The Displaced

by Frieda Watt

  Pierre was exhausted. Dealing with Caron was always a daunting task. He wished Renault or Hocquart would just strip the judge of his responsibilities, but Renault felt that would be unkind given the number of years Caron had served before losing his mind.

  The bell above the door announced Pierre’s arrival. He wasn’t looking forward to entering the main room despite the warm fire crackling in the fireplace, as he was feeling distinctly nettled and not very charitable toward his master. As he was mulling over ways to free himself from the Caron job, he was surprised to see his Uncle Tomas sitting in the chair he usually occupied beside Renault.

  “How did the great, honourable Caron behave today?” Renault asked, trying not to sound too pleased that he’d dumped the errand on Pierre.

  Pierre stripped off his black wool coat and hung it on one of the pegs at the entrance. “Well, he accused me of treason only twice before he threw me out, so I guess that’s an improvement.”

  Tomas laughed. “Can’t you get rid of that old geezer?”

  Renault leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I continue to try to sell him on the south of France at this time of year, but he insists on doing his civic duty. Once Hocquart gets back from Montreal, I’ll ask him to have a heart-to-heart with the man, hopefully before he accuses some poor twelve-year-old pickpocket of betraying the King.”

  Pierre rolled his eyes, there was a council meeting tonight that was sure to go late, those men loved to hear themselves speak. They were trying to decide how to proceed with normal life since the war had entered its second year and didn’t show any signs of stopping. There was a shortage of men since the army continued needing reinforcements and the farms were suffering as a result. Since Louisbourg had been lost, Quebec needed to be prepared in case an invasion occurred. Everyone had an opinion and none of them agreed.

  Pierre sat down opposite his uncle and his employer. “What brings you here today, Uncle Tomas?”

  Tomas leaned forward and handed Pierre a weathered envelope. “Arrived today. Thought you might want it.” His blue eyes danced as he watched his nephew hastily tear open the envelope. “Who’s it from?”

  Pierre scanned the letter quickly. “Augustus.”

  Renault sighed with relief. Maybe with news from home, Pierre would finally relax or at least sleep more. He could see the paper shaking in Pierre’s hands. The young man was beside himself with anxiety. “You can go and read it alone,” Renault said.

  Pierre hastily retreated to his room, closed the door quietly, and sat on his bed. It was a short note, written in his father’s untidy scrawl. Two ships had taken the majority of the civilians back to France. It was a stormy voyage, but almost everyone had survived. Augustus had listed the dead just in case, but the names meant nothing to Pierre.

  His father was renting a cottage in the countryside between Paris and Versailles, though how he was making an income he didn’t say. But Pierre knew his father had enough investments and savings in gold to live on those for a long time. Generally, merchants didn’t conduct business miles away from port. As far as his father knew, Nic was imprisoned in Boston with the rest of the garrison, awaiting the end of the war before being released. The British weren’t complete barbarians, so he would be kept alive, but his life there would be an ordeal nonetheless.

  Pierre’s heart skipped a beat as he reached the end of the letter. His father’s cottage was less than a mile from where Marie and Annette were staying at the Babineaux estate. Claude had taken up his spot in Court once again and was campaigning for those displaced by the war. Annette refused to join her husband at the palace and lived in the countryside away from the drama of the Court. Elise was living somewhere nearby with her mother. Claude had arranged for them to live comfortably.

  Now that it was April, it would take roughly two months for a letter to reach France by ship. If he sent a reply right away, there was a good chance he could get an answer back before the river froze again.

  He cleared his desk of the various tomes that were balanced precariously there, sorted through the papers strewn around, found a few that were blank, and began to write. Before he knew it, he had filled three pages front and back. He was about to race off to the harbour when he thought of his father and scribbled a hasty reply, informing him that he was fine and learning much.

  Tomas and Renault were still sitting in the front office, not discussing anything of great importance judging by the half-empty brandy bottle between them.

  Renault glanced at the overstuffed envelope in his assistant’s hand and laughed. “Telling him your life story, are you?”

  Tomas leaned forward and read the name printed across the front. He gave his nephew a shrewd look. “I would suggest at least sending your father a paragraph.”

  Pierre said nothing but flashed him the second envelope bearing his father’s name.

  “Who’s the other letter for?” Renault asked, his interest piqued, but Pierre ignored him.

  “I’ll be back, I’m just heading down to the harbour.” He rushed out without waiting for a reply.

  The summer that followed was cool, and during that whole season, the winds of war continued to blow over the colony. No attacks were launched against the French towns and villages along the Saint-Laurent Valley, but the power of the British navy continued to make its presence felt. The men on the vessels that arrived from France and the West Indies told harrowing stories of barely escaping from the massive British warships they’d encountered en route to Quebec. Pierre often wondered if his letter would even reach Marie, but he didn’t dwell on that too much because he had other things to worry about.

  ***

  As Renault was in charge of all criminal matters in the colony, travel was integral to his job. He and Pierre had been in Montreal from mid-May to mid-July of 1746, trying to restore the city’s judicial system, which had been compromised by a scandal. It appeared that some sort of bribery had been happening, and while the practice was commonplace at the docks, it was generally frowned upon in a court setting. Frédéric Picard was one of the top judges in the city and very well respected in the community. His older brother was a General overseeing the garrison stationed in Montreal. So when news had broken out that Judge Picard had accepted bribes in exchange for lighter sentences, the whole city was in an uproar.

  Pierre marvelled at how well his mentor could soothe the rightly concerned citizens of the city. It took two months to complete the criminal investigation and to interview new candidates for Picard’s former position, but in the end, Renault had largely reassured the people that the justice system had been restored to its former integrity. Picard had been dismissed, and those associated with him, whether guilty or not, carried the stigma of the investigation.

  Pierre sat on the deck of the shallow vessel that was taking them home, enjoying the July sun. The new Chief Judge of Montreal seemed pleasant or at least eager not to spoil his career with bribery. It had been a remarkably exciting journey that had opened Pierre’s eyes to the power his employer possessed.

  “Could we not have taken a carriage?” Pierre asked as the boat rocked in the fast-moving river, making his stomach lurch unpleasantly. Renault sat beside him, re-reading the report Pierre had written concerning the investigation. It was to be submitted to the Intendant, Hocquart, upon their return. “This is cheaper, I’ve told you before, because it includes bed and board. If you wanted to pay for stays at inns along the route, we could have taken the King’s Highway. I’m too old to sleep out under the stars.”

  What Renault said about his age was true. In the year that Pierre had been in his employ, Renault’s fingers had started to bend and twist with arthritis. It was getting more difficult for him to use his hands for even basic tasks.

  “You don’t pay me enough to afford such things,” Pierre reminded him.

  “Vivienne could stop feeding you.”

  “You think I can cook for myself?” he laughed. “I’d starve in a week.”

  Renault s
miled and looked out over the farms and villages that dotted the patchwork landscape. “When we return, I think it’ll be time you started doing some business on your own.”

  Pierre was startled. “You want me to meet with Hocquart?”

  Renault shook his head. “Leave Hocquart to me. I’m not ready to stop fighting my own battles yet, but this trip reminds me of how old I truly am becoming.”

  Renault had barely sat still for a moment during their time in Montreal. Pierre was exhausted just thinking about all that man had done in two short months. “You’re not that old,” he said. “Don’t write your epitaph just yet.”

  The lawyer chuckled. “No, but part of the reason I took you on as my assistant was so you could run after people while I sat at home. It’s one of the pleasures of old age.”

  “If you want it, I will do it,” Pierre said. He recognized this for what it was. Though there was no mention of his title changing or of an increased salary, Renault was giving him a promotion and recognizing the value of the work he had been doing.

  “By the way, do you remember Madame Demers?” Renault asked, not looking up from the report. “She had us over for that delightful dinner.”

  “You could call it that. I’m from Île-Royale; I’m used to my fish fresh.”

  “Yes. Well not everyone is Vivienne. Anyway, her daughter has expressed some interest in you.” He said the words casually, but Pierre was well aware that Renault had been disappointed that Pierre had taken no interest in any of his daughters.

  “Well, I’ll be in Quebec for the foreseeable future. You can pass that along.” It came out ruder than he’d meant, but he didn’t particularly care. He was only eighteen and a lowly assistant. He was the first person up and the last person to sleep in Renault’s house. Why did anyone think he had time for women?

  Renault let the rebuff pass. “It is not a requirement that you live in the spare room forever, you know.”

  Pierre nodded but didn’t say anymore. His thoughts were far away in France at that moment.

  Little had happened in Quebec while they’d been gone. Caron’s heart had finally given out, solving the problem of trying to convince him to retire. Hocquart had already filled the vacancy, much to Renault’s annoyance. Technically, appointing judges was the Intendant’s job, but Renault had been doing it for so long that he’d become used to viewing it as his task and his alone.

  “I won’t miss being accused of treason all the time,” Pierre said when Renault aired the news about Caron’s passing.

  Renault snorted into his nightly glass of brandy. “Accusations of treason are the least of your problems.”

  Pierre looked at him, confused.

  Renault leaned back, placing his feet on the polished surface of the desk. “If you stay at this long enough, you’ll receive death threats, accusations of corruption, and attacks on your character, and eventually no one will want to speak to you at parties.” He chortled at the look of concern on Pierre’s face. “I wouldn’t worry about it. How many decades have I been doing this? I’m still alive.”

  ***

  It was a late night in September 1746. The Superior Council had been meeting for hours to discuss tariffs. At one time, Pierre wouldn’t have had any thoughts on the subject, but after a year of working with the government, he was developing some strong opinions. Unfortunately, since he was only an assistant, no one wanted to hear them. Sometimes Renault would listen, but Pierre knew he was doing little more than humouring him. He was a long way from ever being able to participate in the smoky arguments that ran the colony.

  Renault had already retired for the night, and Pierre could have been in bed too, but he’d accidentally smashed a bottle of ink, and its contents had spread in a wide area on the floor. That’s what he got for cleaning after midnight. He’d never get rid of the stain. His only hope was that Vivienne might be excited about making a new rug for the office. With his back aching after scrubbing on his hands and knees for an hour and with his fingers stained blue, he finally collapsed on his bed, hoping sleep wouldn’t evade him this time. But then he noticed there was something else on his bed other than himself and the blankets.

  Rolling over, he pulled a crinkled envelope out from under his body. Renault must have put it there. He would have been too impatient to hand it to Pierre himself. Fatigue forgotten, he sat up, fumbling for the flint candle starter. The candle spluttered to life, casting its golden hue across the bare walls. Pierre recognized the tiny, tidy writing of Marie. It had always enraged him when the nuns held her penmanship up as an example. He ripped apart the outer envelope, took out the letter inside, and read it through very quickly. The knot in his chest relaxed a bit as he reached the bottom of the page. Then he rearranged his weight more comfortably on the bed as he read through it again.

  Marie was in the French countryside, as his father had said, safe but miserable. She had nothing to do and hated the aristocrats at the Court of Versailles, who felt she was a stupid simpleton because she was from the colonies. He laughed as she described Annette’s failed attempts at navigating Court life; his heart ached when she talked of her worry for Nic.

  Until your letter arrived I was worried you hadn’t survived the trip. Once the fortress fell, the stories from around the island came flooding in. The British were ruthless in their treatment of people they discovered in the countryside. I was sick with worry that you had met a terrible end. Your father deeply regretted sending you away. He was on the same boat as we were. I think he would have thrown himself into the deep if he had known for sure that he’d caused your death.

  I miss you. I will feel very stupid writing this if there’s some beautiful blonde looking over your shoulder. Your father told me that Renault has four daughters, but know if there is someone, I’m not upset. I’d rather be your friend than not be able to talk to you at all. I just wish I could talk to you in person. Every day I see things I want to tell you about. Yesterday, I had to explain to the local butcher that I had never eaten a rat. He was surprised that there is even livestock in New France. All the while, he was trying to sell me bad beef. He was amazed that I knew what beef was.

  It took me a few months to remember that I couldn’t walk down the road and find you, even though Augustus is so close. He comes over for dinner almost every day. I always wish you were coming with him. I’m going to keep writing to you. I hope you don’t mind, but I need someone to talk to.

  Love, Marie

  Pierre read the letter over and over until he had it memorized. She’d included a drawing of his father’s cottage that she had done. He smiled at her ability.

  Eventually, he nodded off, Marie’s letter still in his hands. For the first time, that night, the bombs of Louisbourg didn’t echo in his sleep.

  ***

  The next morning, despite his few hours of sleep, he awoke early. He got up and started the fire in the fireplace and prepared the office for the day. The ink stain on the floor didn’t seem as bad now that he was seeing it in daylight. When he’d finished the morning preparations, he sat down eagerly at the oak desk, next to the offending stain, and wrote for an hour. There was no one else, and she needn’t be worried. He told her how he had felt like an outsider when he first arrived in Quebec, with the violence of Louisbourg so far away and the effects of war barely felt in the capital. In his last letter, he’d already told her of the long days and hours of study that he was putting in, so in this one, he wrote about how he was learning so much and how Renault was beginning to give him some of his regular assignments. He told her about his Uncle Tomas and his cousins who he didn’t have time to see often but who were always happy to see him when he did visit.

  Pierre paused, unsure of how to continue. Marie had been honest with him as she always was, but he was terrified to tell her that she filled his dreams, that what he missed most about Louisbourg was her, that he was happy in Quebec but would be happier if she was with him.

  It felt like too much to say. He had never told her his feeling
s during the last days of the siege. He should have, but with his departure and both their futures so uncertain, he had decided against it. What if the distance made her forget him? Obviously, it hadn’t and now he felt like a coward. Unsure of how to put his feelings into words and anxious to have his response delivered before the snow flew, he procrastinated once again and hurried off to the docks.

  ***

  The winter of 1746–47 was a long one, like every other winter in New France. A hundred years before, when the French government first tried to fill the land with people, they had extended contracts to tradesmen and labourers to come and work in the developing country for a few years. It hadn’t worked. The climate was so harsh that most contractors packed up and left after their agreements had expired. The same went for the soldiers who were stationed there.

  Sitting in the office every morning, looking out at more and more snow coming, Pierre couldn’t blame them. While his own bedroom was small enough to retain some heat, one of his jobs from the months of October to April was to break the ice that had formed over the ink pots on all the desks. He usually started his days wrapped in his thick, wool blanket waiting for the heat of the fire to fill the office.

  No letters came from France during the winter months either. Of course he’d known that, but he wasn’t happy about it. All the same, it seemed that he needed the time to decide what to write next. By the time the spring thaw came, he still hadn’t figured out what he wanted to say. Considering that he spent most of his days drafting and polishing correspondence for Renault, he thought he should have been able to write a note to Marie with ease.