The Displaced

by Frieda Watt

  “If we panic, the patients will panic,” she explained while Marie folded linens used for bandages in a side room off the kitchen. “They cannot see fear in our eyes or they will think that their situation is hopeless. And if they think they’re lost, often times they will be, even if they receive the most excellent care.”

  After that, Marie tried being more objective and found that the new approach did change things for the better. It wasn’t too long before Marie’s life fell into a routine. She’d spend her days at the hospital caring for the sick and injured and receiving further instruction from the nuns. As time went on, she became an extremely competent ramancheur, and she grew to like the hospital, feeling peace in the chaos that often reigned within its walls. The priests and nuns remained unshaken by their work, and their calm, patient air was contagious.

  Once a week, Marie would visit Elise, and their friendship kept growing despite their different stations in life. Elise had fallen easily into the role of running the household, occasionally helping her mother with the bakery, and being an emotional support for Nic. Since it was peacetime, Nic was often home, making for domestic bliss and a much more agreeable brother. He encouraged Marie to visit as often as she liked, but his new position as master of the home, reaching down to his solitary sister, didn’t encourage her to increase the frequency of her visits.

  Not that the manor house was particularly hospitable. It was often empty now, as Annette was gone most of the day. Where she went, Marie had no idea. She still did her charity work, organizing various benefits for the community, but that wasn’t enough to explain her prolonged absences. Madame Badeau either didn’t know or wouldn’t say where she was.

  Claude’s mood continued to darken after Pierre’s disappearance. He became more and more furious, spending most of his free time in his study with a bottle. Whenever he saw Marie, he lashed out at her, screaming and raving about nothing in particular. It was her very presence that seemed to offend him. Marie couldn’t understand what she’d done to provoke this reaction, but it was increasingly difficult to abide. So she began to spend as much time as possible at the hospital.

  One day in early spring of 1751, a soldier was brought into the hospital. He’d broken his leg in Montreal, and the break was severe enough that his superiors decided to send him home to France. On the journey, however, his leg refused to heal, and the skin around it began to rot and stink. Fearing he would die, the ship’s captain dropped him in Louisbourg before continuing on their journey across the Atlantic.

  Sister Miriam asked Marie to take a look at the patient. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. He had a fever and was clearly in excruciating pain. Marie poked the area of the infection, and stinking green pus flowed from the small sore.

  “What happened when you broke your leg?” Marie asked, continuing her examination. The leg bone was well on its way to mending, but there was obviously a problem with the muscle or skin.

  “I was fixing a barn roof. You know, for extra livres,” the man gasped. “I lost my balance and landed on the ground.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” Marie commented. “Did you land on anything?”

  “There were a few boards.”

  She continued to press at the area. “I think you might have landed on something when you hit the ground. Was the timber new or used?”

  The man shrugged. “My leg was bloody, but that’s to be expected.”

  Marie turned back to the patient. “I’m afraid that’s not really the case. I’m going to need to do some poking around. It’s going to hurt, but then it should feel remarkably better.”

  The soldier just grunted and gritted his teeth. Grabbing a scalpel, Marie drew the blade across the abscess at the highest point of the inflammation. More liquid green pus oozed out, staining the sheet below the leg. Marie switched the scalpel for a pair of tweezers and gently pulled the angry skin apart.

  The poor soldier gasped as the tweezers plunged between the pieces of inflamed flesh. “Sorry,” Marie whispered as she dug around. Finally finding the cause of the problem, she slowly pulled a broken fragment of nail out of the muscle. “Well, here’s your problem.” She showed the soldier the offending object. “I think you’ll feel much better now that that’s out.”

  The poor man’s pain wasn’t quite over. Marie had to spend several minutes cleaning the remaining pus from the wound. Once she was satisfied that the worst of it was gone, she stitched the calf up and bandaged it smartly.

  Standing up, she wiped her hands on her smock. “Well, soldier, in a few days I think you’ll find yourself back on a boat to home.”

  He smiled up at her slightly, but it looked more like a grimace, and his face was covered with sweat.

  Marie went to check on him the next day. He was in a much-improved state, sitting up in bed and talking with the other patients in the room. Sister Miriam reported that if he continued healing so well, he would be heading for France by the end of the week.

  “How are you feeling today?” she asked. The soldier was sitting up, propping his head against his pillows.

  “Much better,” he grinned, showing a few missing teeth.

  “You were stationed in Montreal, correct?” Her hands were sweating and she wiped them on her smock.

  He nodded. “I was there for three years before that barn did me in.” His voice was wistful.

  Marie licked her lips. “Did you know anyone named Pierre Thibault?” Her heart was hammering so loudly she assumed he must be able to hear it.

  The soldier thought for a minute, scratching his unkempt chin. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “He was a tall man. Sometimes he had to duck to get through doorways. He had blond, curly hair and blue eyes.” She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice.

  The patient continued to shake his head. “Sorry, Madame, never knew a bloke like that.”

  Marie nodded. “Thank you,” she said hastily, turning to leave before the tears started.

  Chapter 8

  1756 MARKED EIGHT YEARS OF PEACE on Île-Royale and six long years since Marie had last seen Pierre. She had continued working at the hospital and had become proficient enough that she was now operating independently. Back in France, with so much time on her hands, she’d taken up sketching, and she still did drawing now whenever she had a moment. Sometimes, after work, she would take her charcoals and sketchpad and draw the boats in the harbour or the flowers on the bluffs overlooking the ocean. Annette was annoyed that Marie continued to reject any suitors who were suggested, but Marie didn’t care. Her heart still had room for only one man, and he was gone. As for Claude, Marie and Annette both filled their lives with other activities, so they could stay away from him as much as possible.

  Marie was largely satisfied with the life she had built for herself. Though she still talked to Pierre in her moments of solitude, the grief no longer consumed her. She could remember him and talk about him without ripping open the deep, initial wounds.

  One day in mid-June, Marie was sketching some fishermen repairing their nets on the same bluffs where Pierre had appeared, full of mischief, on that hot July day when she and Elise were sitting there, trying to cool off. It was certainly not as hot as it had been that day, but spring had come once again to the fortress, and it was moments like this that made Marie’s heart hurt. If she tried, she could still picture Pierre’s blue eyes alight with playfulness as he teased and flirted with her. She smiled at the memory.

  The following Sunday, the parishioners heading to the Governor’s Chapel had noticeably lighter spirits than they had had all winter. The feeling of isolation that usually settled over the city during the winter was lifting. The harbour was busy with ship traffic again, and fresh supplies were coming in from France. It was always a relief to have the world flood in after so many months of seclusion.

  Father Allard stood to give his sermon as he did every Sunday morning. But this time, he looked thinner and more drawn than he had when the winter started. His
health had become poor, and it was rumoured that he was dying, but today he looked especially sombre.

  “News came last night,” he said, his voice so quiet that everyone leaned forward to hear him better, “that Britain, in an effort to secure her interests in the colonies, has declared war on France.”

  The people in the Chapel were completely silent for a moment, and then babbles of panic spread like wildfire around the sanctuary. Marie turned and saw Elise in the crowd only a few rows away. By the look of shock on her face, it was obvious that Nic hadn’t told her. All around her, panic was spreading. The last war with Britain had ended fewer than eight years before. They had been home for only six years.

  Father Allard made a half-hearted attempt to restore calm to the crowd. Apparently, the British had been at war with France for months, but news travelled slowly to the fortress. Land disputes had arisen in the interior, with French soldiers attacking British forts, and the British had finally had enough. After delivering the message, Father Allard sat down, exhausted.

  Marie wasn’t sure what to do, but most people didn’t appear to be staying in the Chapel. Annette had stood up and fled the moment the announcement was made. Father Allard didn’t look as if he cared. He was making no effort to get to the door to stop the exodus. Perhaps, in view of the devastation caused by the last siege, he felt the panic was justified.

  In the terrified crowd outside, Marie found Elise. “Did Nic tell you?” Her voice shook slightly.

  Elise’s beautiful green eyes were wide with fear. Louisbourg had already fallen to the British once, and they would want to repeat the victory. To survive one siege was lucky; to survive two was impossible. “No. He never mentioned anything.” Elise linked her arm with Marie’s, and the two hurried down the street, away from the teeming crowd.

  “Where is Nic?” Marie looked around wildly. The news was clearly spreading quickly throughout the city. People were leaving their homes, congregating in the dirt streets to confer with each other. They looked confused, but Nic would know what to do or he’d at least have more details about the situation.

  “He had a meeting,” Elise said, half-distracted. “Marie, what are we going to do?”

  Elise let them both into her house. It felt cold and empty without Nic there.

  Marie shook her head, chewing her lip in concentration. “I’m staying with you until Nic comes home. I need to hear what he says. Besides, I don’t want you to be alone.” And Marie knew she didn’t want to be alone either.

  It was a tense afternoon. Neither Elise nor Marie said much as the hours ticked by. Elise suggested a walk, in an attempt to take their minds off the crisis, but Marie refused. The streets were filled with people just as frightened as they were.

  When Nic finally arrived, he looked deeply harassed. He had been stopped by almost every civilian he had passed on his way from the King’s Bastion to the house.

  “There’s nothing to tell,” he said after he’d collapsed into a worn armchair by the fire. “We’re at war with Britain again. It started in the interior. Minor conflicts have been going on there for almost two years back and forth, but they were isolated to the Ohio Valley. The boundaries between France and Britain were never very clear. I don’t think anyone thought it would end in all out war. But now the conflict’s spread to Europe, which doesn’t bode well for us. If Louis needs troops in France, he’ll be sending less here.”

  The silence in the small space was deafening. Elise tried to comfort her husband, kneeling beside his chair and stroking his arm with her hand, but there was no one for Marie to turn to. Not wanting to impose herself on them any longer, she went home.

  The news must have reached everyone by now. There seemed to be a sort of stunned silence in the streets. Perhaps nothing much would change. They’d apparently been at war for some time without knowing it, and no invasion had happened. But the British possessed the greatest navy in the world and might even be doing blockades already. Eventually, French ships would stop coming to Louisbourg, starvation would set in, and that would be a far more potent enemy than the British navy would be, if they arrived.

  As she entered the house, Marie could hear Annette and Claude screaming at each other from somewhere in the belly of the home. She bypassed them by going straight upstairs, and collapsed into her bed, staring up at the brocade canopy. She had never felt so lonely in her life.

  ***

  About two weeks after the news of war reached the fortress, on a cold evening in early July, Marie found herself taking the long way home from the hospital. It had been a tiring day. With the possibility of war interrupting the supply chain from the rest of the world, the priests were taking inventory of what the facility currently had on hand. They knew they needed to get those numbers now and order more supplies from Europe while the oceans were still passable.

  But that wasn’t the hard part. Two patients had died that day: one of sweating sickness and one from a fever of unknown origins. It didn’t seem to get any easier when a patient died. Marie could now put on a brave face for them, but once they had passed over to the great beyond, her strength failed her. With all of this happening, she wasn’t in the mood to go home and listen to Claude raging—this time at the threat of war—but she was hungry, so she left the hospital and headed for the manor house.

  A cold, miserable rain began to fall. She hadn’t worn her cloak, so her bodice was soon thick and heavy from absorbing the falling water. Once she arrived at the stone house, she went in the back door, into the relative safety of the kitchen, hoping that Madame Badeau had something to keep her busy and away from her guardians.

  To her great surprise, Nic was sitting by the fire. Marie hadn’t seen him in that spot since he’d lived at the manor. She couldn’t help but compare his appearance now with the looks of the much younger Nic. His cheeks were less round now, and his body was broader from the muscles of adulthood, but with the firelight dancing in his eyes, the usually black disks looked younger and livelier than usual.

  He stood up as she closed the door, trying not to drip on Madame Badeau’s well-scrubbed floor. Madame Badeau wasn’t there, so they were alone so far.

  “What adventure were you on today?” he asked, smirking as she walked past him, her shoes squeaking and squelching as she went.

  She didn’t speak until she was in front of the roaring fire, trying her best to wring her hair dry with a cloth. “It was a busy day at the hospital. They’re trying to get prepared for a siege.”

  Nic leaned forward as she continued to dry herself off. He looked extremely serious. His hands were clasped in front of him, resting on his knee, and he sat perfectly still while he waited for her. When she sat down on the chair across from him, still very damp but no longer creating puddles, he didn’t even glance up.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. He didn’t look well. She had never seen him sit so still—ever.

  Nic sighed and removed his hands from his knee. “I’ve received some news,” he said, slowly and deliberately, “from Montreal.” He looked up and into her eyes. “It concerns you.”

  Marie felt her stomach contract. “What?”

  “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

  Marie balled her hands into fists. The news she’d waited so many years to hear had finally arrived. She bowed her head and braced for the worst.

  Nic began to trace the pattern of the wood grain on the side of his chair. “Pierre’s alive.”

  Marie’s head snapped up. “What?”

  Nic studied her carefully. “When he boarded the ship, he was given a different name, Charles Geroux. That’s why we couldn’t find him.”

  Marie felt as if she had just received a blow to the chest. She was speechless, though a million questions were exploding in her mind. Then the room went strangely out of focus. She grabbed Nic’s arm to keep her balance, and he took her over to the kitchen table and sat her down on the bench in front of it. Now she could hang onto the table if she thought she was going to faint.<
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  Nic sat down across from her.

  “Where has he been?” Marie’s voice was hoarse.

  “He’s been sitting in the prison in Montreal for the last six years. He was released when the war was declared. They need every man they can get.” Nic’s grip on his sister’s hands increased.

  “I thought you said deserters were shot,” she accused.

  Nic cracked his knuckles. “I don’t know why he was imprisoned, but I wouldn’t complain.”

  “If he was in prison, why didn’t Renault find him?”

  Nic shook his head helplessly. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Marie just sat there, stunned. No word for so long. Since Pierre wasn’t dead, he must have suffered greatly. She stood up without thinking.

  Nic grabbed her arm and pulled her back down to the bench. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Where is he now?” Marie demanded, ignoring his question.

  Nic looked exasperated. “He’s still in Montreal, but that’s not the point.”

  “He wrote to you?”

  Nic sighed. He’d been afraid of this reaction, but it would have been beyond cruelty not to tell her. “No,” he explained patiently. “Because of the desertion charge, he isn’t allowed to communicate with anyone except by speech. I only know because a friend I have in Montreal is an officer there. I asked him to keep an eye out in case Pierre ever resurfaced.”

  Marie felt too agitated to sit still. A giant bubble seemed to be growing inside her chest. “Does Augustus know?” she asked, barely containing her excitement.

  Nic nodded. “I told him first.”

  “Then we can sort this all out.” Her eyes were shining with excitement. She stood up again and paced around the kitchen. “He can come home, and we can get married.”