The Displaced

by Frieda Watt

  “Is Claude home?” Augustus inquired, scanning the streets.

  “Probably not. He was meeting with Governor Duchambon when I left.” She tried to shake her arm free, but Augustus kept a firm hold with his leather-gloved hand.

  “Annette?” He seemed oblivious to Marie’s struggles to free herself.

  “I assume she’s still there.”

  Augustus cursed under his breath. Marie saw nothing out of the ordinary. The streets were deserted, but that was to be expected on a day as cold as this. But then she noticed that Augustus’s other leather-covered hand, the one not forcing her toward home, was wrapped tightly around the butt of a pistol.

  She wasn’t sorry to be rid of him once she reached the front door of Claude’s manor because she was disturbed by his odd behaviour—including the fact that he’d followed her in without invitation.

  Annette came to meet them at the entrance to the sitting room. “What’s going on?” She was rightly shocked to see the merchant standing in the middle of her foyer.

  Marie shrugged. Augustus continued to look agitated, pulling the heavy dead bolt across the front door.

  “Is Claude home?” he demanded.

  Annette shook her head, perplexed. “I don’t expect him home until tonight.”

  Augustus swore under his breath.

  “What is the matter?”

  “The garrison has mutinied.” Augustus looked out one of the front windows beside the front door in a state of distraction.

  “What do you mean ‘mutinied’?” Marie asked.

  “They’re contesting their lack of food and wages. They were promised spoils from the raid on the Canso Islands, but those were never delivered to them. It was a fair incentive for a full-on attack against the British, which was a particularly dangerous undertaking. Apparently, they’ve had enough.”

  Marie glanced at Annette. Neither of them had heard these complaints from Nic. When Annette pointed this out, Augustus didn’t even respond at first. He just kept standing guard in front of the window as if he expected a group of renegade soldiers to come barrelling down the street at any moment. “Nic’s an officer. It’s the cadets who’ve mutinied. Apparently, they aren’t being paid. The officers are, but they aren’t passing the money down.”

  Madame Badeau emerged from the back of the house, wiping her hands on her apron. The news was as unsettling to her as it was to the rest of them. One of the maids began to cry, but the housekeeper shooed her away, annoyed.

  “Don’t you supply the rations?” Marie asked. Annette looked at her furiously. It might be an impertinent question, but Marie didn’t care.

  Augustus sighed and ran his hand through his greying hair. “I’ve given the military everything they’ve asked for. There shouldn’t be a problem. The garrison of Louisbourg are the best outfitted soldiers on the continent. I don’t know what they’re complaining about.” He broke off, mumbling to himself like a madman.

  The sound of distant musket fire ruptured the air. Annette clutched Marie’s arm. “What do we do?” Annette asked in no more than a whisper. The panic in her voice was clear. The garrison outnumbered them all, and there weren’t enough guns in private hands to counteract the military. If they took over the city, there was little anyone could do about it.

  “I don’t know. I just received word myself and thought it prudent to come check on you.” The Thibaults’ home was much closer to the King’s Bastion than theirs, so Augustus would easily have heard the commotion as it was starting. Marie wondered why she and Annette and Claude were first on his list of neighbours, but she wasn’t complaining.

  “I’ll stay until Claude comes home,” said Augustus. “It’s not safe for women to be alone.”

  Marie wanted to point out that Ferdinand could protect them but then remembered he was at Governor Duchambon’s with Claude. Annette looked as if she too wanted to challenge Augustus’s idea, but more musket fire soon ripped through the air and that stopped her from raising any objections.

  Annette and Augustus moved into the sitting room, which gave them a clear view of the street. Augustus kept his pistol within arm’s reach on the painted table between them.

  Marie went to the kitchen and sat with Madame Badeau. The housekeeper settled her considerable weight onto a chair at the table, opposite Marie, a kettle of tea sitting between them. Madame Badeau left only once to check on the other servants. She reappeared a quarter of an hour later, looking annoyed with the rest of the staff, who were too busy fretting about the current situation to do their work.

  Annette and Augustus were worried about the fate of the fortress, but Marie was more concerned about Nic. He was new to the military, a very junior officer but an officer nonetheless. What did this mutiny consist of? Were the mutineers being violent toward the officers? Had all the cadets revolted or just a few? Neither Marie nor Madame Badeau said anything. They just sat waiting for some form of news, the unanswered questions weighing heavily on their souls. The sporadic gunfire continued throughout the afternoon, grating on the nerves of those waiting inside.

  Claude arrived as the sun was setting, and for the first time in Marie’s memory, Annette rushed to the front door to greet him. He seemed to have aged in the last few hours. His hair seemed whiter and his walk more stooped than when he had left that morning. “The soldiers have taken over,” was all he said.

  Augustus slipped out the kitchen door when it was announced that the master was home. Claude may have been overwhelmed by the day’s events, but that wouldn’t have stopped him from going ballistic if he found the son of a habitant in his home.

  Claude collapsed into the stuffed armchair by the fire in the sitting room, completely drained. Annette handed him a glass of rum and knelt at his feet, begging for news. He emptied his cup in one gulp and set the glass on the painted table, recently vacated by Augustus’s pistol.

  “The army has three demands,” he sighed, his cheeks wobbling as air escaped from his mouth. “They’re tired of stale vegetables and rotten bread. They complain that the British prisoners from Canso are being fed better than they are, that their wages are going toward keeping the enemy alive, and that the good flour is being sold to the civilians here instead of being given to them.”

  “But of course it is,” Annette objected. “Are we expected to eat rotten flour on top of starving?”

  Marie wanted to point out that things didn’t get much worse than what the army was being forced to eat—moldy bread made from flour mixed with sawdust—but she kept her peace.

  Claude ignored his wife’s comments and rubbed his hands together. “They also want their wages for the manual labour they’ve been performing for the King and other citizens. And they’re demanding the booty they were promised from the expedition to Canso.” Claude sighed again, the firelight reflecting off his round spectacles, momentarily obscuring his eyes. “They’ve taken over the Bastion and the rest of the fort. They refuse to do anything until their demands are met. They’ve completely taken over the government offices and are patrolling the streets as we speak. Governor Duchambon is still meeting with the leaders, trying to sort things out. But I fear they will sell us to the British when spring comes.”

  “What about Nic?” Marie had left the kitchen to listen from the doorway to the sitting room and couldn’t refrain any longer.

  Claude and Annette both looked at her as if surprised to be reminded they had a nephew in the middle of the crisis.

  “Is he all right?”

  “I don’t see why he wouldn’t be,” Claude said coldly. “But if he’s in cahoots with the rest of these scoundrels, I hope they shoot him for it.”

  Annette let the comment pass. Enraged at them both, Marie fled to the sanctuary of her room. It wasn’t Nic’s fault that this was happening. He’d been a member of the garrison for only three months. Would he be punished along with the rest of the officers? She had a mad desire to run out of the house in search of him, but she knew it would be dangerous and futile with disgruntled
soldiers roaming the streets.

  She thought back to the night of the bonfire. The soldiers huddled at the gate had been wrapped in multiple layers of wool blankets, unable to get close enough to the heat of the flames. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now she realized they hadn’t been given proper outerwear. If they were being fed with similar neglect and if they had really not been given the spoils of war that they’d been promised, it was no wonder they were in a state of mutiny.

  Marie curled up under her covers, pulling the quilt tight under her chin. Thoughts of Nic, Elise’s brothers and father, and the cadets of the garrison swirled in her head as she tossed and turned on the feather mattress. Was Claude right? Would the soldiers sell the fortress to the British if given the chance?

  Chapter 3

  SHE DIDN’T REALIZE SHE’D DRIFTED OFF until she was awakened by sunlight streaming in through the window. The fire had gone out and the air was like ice. She crawled out of bed, her quilt still wrapped tightly around her, grabbed her clothes, and headed down to the kitchen, where it was sure to be warm enough to change without getting frozen. Madame Badeau wouldn’t mind.

  The house was silent, and the streets were deserted of all regular life. The shouts of soldiers parading through the streets sent a chill down her spine. She saw a few silhouettes move past the windows in the sitting room and went to check that they were locked.

  Marie found Madame Badeau in her usual place, operating the stove. Ferdinand was near the door, keeping watch. The fire gave welcome relief to her frozen body, even if it did nothing to calm her nerves.

  “Where is everyone?” Marie sat on the floor near the hearth, trying to thaw her frozen muscles.

  “They drank themselves to sleep last night.” Madame Badeau’s thin lips were pursed in displeasure as she slammed a pot of water on the stove. “Of all the concerns they had, they never once mentioned Nic.”

  She was in such a foul mood, Marie felt it best not to mention Claude’s comment of the night before. “Do you know anything more yet?”

  Madame Badeau shook her head as she stoked the fire. Marie could hear the voices of the other servants, but they refused to emerge from their quarters. “Antoine, the cooper’s apprentice from down the street, stopped by this morning. I think he was hoping your uncle had classified information he might share. He told me he ran into a pack of soldiers, drunk and looking for a fight. He escaped by convincing them his brother was in the garrison.”

  “Does Antoine have a brother?”

  Madame Badeau laughed darkly. “Poor soul’s an orphan. Most of the garrison’s in a similar position—with no family on this continent except for the ones they make themselves.”

  “I’m still so worried about Nic … Why wouldn’t he send word?” Marie fretted.

  “Oh, Nic will be fine,” Ferdinand said in a deep voice that echoed around the kitchen. “He’s talked his way out of plenty of bad situations.”

  Marie didn’t look convinced.

  “When he was thirteen, he took one of my horses without permission. Almost killed the poor beast, he rode her so hard. I was going to tan his hide, but somehow he got the better of me.” Ferdinand smiled and Marie felt a bit better.

  It was a tense day. Claude left as soon as he stopped throwing up. Annette wandered around the house, wringing her hands. The servants were still fearful of leaving their bedrooms. Marie tried her best to avoid them all.

  The sound of drums, which usually signalled the call for all soldiers to make their way back to the barracks, continued to beat, sending unknown messages to those stationed throughout the city. There was a different sound to these beats. They were calls for the townspeople to submit to the mutineers.

  ***

  Four days after the mutiny began, Marie still hadn’t left the house. Claude came home every night with the daily news, but Marie refused to even look at him.

  She did listen in on his conversations with Annette, though, and from those, she gleaned the information that the Swiss Regiment, the mercenaries from Switzerland, had started the mutiny, pressuring the French to join them. The Swiss had assembled in the courtyard outside the barracks, announcing their intentions and refusing to take orders. Then they went searching for the French troops, who promised to stand in solidarity with them. By the end of that first day, the entire garrison was part of the mutiny, except for the officers.

  Governor Duchambon gave the men everything they’d asked for, but the soldiers continued to defy orders. From what Marie could understand, the soldiers were running about town, causing whatever disorder they wished, threatening merchants who would not sell at the low prices they demanded, and treating the officers as their slaves. They knew the townspeople were powerless to stop their new regime and abused the power they gave themselves.

  A curfew was set in place, and people quickly abided by those orders. Women and children didn’t leave the safety of their homes, and men tried to keep the city running as normally as possible, but the soldiers were bent on creating chaos.

  On the fifth day of the mutiny, as 1745 started, Pierre arrived at the kitchen door. He was wearing a blue soldier’s jacket over his thick overcoat and so had made it through the city relatively easily. Madame Badeau shrieked at his appearance, convinced the rebellious soldiers had come to plunder the house. It took some time, but he was eventually able to convince her that he had better intentions than robbing and plundering.

  Marie ran to the kitchen at the sound of the commotion, a candlestick in her hands. She felt almost sick with relief to see Pierre.

  “Did you join the mutiny?” Once the happiness of seeing him evaporated, the presence of the jacket concerned her.

  “No!” He was upset that she would even think such a thing. “A gang of them came to the warehouse two days ago, and one of them left their jacket. I’ve been using it ever since. It makes travel easier.” He shook his hair out of his face.

  Madame Badeau hustled the servants away. They’d all finally left their apartments, but now they needed to be sent off to give Pierre and Marie some privacy.

  “Can I leave with you?” Marie whispered. “I haven’t left the house since this all started, and I’m going mad worrying about Nic.”

  “No,” Pierre answered, his usually jovial face serious. “It’s not safe out there. They’ll only harass you if you’re lucky. Rape you if you’re not.”

  Marie felt weak at the knees. Madame Badeau was obviously listening in the other room and swore loudly.

  “I saw Nic,” he said, watching her carefully.

  “Is he part of the gangs?”

  “No. He’s at the mercy of the gangs … but he seems fine,” he added hastily. “They haven’t hurt him at least.” Pierre didn’t think it wise to tell Marie that the rebel soldiers were treating Nic as a slave and starving him and depriving him of sleep, just for their own entertainment.

  “Do you think they will?”

  “I don’t know.” Pierre looked completely defeated. “A group of them threatened my father with a sword if he didn’t charge them what they wanted to pay for blankets. My father’s a big man and could probably have taken one or two of them on, but not a group like that.” Pierre paused and looked out the window. “They now have everything they want, but they won’t stop. François Bigot, the Finance Commissary, has been doing his best to smooth things over. He’s trying to send a letter to France or Quebec, but he’s being watched day and night.”

  “What is Quebec going to do?” Marie began to feel trapped. The citizens and officers and administrators were all alone on the island in the middle of winter because no assistance would be coming from the direction of the frozen Saint-Laurent River. And no army could cross the freezing landscapes of New France and the British territories to save them.

  “Beats me what Quebec can do.” Pierre began to chew the inside of his cheek. “The Saint-Laurent is nothing but a block of ice.” The hopelessness in his voice was clear.

  “I’m glad you have no mili
tary aspirations,” Marie said quietly. “I don’t know what I’d do if everyone I knew was involved in this.”

  Pierre ran his hands through his hair, making it look even wilder than usual. “The thing is, as terrible as the conditions are for the garrison, it’s worse everywhere else in the French Empire. None of the soldiers have enough food or clothing. Nowhere else do they even have a barracks. Most are made to live with civilians. I don’t understand why our soldiers are still rebelling. Everyone is eating rationed food, even the Governor. Do they want the rest of us to starve so they have enough?” Pierre paced the length of the room. Each trajectory didn’t last for many minutes, though, as his long legs could cover the room in three steps.

  “Are you all right?” Marie asked gently. She had never seen him so worked up, and his fear frightened her.

  “Of course, I am,” he laughed darkly. “No one is looking to hurt me. I might be the son of a merchant, but as long as my father has things to sell, we’ll be fine.” He leaned his head against the wooden frame of the door between the kitchen and the rest of the house. “You’re the one I’m worried about. Claude’s gone all day, and there’s so much stuff to steal here. I’m surprised they haven’t ransacked the place yet.”

  “Thanks for that cheery thought.” Marie threw Pierre a dirty look. “While you’re at it, why don’t you tell me that they’ll sell us all to the British in a few months.”

  Pierre sighed and lifted his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just don’t trust Claude to take care of you.” He glanced about quickly as if concerned that the master of the house might be listening.

  “That makes two of us, but I think he’d like to shoot every last one of them,” Marie admitted. She told him what Claude had said a few nights previously.

  “How can you be happy living here with him?” Pierre wasn’t trying to be nasty; he really meant it.