, Sybrant Goosen van Schaick, to whom the Van Schaick Road owed its name.
After exchanging a few words with each of them, Contades concluded,
"Gentlemen, rest assured that those who made this undertaking possible will see their generosity rewarded. The Crown knows how to reward its friends."
"Please, Marshal," replied a round-faced merchant, "we are simply acting for the good of New France. Besides... it is gratifying to take part in something that goes beyond mere commerce."
They exchanged a few more polite remarks, punctuated by lighthearted jokes, before taking their seats.
Meanwhile, the grandstands continued to fill, and despite their considerable size, they eventually reached capacity. Those who arrived late had no choice but to remain standing and find the best vantage point they could from which to witness the opening ceremony.
Hmm... It's a good thing we built those grandstands on such a large scale. Still, I never expected a crowd like this.
His gaze shifted toward the teams gathered on the field. Each wore shirts of a different color so they could easily be distinguished from a distance.
One of the Quebec teams wore blue shirts, one of the Montreal teams was dressed in white, and the Fort Bourbon team wore brown.
The English, almost naturally, wore red, while the Iroquois were dressed in green.
Farther away stood the other teams, from Louisbourg, Trois-Rivières, Richelieu, and Halifax.
Some were finishing their preparations while others joked among themselves.
The excitement among the spectators grew steadily. Wagers were quietly being placed.
At last, an officer approached the governor.
"Your Excellency, everything is ready. We may begin."
Vaudreuil nodded and rose to his feet with some difficulty. His forehead glistened with perspiration.
A speaking trumpet was brought to him, and at that very moment the church bells began to ring. Gradually, the noise from the grandstands subsided.
From his pocket, he drew a speech he had prepared and read it in a solemn voice. He briefly recalled the history of New France—its founding, the hardships faced by the first settlers, the sacrifices they had made, and the agreements forged with the various Native nations that had enabled the colony not only to survive but to prosper.
Vaudreuil did not neglect to mention the Iroquois Confederacy, which was like twisting the knife in the wound for the British. Perhaps they would not have suffered such a crushing defeat in the last war had the Iroquois Confederacy not turned its back on them when they had needed its support the most.
When he had finished, he received a thunderous round of applause.
His Lordship the Bishop, Intendant Hocquart, and Marshal de Contades also addressed the crowd, though more briefly. Then came the military band.
But Contades's attention was elsewhere. While familiar—and sometimes popular—tunes echoed across the grounds, he watched the English. As expected, they were paying very close attention. But the French were not fools: if the British saw anything, it was only because he had allowed them to.
From time to time, he could feel their eyes upon him, or upon the official platform in general.
At last came the parade of the teams. One after another, they were announced like champions entering an arena. Their eyes burned with ambition.
Like troops marching courageously toward the front, they were led by standard-bearers and drummers. What glory it was to be applauded by such a crowd!
"Tell us, Marshal," old Hocquart suddenly asked as the third team began its circuit of the field, "do you have a favorite?"
The marshal raised a glass of wine to his lips.
"Not particularly. Of course, that does not mean there are no excellent teams. During my travels, I had the opportunity to watch several of them train, and I must say that more than a few looked formidable. But if I had to choose just one... it would be the Iroquois team."
The men seated on the platform looked at the marshal in surprise. None of them had expected such an answer, for prejudice against the Native peoples remained deeply rooted, especially toward the Iroquois, who were so often described as savage and unpredictable.
Even so, they all acknowledged that the Iroquois produced exceptional warriors.
"The Iroquois..." Van Schaick murmured, stroking his chin. "It's true—they look powerful. Especially those two giants."
He pointed toward Akwiratheka's two sons.
"But if they don't fully understand the rules of the game, their strength alone won't help them. They'll commit far too many fouls and be penalized."
Several of the men nodded silently.
The parade came to an end as the final team completed its lap of the field and joined the others, lined up in formation before the official platform.
In front of them stood a table draped with a white cloth. Upon it rested a large glass bowl filled with tightly rolled slips of paper, each bearing a different color. Beside it stood a large tournament board displaying the upcoming fixtures. For the moment, no teams had yet been assigned.
The drums sounded once more, and the captains stepped forward one by one as their colors were drawn. Around the table, the tension mounted until it was almost tangible.
The tournament bracket gradually filled.
At last, the final first-round match was determined. There would be twelve matches in all. This opening stage would last three days—three intense days, with four matches each day: one in the morning, one at midday, one in the afternoon, and a final match in the early evening while there was still daylight.
The second round would feature only three matches per day to determine which teams advanced.
The tournament would last an entire week and conclude with a spectacular fireworks display.
To the delight of the thousands of spectators, the opening match was announced: the Iroquois would face one of Montreal's strongest teams, commanded by an infantry captain named Philippe Moreau.
All the other teams left the field, and the tension rose another notch. The crowd was thrilled.
The captains of the two teams stepped forward to face one another. The difference in physical strength was immediately apparent. Kaionhes, Chief Akwiratheka's eldest son, towered over the opposing captain with his impressive height and broad shoulders. And when the two men exchanged a firm handshake, the Iroquois once again demonstrated the gulf between them.
The head referee then carried the ball onto the field.
Everyone's attention focused on it as though it were made entirely of gold.
Lots were drawn to determine which team would kick off, and fate chose Philippe Moreau's side. The Iroquois appeared completely indifferent. Akwiratheka's two sons remained perfectly impassive.
The moment the referee raised his arm, an almost unreal silence fell over the Plains of Abraham.
The street vendors suddenly stopped shouting and turned toward the field. Even the most boisterous children fell still, holding their breath.
For one brief moment, time itself seemed to stand still.
Then the referee's arm came down, and the ringing of a bell signaled the beginning of the match.
At that very moment, the leather ball left the Montreal captain's hands and soared high into the sky.
Every eye followed it.
An Iroquois warrior, his face covered in fearsome war paint, burst forward and caught it before it touched the ground. He immediately charged straight toward the opposing line, but before reaching it, he passed the ball to a teammate, who instantly sent it to another, and so on until it reached the center of the field.
Kaionhes shot forward like an arrow, the ball firmly secured in his enormous hands. With astonishing agility for a man of his build, he slipped between two opposing players and drove deep into enemy territory.
Everything had happened so quickly that the spectators could hardly believe they had really seen it.
But Moreau's team reacted at once, and several players rushed to intercept him. The first to arrive, swift and fierce, was hopelessly overpowered. He was brushed aside like a child, crashing to the ground and rolling several times through the grass without a foul being called.
A tremendous roar immediately rose from the grandstands.
"Good Lord..." Hocquart breathed.
Kaionhes continued his charge until too many defenders converged on him. Just before he was brought down, and despite being unable to see where his teammates were, he threw the ball backward. It landed perfectly in Tayohseron's hands, who took full advantage of the wide gap his brother's effort had created.
Nothing stood between him and the try line.
He sprinted past his brother as Kaionhes finally collapsed and ran faster than he ever had before, urged on by thousands of spectators who had risen to their feet as one. Everyone seemed to have forgotten that he was a formidable Mohawk warrior.
Vaudreuil and Contades exchanged a discreet glance.
On the field, just as Tayohseron was about to score the first three points of the match, Philippe Moreau suddenly appeared and launched himself in a desperate tackle. Catching sight of him from the corner of his eye, the Iroquois leapt with remarkable spring.
He sailed clean over Moreau, who crashed into the dry grass, and continued his run. At last, he reached the white line.
Tayohseron did not rush. Instead, he deliberately turned around and gently placed the ball on the ground, grinning from ear to ear.
The entire Plains of Abraham shook beneath the spectators' applause.
In several places, people hurried to cancel or change their wagers. This try, scored within the opening moments of the game, sent a powerful message. Many saw it as the beginning of a crushing victory for the Iroquois team.
Contades smiled even more broadly and watched the British, who, like everyone else, had remained to witness the match. They spoke quietly among themselves, their expressions grave as they observed both teams and the crowd's reaction, as though they had suddenly realized something.
The marshal's smile widened.
The tournament has only just begun, he thought, raising a cup of wine to his lips, and this operation is already a success. Hmm... if the people's enthusiasm remains this strong until the very end, we should seriously consider organizing more competitions on at least this scale.
***
At the same time, on the frontier.
It had been an ordinary, peaceful day for the garrison of Fort Bourbon and the people of Montrouge. But it was suddenly disrupted by the unexpected arrival of an Iroquois warrior.
He first went to the Montrouge manor and asked to see the chief's daughter. Finding her was easy enough, as she was playing with Louis in front of the manor.
The moment she saw the warrior, whom she had known since childhood, her smile vanished and her blood ran cold.
She slowly rose to her feet, keeping Louis behind her legs. The tall, slender Mohawk warrior stopped a few meters away, his face grave.
"Sister Onatah... you must return to the village. At once."
She flinched, terror flashing in her eyes.
"What has happened, Ratonhnhaké:ton? Tell me honestly."
Her voice trembled.
The warrior lowered his eyes.
"Our matriarch... she will soon join the Great Spirit. She has asked to see you... and your husband."
***
Onatah immediately went to the fort after entrusting her two sons to Jeanne. Thanks to her status, she was allowed inside and quickly found her husband.
The moment François saw his wife's emotional state, he knew something terrible had happened. His first thought was that it concerned the children.
"Onatah, what's wrong? Are the children all right?"
Her eyes were red, and she looked as though she were about to burst into tears.
"They're fine. It's my aunt... She's very ill."
François froze.
Although he was not entirely surprised, he had seen how much she had changed physically over the past few years, the news struck him with tremendous force.
To him, the elderly woman with the long gray hair, who always seemed to be asleep, was like a grandmother. She belonged to the very small circle of people who knew the entire truth about him.
They had spoken at great length about his previous life on many occasions, far more than he ever had with his own wife.
"Very ill..." he repeated slowly. "How bad is it?"
Onatah gently shook her head.
"According to Ratonhnhaké:ton, she could leave us at any moment. She's still conscious, but..."
She could not finish the sentence and burst into tears.
Without hesitation, François wrapped her in his arms and held her close. Resting his chin gently atop her head, he remained there in silence for several long moments.
He could feel her trembling as she struggled to hold back her sobs.
At last, he placed a gentle kiss upon her long black hair.
"Then," he whispered, "there isn't a second to lose. We have to go."
Reluctantly, he released her and looked into her eyes.
She could see just how deeply shaken he was as well.
"Let's go see the colonel. He has only just arrived, so he still has much to learn, but he isn't unreasonable. He'll understand if I ask for leave."
Onatah nodded slowly.
They left the office and headed straight for Colonel de Montmorency-Laval's quarters. He was eating an apple while reading a report concerning the defensive works on the opposite side of the Hudson River. He looked up in surprise when he saw Onatah.
"Major? Is there a problem?"
François saluted, and Onatah bowed respectfully.
"My Colonel... I have come to request exceptional leave."
The viscount raised an eyebrow and studied his subordinate for several seconds before turning his attention to the Mohawk woman. Sorrow was written across every feature of her striking face.
"For what reason?" he asked cautiously, looking back at François.
The major briefly explained the situation, the matriarch's final wish, and why it was essential that he travel without delay to Akwiratheka's village.
The young colonel had not yet met the Mohawk chief, but thanks to François, he knew that relations between their two peoples were extremely valuable. The Iroquois were powerful neighbors, fully capable of making life exceedingly difficult for the French should they choose to do so.
He appreciated having François Boucher de Montrouge close at hand whenever he needed his assistance, but he had no desire to needlessly complicate diplomatic relations with the Iroquois. Reaching what he believed to be the wisest decision, he spoke.
"How long will you be away?"
François glanced at his wife, hesitated for a moment, then answered honestly.
"I'm not certain. Probably two days."
Laval nodded slowly.
"Very well. You have my permission. If... the matriarch should pass away during that time, please convey my condolences to Chief Akwiratheka in both my name and that of His Majesty."
"I will, sir."
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Mounted on two powerful horses, the French officer and the chief's daughter rode toward the Iroquois village. They exchanged almost no words along the way.
When they arrived, they found an unusually silent village, immersed in a strange atmosphere. Not a single child laughed or ran between the longhouses.
The entire village seemed to be waiting for something.
The warriors guarding the entrance let them pass without a word.