The Displaced

by Frieda Watt

  “At least that’s something.” Marie started rolling some grey wool into a ball while Elise’s bone needles clicked away beside her.

  Elise shrugged. “Even if someone was dead or injured, I doubt he would say so. ‘We must keep our spirits high,’” she said in an uncanny imitation of her oldest brother.

  There was a knock at the door. Marie struggled to her feet, her leg having fallen asleep from being so long in one position. It was Pierre. He stood as tall and gangling as ever, with a loaf of bread clutched triumphantly in his large hands.

  Marie let out a squeal of joy. Bread was so tightly rationed that only the military and militia had any to eat. Marie thought back to the fall, when Pierre had shown her the inside of Augustus’s warehouse. It had seemed like so much food then, but now almost all of it was gone.

  Pierre grinned, his wide smile showing most of his teeth. “I found some bread,” he said casually. “Mind if I come in?”

  Marie hurried him into the house. He had joined the militia, as had every able-bodied man in Louisbourg, but he visited whenever he wasn’t needed. Marie had a strong suspicion that Nic had asked him to keep an eye on her.

  “How did you get this?” Marie asked. Pierre held the loaf delicately, as if it were made of gold.

  Pierre flopped himself down onto the floor beside Elise. Her face lit up when she saw the bread close up.

  “It’s Louisbourg. You can get anything for a price.” He tore the loaf into three pieces and passed two of them to Elise and Marie. “You should know better than anyone else.”

  Marie scowled as Elise laughed. Claude was a favourite among pirates and smugglers for looking the other way for a price. Marie looked around the richly decorated room, financed by all the times he’d feigned ignorance.

  “I don’t take bribes,” Marie said, nettled.

  Elise elbowed her in the ribs. “Claude’s not the only one.” Then she bit into the crusty loaf with a sigh of contentment.

  Pierre and Marie followed suit. There was sawdust mixed with the flour, but none of them cared.

  “The soldiers are selling parts of their rations,” Pierre said after his first mouthful.

  “Why?” Marie asked.

  Pierre shrugged, unconcerned. “Damned if I know. Probably looking for extra money for drink. Goodness knows we have enough of that to get us through.”

  Marie leaned her head against the wall, picking crumbs off her bodice. It felt wonderful to eat something that wasn’t fish. She glanced over Elise’s copper crown at Pierre, who was still devouring his meal. She was beginning to depend on his regular visits.

  He looked over and gave her a significant look. Marie looked at him stupidly. He bent his head toward Elise’s. “I don’t mean to be rude, Elise, but can I talk to Marie alone for a moment?”

  Marie’s heart skipped a beat. Elise grinned. Apparently, Marie had confided too much in her over the last few days. She watched Elise skip happily into the front foyer as another round of explosions ripped through the air.

  “What’s going on?” Marie asked. She was worried that there was news of Nic. Bad news.

  Pierre stood up and stretched his long frame. He looked thin. Maybe if he could have regular meals not interrupted by international conflict, he could get some meat on his bones.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” Pierre said glumly, not looking at Marie.

  “What are you talking about?” She felt her palms growing sweaty. He couldn’t leave, not now. “No one’s leaving. We’re completely surrounded by the British.”

  Pierre sighed and leaned one shoulder against the wall beside her. “I know that. But some people are still sneaking out.”

  That was true. People were deserting, and others were abandoning the fortress in a desperate attempt to reach Île Saint-Jean or Quebec.

  “Those people are dead.” Marie said bluntly. “The British are on the entire island, making sure we’ll all be conquered.”

  Pierre shrugged as if that was inconsequential. “I know that, but my father feels otherwise.”

  Marie had a sinking feeling. Ever since his mother’s death, Pierre and Augustus were strangers living in the same house. Pierre often joked that they didn’t know how to relate to each other, but she knew now that, deep down, it bothered him. They never fought, but they never bonded either. “Your father wants you to try to leave the fortress right now?”

  Pierre nodded.

  Marie couldn’t believe it. “But why? It’s suicide!”

  Pierre rubbed the back of his neck. “He believes that everyone will be shipped off to France when the British come through the gates.”

  “Well, he’s more optimistic than Father Allard anyway.” She was thinking of the previous Sunday when the priest told a very packed Chapel to prepare to meet their maker. He had been so hysterical that she was surprised he hadn’t suggested desertion.

  “My father did a lot of business with New England before the war started. He doesn’t believe the enemy’s as bloodthirsty as some people do.”

  Marie nodded. A great deal of trade was done with New England during peace time. “But why not come to France with us?”

  His lips twisted at the sound of “us.” “My father was planning this before the siege, back when the blockades started. He believes there will be more opportunity on the mainland. Besides, I have family in Quebec.”

  “You have family everywhere.”

  He smiled. “True, but the Procurator General in Quebec, Dominique Renault, is looking for an assistant-apprentice. He is in charge of all the legal proceedings, appointments, and laws that are drafted. He doesn’t have any sons and is looking for someone to help him. My father’s brother—Uncle Tomas—is a friend of his and recommended me. I can read and write, and goodness knows I like to argue. My father knows I’m not happy living with him, and he thought a change of scenery would do me some good.”

  “I thought you were eventually going to take over from your father.”

  “I thought so too,” Pierre said heavily. “But I think I messed up one too many times.”

  “You don’t have to go!” Marie exploded. “Aren’t you too old to be an apprentice? And getting off the island is impossible, never mind trying to get to Quebec.”

  “I know that,” Pierre said quietly. He picked up a knick-knack, a very ugly miniature canoe, from the mantle over the fireplace and began fiddling with it. “But what can I do? Will my father be able to build a business in France? Everyone who goes will be a ward of the state. You’ll be fine because you’ll have Claude’s connections, but what about everyone else? There’s opportunity in Quebec.” He recited the last part formally as if from memory.

  “Do you want to go?” It wasn’t the question she wanted to ask, but this one was easier. Her vision blurred as she looked at the floor. He was doing this to please his father, a desperate attempt to win his approval.

  Pierre stepped toward her and gently wrapped his arms around her. She had never been this close to him and realized that she might never be this close again. “I’ll go,” he said quietly. “My father’s right about one thing. He and I aren’t happy together.”

  But what about me? Marie thought. She wanted to cry. She’d been hoping for something more between them and suspected their feelings for each other had been growing for some time, but she knew it wouldn’t happen now with the Atlantic likely separating them.

  Pierre placed his hand under Marie’s chin and tilted her face upward. Gently, he kissed her. She threw her arms around him, not wanting ever to let go. He pulled her closer. Then, after a moment, they broke apart.

  “If I make it to Quebec, I’ll send you word,” he promised.

  If.

  Marie blinked rapidly and watched Pierre go out the door. Her protector deserting her just when she needed him most.

  PART TWO:

  QUEBEC 1745

  Chapter 4

  PIERRE HAD LEFT THE ISLAND ONLY ONCE BEFORE—when he was twelve. His grandmother had died, and his fat
her had insisted on travelling home with his wife and son to the family farm near Trois-Rivières. His grandmother had come to New France as a fille du roi and had no family to speak of except her descendants in the colony. For a boy of his age, the trip went from one exciting event to the next as he met cousins, aunts, and uncles he had heard of but had never met. It was exciting, that is, until his mother contracted pneumonia. The family returned to Louisbourg shortly afterwards, but she succumbed a month later in the fortress.

  Pierre couldn’t think about that now. His journey off the island was harrowing enough without thinking of past grief. He and the men he was travelling with had left the fortress on May 26th, but that was no journey to freedom, as British troops were patrolling the forests, determined to rid the island of any inferior French who might be hiding in the bush. The leader of their band, Samuel, had been a coureur de bois in his youth and was expert at guiding them through the wilderness and around the invaders. He knew all the paths the streams took, where the stony outcrops were for hiding, and the fastest route to the ocean. To avoid detection, they travelled at night, far away from the light of the British fires. Once, they climbed the trees in a stand of tamaracks to evade some drunken Redcoats. It had been a tense moment, but they survived, although covered in tree sap and needles.

  One day, they came across a group of Mi’kmaq hunters who were also being terrorized by the British invasion. The hunters helped their little group steer clear of the roaming invaders, and the last of the trip was uneventful thanks to their help.

  The fugitives’ destination was Baie des Espagnols, some forty-five miles from Louisbourg, and it took four days to reach it. Luckily, the British hadn’t made it there yet. In fact, there were very few boats of any kind in the harbour. However, the men did manage to find a humble merchant vessel bobbing in the harbour. They’d heard a rumour that a captain from Acadia was shuttling French refugees off the island, and when they went up to the boat, they discovered that the rumour was true. The captain had been born a French citizen, but after the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713, which gave Acadia to the British, its inhabitants were in no position to lift arms against their conquerors. So the area north and west of Halifax was now firmly in British hands. All the same, this captain, like most people in Acadia, refused to pledge allegiance to the King of England and was doing all he could to help his countrymen escape from the bombardment of Louisbourg.

  The captain didn’t leave for Quebec right away. He waited a whole two weeks after Pierre and his companions had arrived at the harbour. The journey to Quebec took six weeks, and he wanted to take as many refugees to the capital as possible. But on June 13th, after four days of no more escapees emerging from the forest, the vessel left.

  Pierre didn’t enjoy boats. He’d learned that much as a child, and nothing was different on this day as his ship was rolling away from the west coast of Île-Royale. The Gulf of the Saint-Laurent might be part of the Saint-Laurent River, but it didn’t act like a river. Its currents were as fast and powerful as the ocean’s. The boat was tossed around in the forceful waves, rolling frighteningly from side to side.

  Pierre leaned his large body against the damp wooden rail of the ship’s deck. Feeling the wind on his face helped reduce his anxiety. Surprisingly, the sailors had only good things to say about the weather as they manoeuvred the small boat through the rushing waters. But Pierre soon became oblivious to the elements around him as seasickness overcame him. For the first few days, he was violently ill, hanging his head over the side of the rail with increasing frequency. He finally got his sea legs on the fourth day, so he offered to help the crew, but his proposals to give assistance were rebuffed. It was just as well. He knew as much about sailing as he did about blacksmithing. After he admitted to not knowing which side was port, his instructions were to sit down and enjoy the voyage. Once aboard the ship, no one breathed easily until they’d passed the British colony of Acadia—the entire mainland just west of Île-Royale, but fortunately, wherever the British navy was, it wasn’t concerned with the small vessel heading toward Quebec. Once the ship passed Acadia, Pierre knew they would make it to the capital.

  Pierre sincerely hoped his father had no idea how dangerous the journey would be. If he had any idea, Pierre would say that his father had sent him away knowing there was a good chance he’d die en route. Fortunately, Samuel the coureur de bois was among them. Without him and his knowledge of the island’s interior, Pierre didn’t doubt that they’d all be sitting back at a British camp now. Or shot, but he wanted to think as positively as he could.

  By the beginning of August, the ship was passing the peaceful, rolling hills of the Saint-Laurent Valley. It seemed impossible that such tranquillity could exist when the mighty fortress of Louisbourg lay in ruins behind him. He tried not to be angry with his father for sending him away. Augustus’s logic was sound, since getting a job as assistant to the Procurator General was a tremendous opportunity for him, but Pierre couldn’t help feeling that his abrupt departure had less to do with his own future and more to do with his father’s.

  Pierre tried to keep thoughts of the fortress out of his mind. No matter what he’d told Marie, he wasn’t sure what the conquering British would do. It was nice to think that the inhabitants would be peacefully removed and shipped back to France, but that was only one of many possibilities. And even being banished to France, stripped of all land and worldly possessions, would be difficult. France had its own problems without dealing with displaced citizens of New France.

  A shout came from one of the masts. Land was in sight. Pierre chuckled. Land had been in sight for most of the voyage. It was the capital that was now coming into view. He struggled to his feet and made his way to the bow. He’d learned that term at least. It was the 4th of August, and the air was hot and sticky. The water was teeming with boats of every kind. Fishing boats, massive cargo carriers, merchant vessels, and even the birchbark canoes of Native people jockeyed for space in the harbour where the Saint-Charles River met the Saint-Laurent.

  The city jutted out of the water, built on a sheer, black, rocky cliff that dropped into the river. The Lower Town sat at the level of the two rivers, with protective batteries and the harbour surrounding it. The Upper Town soared above the rivers, with buildings taller than Pierre had ever seen silhouetted against the blue sky. There were no height restrictions on Quebec’s buildings because the city’s defences were completely natural. No army could possibly scale the massive cliffs where it was situated. The Algonquins named the place Kebek, meaning “where the river narrows.” It was a desirable place for the French empire to establish a stronghold, as its natural fortifications provided safety for a growing and vulnerable city. The south shore of Quebec was built on the large cliff, which provided advantageous higher ground against any invading enemy. To the north and east lay the Saint-Charles River. Although not as effective as the high cliffs to the south, it nevertheless provided a place of vulnerability for any attackers who would first have to cross its narrow waters. The land to the west was also protected, not by natural fortifications, but because it was accessible only by passing through the narrow section of the Saint-Laurent River that the French defended. The river was less than a mile wide at this point, well within range of the French cannons. Any enemy troops that passed through the area would be met with complete annihilation.

  Enthralled, Pierre exited the ship, not at all sorry to be leaving the rocking, stinking bucket behind. The docks were packed with men unloading freight, while massive work horses stomped the hard ground, their carts laden with goods coming into the city from along the Valley of the Saint-Laurent. Travellers met their loved ones. People were haggling over prices right on the docks, and everywhere there was something to see. With a pang of sadness, Pierre remembered that Louisbourg had been like this once, before the war started.

  He exited the fray, craning his neck up to get a better look at the buildings around him. The air was fresh—unlike the salty sea air that had always filled hi
s nostrils in Louisbourg. And there was no smell of salted cod like the one that perpetually hung around the fortress on Île-Royale.

  Pierre squinted in the bright sunlight. Rows of neat stone buildings lined the dirt streets of the Lower Town. Roads crisscrossed the hillside so people could travel relatively easily between the upper and lower parts of the city. Gardens filled with wildflowers and vegetables filled the squares in front of the houses, and bird song could be heard in the tranquil air. As Pierre walked along, he entered a crowded square. At its side, there stood a small, stone church, with round windows and a tall spire—a reminder of reverence in the midst of the bustle of the day. A well stood in front of the church, and women and children were gathering water there and talking about the day’s events. Stone houses, all attached to each other, stood around the rest of the square. The sight of them reminded Pierre of Marie’s parents. No wonder they hadn’t had time to escape the fire that killed them.

  Here, it was as if no war was going on at all. Quebec’s citizens carried on as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening in the colony. Stalls lined with fresh fruits and vegetables were stationed every few yards in the streets leading up from the harbour. Clearly, no one was starving. Pierre felt a rush of anger about the normalcy of life here when his own entire world lay shattered on the Atlantic coast.

  In his frustration, he crushed a piece of paper he was carrying in his pocket and then remembered how important that little slip of paper was. His uncle’s address was written on it. He’d been told that the house was near Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, which he hoped was the large stone church he had just passed.

  All the same, after his harrowing journey, he was in no hurry to show up at his uncle’s door. It was a relief to be alone for a while, doing nothing more than taking in the sights and mingling with the crowd. He wandered aimlessly through the streets, his rucksack of possessions slung over his shoulder until he was ready to look up his uncle’s address again and ask for directions to the place.