The Displaced

by Frieda Watt

  Pierre appeared beside her with his cloak spread wide over his head. He knew better than to offer something to keep her dry, but he wasn’t about to stand in the rain soaking himself. She smiled up at him, her hazel eyes bright. She leaned up to kiss him, her lips and skin chilled from the rain. She was drenched all the way through her clothes, which wasn’t especially comfortable for Pierre, but as he pulled away, she wrapped her good arm around him, soaking his shirt around his middle. He moved his cloak so it covered both of them. They stayed joined together in the garden, blissfully unaware of anything else until lightning cut across the sky, forcing them inside and back to their now tepid bowls of soup.

  ***

  Pierre lay on his stomach, dozing peacefully, his body sprawled across their marriage bed. He was so tall that his legs hung off the bed by at least a foot. Marie smiled as she watched him. She wanted to touch him, to run her fingers down the indent in his spine and hold onto the bubble of contentment where they were temporarily suspended. But she was afraid of waking him. The terrible fear of the unknown was beginning to boil inside her. The invaders were coming. What would happen to them then?

  Marie reached for the paper and charcoal Pierre had given her. She wanted to capture him as he was at this moment: completely at peace, unburdened by military duty or the collapse of an empire.

  She drew quickly as the daylight slowly crept from the room. The long curve of his back, the slope of his shoulders, the mess of golden locks dancing around his head, his lean legs extending beyond the mattress. Then there were the scars on his body. She knew the origin of some of them but not of others. It looked as if a bullet had gone clean through his right shoulder, though he’d mentioned only the one in his leg. A thick, shiny, white scar ran the length of his upper left arm, and she didn’t know what had caused that either. She hoped there’d be time for Pierre to tell her where they’d come from.

  Her eyes travelled to his muscular calf. She almost laughed out loud when she spotted the faint outline of the wound that Madame Lavis’s dog had left there. Pierre and Nic had decided to spend an afternoon goading the poor canine, thinking they’d have no trouble because it was safely behind its fence. That illusion collapsed when the dog leaped over the fence and chased after them.

  Marie was startled when her eyes moved up to his face and she saw him staring at her, a look of deep serenity on his features. His blue eyes twinkled as he watched her hand move over the paper. He continued to stay perfectly still.

  “How long have you been awake?” Marie asked, startled.

  “Awhile. I like watching you draw. You look so peaceful and full of determination. I haven’t seen you draw in so long.”

  Marie laughed. “I felt I had to make a greater effort after you gave me the supplies.”

  Pierre rolled over. “I used to keep the drawings you sent me in Quebec. My cousins used to tease me about that fiercely.”

  “I’ve never drawn you before, you know.”

  Pierre sat up and took the paper from Marie. “I like it.”

  She looked at him, suddenly afraid for their future. “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Yes. I don’t want to spend anymore time away from you than I have to, but they’re sending me to the trenches and I won’t be able to come back until they transfer me somewhere else—if that somewhere else is closer to you. Hopefully, they’ll post me at the ramparts. I’ll at least be in the city, not far from here.”

  Marie nodded but didn’t trust herself to look at him.

  Pierre pulled himself closer to her and wrapped his arm around her. “Don’t be afraid.”

  The tears were far too close to the surface, but she laughed at the absurdity of the situation. “That’s ridiculous. You’ll be right in the thick of it.” She kept trying in vain to blink back the tears that were slipping over her lashes. “How badly are you outnumbered?”

  “Five to one at least. The last report from the Mi’kmaq was around fourteen thousand, but we won’t know for sure until the army arrives.” Pierre pulled her onto his lap. “I’ll send back word as soon as I can.”

  “What did you tell them at the barracks? And why aren’t you sleeping there anymore?” It was an unimportant question, but she thought if she focused on the invasion anymore, she might explode.

  “The truth.” She looked up at him sharply.

  “Or a version of it anyway,” Pierre said. “I told them I had met someone and was spending my nights with her because it was better than being with them. During the mutiny, I couldn’t understand why the soldiers were upset. I mean, the King’s Bastion is huge. But now that I live there, I understand. Drafty fireplaces, leaking roofs, men in close quarters, farting and burping all night long.”

  Marie laughed. “I love you.”

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “I love you too.”

  “I’m glad I rank higher than a bunch of stinking soldiers when it comes to bedmates.”

  “You might snore a little, but not as much as a hundred men.”

  “I don’t snore,” she pouted.

  He snuggled into her. “No, you don’t, but you do steal the covers.”

  Silence fell between them, both thinking about the next day. “I can’t promise that everything is going to be all right. Terrible things are going to happen,” Pierre said at last. Marie held him as tightly as she could. “But I got you back, and I’ll take these few days in exchange for whatever comes next.”

  ***

  The next morning broke cold and rainy. Marie curled closer into Pierre’s back, lying peacefully in the pocket of warmth under the quilt. She could feel the steady beat of his heart and sighed, knowing he would be gone soon.

  The steady beat of the military drum carried through the windows. Pierre sighed and rolled out from their sanctuary. He moved around the room quickly, looking for his discarded clothing. Then he came back to the bed and kissed her lightly.

  “Be safe,” Marie whispered.

  “They haven’t even made it here yet. Don’t fret yourself until that happens.” Pierre gave her a quick smile and kissed her forehead before heading out silently into the sombre day.

  PART FIVE:

  INVASION

  Chapter 13

  THE FORTRESS WAS IN A STATE OF FRENZIED PREPARATION. The British fleet had arrived. Four hundred men-of-war ships carrying over fourteen thousand men were waiting in Gabarus Bay for the weather to improve enough for landing. Three miles was all that stood between the fortress and the invaders.

  Outnumbered though they were, the inhabitants of Louisbourg were not going down without a fight. No one had said it, but everyone knew that the longer the fortress could defend itself against the British, the less likely an attack on Quebec would happen that year, giving the French government a greater chance to send reinforcements.

  Deep trenches had been dug around the fortress, and the ramparts, still not completely repaired despite the efforts of the last nine years, were being hastily patched. The trenches covered the plains in front of the fortress, avoiding the marshland to the southwest. Cannons had been painstakingly rolled to the front lines. Mortars, with their explosive shells that could be shot high in the air, were moved into position, and the five French warships that were in the harbour prepared themselves to be the last stand between the British navy and the citizens of Louisbourg. Sailors, whether in the navy or not, became a part of the defence. And as a mark of just how desperate the situation was, the army and naval leaders were conferencing together, though both famously detested each other.

  The thick fog that had enveloped the island’s coast for so long finally dispersed on the morning of June 8th. The British General, James Wolfe, had tried to make a landing the day before, but the waves had prevented any craft from reaching the rocks. Today, the water was calmer, Pierre thought pessimistically.

  The French soldiers were lined up in the trenches above the water, the higher ground a tactical advantage even though they were sorely outnumbered. Pierre
had spent a week in those trenches, randomly firing at the British to remind them that the French were still alive. Food was scarce and substandard at best, and there was little shelter from the pounding rain and driving winds. It had been a long week, and some of Pierre’s companions in the trenches had already been taken to the hospital sick after being exposed to the elements for so long.

  They were all exhausted and starving. No matter what form of attack the British would launch, the French soldiers, who had spent a week or more standing knee-deep in mud, were prepared for little except to meet their maker.

  Pierre lay on the wet grass, above the trenches letting the dampness soak through his coat and staring at the dark clouds rolling above his head. A couple of cadets were wrestling behind him. He ignored them and tried to bring Marie’s face to his mind’s eye. Her creamy complexion, with a hint of rose across her cheekbones, swam into view. His fingertips ached, unable to touch her.

  A shout rang out through the damp air. Pierre opened an eye, annoyed that his daydream had been interrupted. The cadets behind him stopped playing, and men were running and shouting. Pierre sat up and looked toward the harbour. The last of the fog was vanishing, revealing innumerable British warships. The sight was enough to make any man’s blood run cold. The five warships in Louisbourg harbour could not withstand the British indefinitely. Victory was not possible.

  “They’re coming,” Pierre muttered, picking up his musket. Small figures could be seen swinging over the sides of the boats. The offensive was mounting. A lanky boy of seventeen lay sprawled on the ground beside him but didn’t move. Pierre smacked him on the back. “Gérard, the Redcoats are coming.”

  A grimace spread across Gérard’s spotted face. “Well, I’m not getting up until they land.”

  “Like hell you will. Best to be standing when they start shooting at us.” Pierre reached a massive hand around the boy’s worn collar and pulled him onto his knees.

  “All right, all right. Let go!” Gérard shouted. “I’m not a damn kitten.”

  Pierre laughed and turned back to the battle preparations unfolding before him.

  The soldiers stood silently, watching the enemy soldiers jump from the sides of the ships and into the boats that would ferry them to soil.

  Gérard swore under his breath. “We’re dead.”

  Pierre agreed but thought silence was the better option. The French officers began the defensive. Fires were set to prevent the enemy from seeing the position of the soldiers and the cannons. But as the fires grew, the wind direction changed, making the smoke blow back onto the French army.

  Pierre fell to his knees, coughing as the smoke sank into the trenches. The men scrambled out of their positions, trying to find clear air. Gérard rolled onto the grass above the trench, eyes streaming. Pierre looked toward the water. The landing boats were filled and starting the advance.

  From somewhere behind him, the order was given to fire, but chaos reigned. The cannons sticking out of the sides of the British ships roared, but the French weren’t ready to shoot back. Pierre ducked against the incoming volley and readied his musket. Beside him, Gérard’s musket was jamming.

  The British were stuck near the coast, unable or unwilling to advance under the barrage of bullets from the French soldiers in the trenches. Some British soldiers fell; Pierre could see the unmistakable red wool of their uniforms floating in the surf.

  Then, above the barrel of his gun, Pierre spotted one of the British commanders riding at the front of one of the boats. With a screaming shout, he leaped over the front of the bow, wading in the thigh-deep water until he reached shore.

  Pierre had never seen anything like it. Suddenly, the British force began to pour over the sides of their vessels, splashing and yelling.

  The smoke from the fires continued to swirl around the French, mixing with the white discharge of their muskets. It was difficult to see the enemy, but one thing was clear, the British were gaining a foothold.

  A trained soldier could reload a musket in less than thirty seconds during a drill. During the heat of battle, however, with all the distractions of combat, that time inflated to almost two minutes. All the same, the French continued to pour everything they had at the invading red army. It did little good. Bullets rained all around them. A cadet near Pierre went down, a musket ball to the brain.

  The cannons roared from their position beside the trenches, but for every British soldier they obliterated, another two took his place.

  A bullet slammed into Gérard, knocking him to the ground. The boy crouched on the wet grass screaming, his thumb no longer attached.

  The order came to retreat. Pierre wrapped his arm around Gérard’s shoulders and pulled him to his feet. It wasn’t clear how far back they were going until the stone walls of the fortress, about three miles away, were almost in front of them.

  “We’re just letting them come?” Pierre spat at Nic as the defeated troops trickled into the safety the fortress provided, carrying their ancient artillery with them.

  Nic shrugged. He felt sick enough about the situation without this harassment. “The idea,” he said, “is to defend the fortress, not get slaughtered on the plains.”

  Pierre opened his mouth to retort.

  “You want to stop them? Be my guest.” Nic pointed to the field that would soon be filled with British tents and artillery. “There’s nothing left to do. We don’t have the men or the ammunition.” He glowered up at Pierre, waiting for a reply.

  Pierre said nothing. Vindicated, Nic turned away.

  There was nothing they could do now but wait for the siege to begin.

  ***

  There is only so much time one can spend darning socks and mending before the tediousness of the task takes over. For the past two days, Marie had tried her best to keep busy with duties like these while the explosions in the distance echoed through the house. Since the young maid, Sabine, had come back with the news that the British were anchored off shore, unloading their artillery, a knot had developed in the pit of Marie’s stomach. Eating was difficult, she couldn’t sleep, and she had nothing to do to keep her mind off the numbing fear that those she loved at the front weren’t going to come home.

  Augustus had left four days before to fight with the militia. Now that the British had landed, he and some of his fellow militiamen were assigned the duty of harassing the Redcoats. Shooting at the British while they tried to make camp, stealing supplies, and burning tents that were left unoccupied wouldn’t stop the British, but it would make life more difficult for them. The only ones left at Augustus’s home were Marie, the two maids, and Madame Cloutier. The maids avoided Marie at all costs, but Madame Cloutier found some time to talk about the battle and give empty reassurances. Marie found these unrealistically optimistic predictions just infuriating. Some of her fellow citizens of Louisbourg were not going to survive this battle, and it was pointless to pretend otherwise.

  It was late in the evening of June 10th, and the setting sun was burning the sky crimson and pink after finally showing its face after so many rainy days. There had been no word from Pierre to say he’d made it through this first battle, and Marie didn’t press for news. She knew better than to expect her brother to keep her informed.

  She was walking around the lower level of Augustus’s house, locking windows and extinguishing candles. That was normally the maids’ job, but most of them had left to return to their own families, so there weren’t enough people to do all the housework. Helping out gave Marie something to cut the oppressive boredom of waiting, waiting, waiting. As she was putting out the candles in the front entrance, the heavy front door swung open, bringing with it a wave of warm, salt air. Pierre stepped into the hallway soaked and covered in dirt and grime. His exhaustion was obvious as he leaned his musket against the wall. With a cry of relief, Marie flung herself into his arms.

  “I’m all right, I’m all right,” he whispered softly, stroking her hair. His voice was weak, but he looked unharmed from what she co
uld see.

  Relief washed over Marie as she stepped back to inspect him. “What happened?”

  Pierre didn’t reply but moved slowly, shrugging out of his blue coat and pulling off his boots. Then he unbuckled the belt that held his pistols and knife before sinking into the nearest chair. “We couldn’t hold them off,” he said finally. “There were too many of them. We were tired and starving and cold. We’ve retreated all the way into the fortress. They’ve started to make camp.”

  Marie bent down in front of him, caressing his face in her hands. “You’re freezing,” she muttered. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”

  Pierre smiled at her. “This morning.”

  Marie called for Madame Cloutier to bring warm water and clean clothes. Turning back to her husband she asked, “Can you walk upstairs to bed?”

  Pierre laughed quietly. “I’m not hurt, you know. Just tired and hungry.”

  Despite his protests, she wrapped her arm around his waist and walked with him up the stairs to her bedroom. He took off his shirt and sat down as Sabine and the other maid brought in brown bread, liquor, soup, towels, and water. Silently, Marie began to wash the blood and battlefield grime off his aching shoulders.

  “Talk to me,” she whispered. His torso was covered with bruises.

  He sighed and rested his head on her chest for a moment. “They left us out in the trenches for a week before the British finally landed. A week with little food and no shelter. So many of the boys got sick. Men can’t fight properly when they’re starving and exhausted.”

  Marie nodded. She’d been afraid of that. It was the first siege all over again. The fortress didn’t have enough supplies to keep the fighting force healthy and still sustain the citizens.

  “In no time at all, they’d made it to the beach. We couldn’t hold them off,” Pierre continued, a haunted look in his eye. “We fought them. I fought as hard as I could, but they still made it here. We had to retreat.”