The Displaced

by Frieda Watt

  Suddenly, she heard a laugh coming from an alleyway she was passing. She recognized the deep, husky noise and almost swooned. Then, as she walked back and looked into the alley, she was faced with a sight she would never have imagined.

  Pierre was there. It was clearly his laugh that she had heard. He was painfully thin, the tendons in his hands standing out sharply from what little flesh was still around them. His cheeks were sunken and the skin was stretched tight against his cheekbones. His blue eyes seemed extra large compared to the rest of his face. But his appearance wasn’t what frightened her. He had his arm around a beautiful, buxom blonde, wearing a bodice that barely contained her chest. A wine bottle swung freely from his other arm. There was another woman there. Just as beautiful but raven haired, she was definitely a part of the other two’s plans.

  Pierre leaned against the stone wall of the building, bending his large frame to reach both of them, his hands roaming over their tight dresses.

  For a moment, Marie couldn’t move, and she felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. She covered her mouth to stifle any sound and fled into the night.

  How she made her way back to the inn she couldn’t remember. Once in her room, she tried to take off her boots, but her hands were shaking so badly, the laces tangled. Then the room started spinning around her as she fought not to be sick. Over and over again, the image of Pierre flashed before her eyes.

  She eventually gave up trying to undress and collapsed onto her bed in a fit of tears. The pillow was soon soaked through. This was even worse than when he’d first disappeared. At least then, she’d believed he’d died loving her, but now she knew that wasn’t the case. So all this time, she’d been duped. He’d just made a supreme fool of her. Maybe he had signed up for the army himself and hadn’t even been thrown in prison. He may have been scared off by the thought of committing to her for the rest of his life and had taken the next ship out of Louisbourg. And under an assumed name—so she wouldn’t be able to trace him. Marie felt as if her insides had been removed. She was hollow and couldn’t properly process what was happening.

  Around dawn, her tears spent and her body exhausted by the anger coursing through it, she finally felt the first pulls of sleep. She was more furious and humiliated than she had ever been in her life. Furious at Pierre, at those stupid whores, and at herself. She should have listened to Nic and just stayed in Louisbourg. A deep shame was beginning to flood over her. Pierre had been gone for six years, and he didn’t want her anymore. How was she supposed to go back home now?

  She had to talk to him—if only so she could vent her anger. And somewhere in her consciousness, as insane as it was, she felt he might be able to give her some reason for his outrageous behaviour. As her mind slowly slipped into oblivion, she decided that she would find him again and not go home disgraced until she had at least demanded some form of an explanation.

  ***

  Her eyes were swollen shut and refused to open. For a moment, she had almost convinced herself that yesterday was a dream, but as the bird song outside the window brought her to clearer consciousness, she knew it had not been a dream but a nightmarish reality.

  She lay in bed, trying to find the strength to move. Most of the anger had abated while she was sleeping, and she just felt empty now, devoid of any feeling. Her resolve to confront Pierre had also evaporated with sleep. She just felt stupid for thinking he would still want her after all this time. There was nothing to do but go home and somehow try to move on.

  She pulled her eyelids open and stared at the wooden ceiling. At that moment, she suddenly became acutely aware of someone else’s breathing. For one mad moment, she thought it might be Pierre, but then her brain caught up to her circumstances. Terrified, she turned to see the dark form of Claude sitting perfectly still in the corner, his face completely bloodless and full of rage.

  Marie froze. His dark eyes stared menacingly from the gloom of the corner. He didn’t say a word but continued to glare at her. How he had got there so quickly was anyone’s guess. Though Annette wouldn’t have kept the information to herself if Augustus had told her.

  She backed up against the wall, terror coursing through her veins. There was no use in screaming as he advanced on her, horse whip in his hand.

  ***

  Marie always knew that Claude lived in a near-constant state of anger, either suppressed or expressed, but she never knew the depth of his rage until that day. Of course, he had to be a lunatic to use a whip on anyone, but the rage also manifested itself in his screams and growls and manic pacing around the floor. He wasn’t angry that she’d left Louisbourg; he was furious that she’d gone after the grandson of a habitant. She had dared to cross him and was now paying the price. “You thought you could just run away?” Claude growled. “Just pack up in the middle of the night?” The whip cracked across her back. “Do you have any idea how worried your aunt has been? The scandal that you caused?” Another crack left Marie gasping for breath, and blood started oozing through her bodice.

  “Running after the grandson of a habitant?” The whip came down again. “Your aunt’s a vixen, but I think you’ve bested her.” The whip cracked with every word. “You and your brother ruined my life! After everything I’ve done for you, you destroy my reputation!”

  Marie couldn’t breathe. She tried to cover her face, but Claude dragged her arms away from her head. “That’s right. Cower, you bitch!” His fist smashed into the side of her head.

  Marie couldn’t focus on the raging anymore. The screaming and shouting was coming from a great distance. Her vision went to black and she fell to the floor.

  ***

  Claude paid for the passage home—on a different ship. Whatever safety Captain Côté might have provided was gone. He probably thought she’d found Pierre and things had ended happily.

  As Claude strode onto the ship, pushing Marie in front of him, the sailors knew better than to question him. So he had full control of the situation and locked Marie away in a small cabin with only her thoughts and the pain of her wounds for company. She felt as if she’d been broken in two and part of her was destroyed beyond repair. And then there was Pierre. She didn’t realize how much she’d depended on Pierre, albeit in her thoughts, over the past years. She believed she’d accepted that he was gone, but she was wrong. He was really gone now and had left her in disgrace and inconceivable pain.

  There was nothing to stop the final scenes of Pierre from poisoning her brain, and nothing was done to heal the wounds in her body. She was given hardly any food—only a thin soup in the mornings and evenings. Meanwhile, Claude prowled the ship, ignoring her for the most part, though every other night, and sometimes more often, he would appear in Marie’s cabin to remind her of the evil she had done.

  There didn’t seem to be a part of her body that wasn’t injured, and the rocking waves made the wounds even more painful. She couldn’t balance. Instead, her body constantly rolled from side to side, angering whatever sores were there.

  After a month, Marie could no longer stand. She felt hot and dizzy. She couldn’t see them, but some of the wounds must be festering. Claude noticed and finally stopped visiting her. Alone in the belly of an unknown ship, Marie began to wonder if she would ever see Louisbourg again.

  ***

  As Marie was going back to Louisbourg, broken in mind and body, Pierre was marching to the Ohio Valley. The region was only thinly populated, and it was covered with thick forests full of hemlock and sycamores. The rolling hills and tightly packed trees reminded him of the landscapes of home. The French had originally settled the Ohio Valley, but the boundaries were never firmly established, and when British colonists started encroaching on what the French considered to be theirs, hostilities boiled over into all-out war.

  Though it had taken weeks, Pierre was finally being called by his real name, not Charles, but that was the only thing he insisted on. Six years in prison had broken him. He no longer claimed his innocence or tried to explain that he had
never been a soldier. No one had believed him in the past and they wouldn’t now. Whoever had orchestrated this plot had been successful. Pierre had been wiped from the face of the earth. The distance between Montreal and Ohio was 180 miles. It was a slow march, taking the better part of a month. The French were travelling with their Huron allies, which made navigation easier, since the Huron knew the land better than the French—but traipsing through the wilderness carrying seventy pounds of clothing and equipment was no easy feat, especially for Pierre. Starvation had robbed him of any muscle he had. No one expected him to live once the fighting started.

  After a full week of downpour, Pierre decided that whoever the French were fighting for it wasn’t God. Fighting through knee-deep mud made everything harder. Eventually, Montcalm, the General from France, told them to make camp and wait out the elements. Pierre didn’t see the point. Sitting in the rain with nothing but a canvas sheet between you and the precipitation wasn’t much better than walking through the forest.

  The Hurons had their own camps. It could be Pierre’s imagination, but the Natives didn’t seem to be suffering so much. They could hunt in the forest better than the rest of them and never seemed bothered by being constantly wet.

  There was little food for the French soldiers, and the only water they had was found along the way. There was alcohol, but since Pierre, as a deserter, was considered to be the worst of the battalion, he never saw it. Pierre remembered being angry at the Louisbourg garrison for the mutiny of 1744, but now he understood. He was tired and famished, and the fighting hadn’t even started yet.

  No one paid him much attention, since his perceived desertion made him the lowest of the low. If anyone did speak to him, it was only to sneer and throw insults. Often, he had to throw his food away untouched because someone had slipped some inedible substance into it.

  He also had no contact from anyone outside the battalion of soldiers he was travelling with. There was no way he could plead his case to Renault or tell Marie he was still alive. He was a ghost now. Not really existing but still walking the earth.

  Pierre crouched next to a tall ash tree, waiting with the rest of his battalion. His officer, who’d stripped off his French uniform in exchange for Huron war paint, was hidden a few yards away in a grove of ferns. They were all silently waiting for some British soldiers, who were scheduled to pass through the area on their way to the nearest British fort, Fort William Henry. So far, the French had been winning the war in the interior. Since the French had allied themselves with the Huron and had assimilated their fighting style, the British stood very little chance against the guerrilla fighters.

  The valley was silent; even the birds sensed that danger was present. Pierre hated the tense moments before battle, and his hands were slick against the barrel of his musket. All around him, the men waited for the flash of red to appear. This wasn’t his first battle, and it wouldn’t be his last. The thought made him want to stay in the thick undergrowth of the forest forever.

  Soon, the sound of voices drifted on the wind to where the guerrillas were hidden. The red of the British uniforms were visible long before the enemy actually came close. They were moving single file through the underbrush of a small valley, unaware that they were incredibly easy targets for their opponents, who were hidden all around them on the hills.

  Pierre’s muscles tensed as he aimed his musket. All around him, his compatriots silently moved into position. The Huron moved closer, their footsteps barely making a rustle in the leafy terrain.

  The sunlight glinted off the tips of the British bayonets held high in the air against their owner’s shoulders. Pierre glanced left and the signal came.

  The cries of the Huron were fierce. They fell on the front and back of the caravan while the French muskets attacked the centre. The British scrambled around, fumbling for their weapons and trying to discern where the attack was coming from. The air was thick with the white smoke of gunpowder, making it difficult to see, and the thick forest made escape difficult. The French and Huron knew the land better than the British, most of whom had arrived straight from Britain for the war.

  The skirmish was over in a quarter of an hour. The British who were still alive had scattered, leaving the dead and wounded behind. The call came not to pursue. Food, ammunition, and other provisions had been left behind, and in the wilderness, these were far more important than following the escaped British soldiers.

  Pierre shouldered his musket, his upper chest throbbing from the force of the butt of the gun slamming into him repeatedly. Walking among the dead and dying, he was trying to find the ones who needed to be put out of their misery.

  He came across one soldier, no older than seventeen, face still round with the chubbiness of youth, pimples standing out against the white pallor of his face. The boy didn’t say anything. He just looked up at Pierre fearfully. Pierre could hear the gurgling breath escaping from the bullet wound in the boy’s chest, and crimson bubbles of blood were spreading from the small hole.

  “You won’t survive,” Pierre said in the English he had learned from one of his cellmates in prison. The boy began clawing desperately at the wound, his lips already tinged with blue from lack of oxygen.

  Pierre bent down and pushed the boy’s face away from him. Drawing his knife, he slit his throat, waiting until the convulsions stopped. He wiped the blade on the grass, refusing to look at the corpse before he moved on to the next scarlet-covered body.

  That night, he sat a distance away from the fire, leaning against the trunk of a large evergreen. The others sat close to the flames, happily sharing the fermented bouillon and ale that had been lifted from the British stash. They sang and laughed, relieved to have survived another battle.

  This had been his third battle on the way to Fort Ticonderoga, the closest French fort. He had taken off his white shirt, the front peppered with the blood of the boy.

  After the first two battles, he had scrubbed the bloodstains off his uniform as much as possible, but the other soldiers in the battalion mocked him. Most wore the stains on their uniforms proudly.

  The blood didn’t bother Pierre now. That frightened him. It was becoming easier to snuff out life, to watch the light go out of a man’s eyes. He hated it. Hated that it was getting easier. Hated that he wanted to be included in the singing and joking after the battle. He was beginning to not recognize himself. He was becoming a monster, killing without thinking much of it afterward.

  Once upon a time, he had been a man of education and social standing. He had loved once, had a bright future ahead of him. That man was gone. Who had taken his place he didn’t know. He sat watching the flames of the fire shooting up against the dark sky. He had spent six years not seeing the sky, locked away from humanity. His hands no longer shook after he killed, but he wished they would.

  Louisbourg was a long way away, and he doubted he would ever see it again.

  PART FOUR:

  LOUISBOURG 1758

  Chapter 10

  THE MONTH OF MAY 1758 was unusually warm. The sea air floated up from the water, covering the city with the undeniable stench of fish. The ever-present fog rolled in off the North Atlantic, its tendrils slowly groping their way past the buildings near the harbour. Closer to the middle of the city, however, Léonard de la Rocque’s elegant home was flooded with the best of society, wine, and food. He’d made the ball an annual affair, giving the bourgeoisie of the city a chance to mingle with the local aristocrats and prestigious military figures. A comment or suggestive look could effectively alter one’s social standing in the coming year (for better or for worse). Though de la Rocque’s gatherings were not overly lavish, they were generous—as was suitable to his station.

  The war changed all that.

  Two years of British blockades had depleted the stores of the colony. Supplies were scarce and food even scarcer, so this year’s ball featured cod served five or six different ways. There was plenty of beer and liquor, though. In fact, those kept all the people of the c
olony going, not just the upper crust.

  Marie leaned against a richly papered wall at one side of the ballroom, staring into space, furiously grinding her teeth together. At twenty-nine, she was considered an old bride. There was no other way to say it. All her friends were married, and some had little families of their own. Most of them had written her off, condemning her to spinsterhood.

  However, eighteen months before, in November 1756 (about three months after Marie’s return from the disastrous trip to Montreal), she had finally accepted a proposal from Jacques-Xavier de Charlevoix. Jacques, recommended highly by Claude, was a young lawyer trained in Paris, and he was the nephew of a Duke in France, with excellent connections to the fur trade and the political sphere in Louisbourg. He was also the city playboy. But Marie could hardly say no, given Claude’s vicious threats and Annette’s hysterical begging.

  Reports had recently been brought in from the Mi’kmaq that the British were mobilizing in the colony of Halifax with Louisbourg as their target. In a fit of dark humour, Marie said to herself, as she kept leaning against the ballroom’s elegant wallpaper, that she hoped the British would arrive before her marriage could occur. Claude had made it clear he wanted this marriage to take place. Still not completely healed from the trip to Montreal, Marie wasn’t stupid enough to cross Claude again. Besides, she needed to get out of his house. (Claude had arranged the marriage as a personal favour to Jacques’s uncle, the Duke, in exchange for patronage at Court, and he’d also given money to Jacques, who was happy to take the funds, along with the connection to Claude’s aristocratic blood.) Now that she was engaged, however, she was beginning to see that Jacques was never going to change, and she knew she’d give almost anything for the wedding to be postponed—forever. While society was rejoicing at her upcoming wedding, Marie was obviously under no silly romantic notions that this would be a happy or even a civil union.