by Frieda Watt
“After Annette’s illness, or I guess miscarriage, the situation deteriorated. He would go into rages where he would throw things and scream and rave. It was terrifying. Absolutely terrifying.” She paused, unsure of how to continue.
Pierre looked up. “War can change you. Watching people die, killing people, fighting for your own life.”
“But Claude never saw action, and he was already a volatile bully.”
“More than I thought he was,” Pierre breathed.
Marie thought for a moment, her fingers absently pressing on the base of Pierre’s neck. “You saw horrors in Ohio, but I don’t think it made you awful. You’re more serious, though. And I think you needed that. You’re not the pranking jester you used to be.”
“Miss him?”
Marie smiled wistfully. “A little. But I wouldn’t have wanted to marry you if you still thought adding live fish to stew right before it was served was a good way to entertain people.”
Pierre doubled over laughing. Marie jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. “It wasn’t funny!”
Eyes streaming, Pierre slowly sat up, wheezing. “I forgot about that,” he gasped. “Lady Isabelle went hysterical, she was so angry.”
Marie giggled too, despite herself. “Her wig fell off, remember?”
They lay for a time slowly letting the laughter evaporate from their veins, watching the stars appear through the window. Pierre traced the thin white scars across her chest again.
“Right after you left.” She answered the silent question that hung in the air. “That was actually the reason I ran away. He and Annette had a huge fight. She was throwing plates, and he was saying all sorts of things to her. I was in my room and after it was over he came in and beat me. He took all of his anger at her out on me. I guess he felt I was disposable.”
Pierre shook his head in frustration. “I want to kill him for what he did.”
“But you won’t,” Marie said. It was more an order than an observation.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t promise I wouldn’t do it if the opportunity presented itself.”
Marie ignored this and looked away.
“No one knew what had happened to you. Your father went and searched for you. Renault was involved, and he searched all the prisons. I guess they hid you from him. Jean even went to the West Indies. I thought you were dead. When you were released, Nic received word of your whereabouts. So I packed my bags and left the next day. When Claude found me, he whipped me and then it became a regular thing at home. Nic tried to hide me in certain places—his house, friends’ houses, inns—while he arranged passage for me out of the city, but it never worked. That’s why Nic hated you. He blamed you for the abuse. I never told him how it started. I was too ashamed. He just assumed it was because I ran away to find you.”
“I always wondered.” Pierre gazed at her seriously. “I won’t ever let him touch you again.”
Marie smiled and ruffled his hair. “I know. I’m not nearly as concerned for myself now as I am for you.”
Pierre looked down at her and kissed her. “Don’t worry. I’ve made it through many a battlefield.”
Marie slapped his thigh. “You’re far too cocky.”
“It beats going to pieces.” He looked out the window at the darkened sky. “I need to get you to the hospital before Father Weber comes and knocks down the door.”
“I don’t think he’s about to do that.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. He definitely doesn’t like me. I’d prefer not to have another encounter.”
***
The hospital spire rose high above the homes and shops of the city. Marie and Pierre walked quietly through the streets. Few people were out; even the never-sleeping harbour was silent. Marie kept her hood over her head for the entire trip. Pierre carried her few possessions. She wouldn’t need much where she was going.
Soft candlelight streamed from the many windows, as the patients in the wards were resting for the night. The calm before the storm, Marie thought grimly. She reached out to Pierre, who had stopped at the foot of the stairs leading to the front entrance. He smiled sadly and shook his head. He wasn’t going in with her. Suddenly, Marie was overwhelmed by the realization that this might be the last time she would ever lay eyes on him. She crushed herself against his body and held tight, not wanting to ever let go.
“I love you,” he whispered and squeezed her tighter. “You can do this. It will begin soon. The British will want it to be over as soon as possible. So stay here. Take care of yourself.”
“I’m not worried about myself,” Marie replied thickly, still not wanting to let him go.
He smiled, disentangling himself from her grip, and held her at arm’s length. “I know you’re not. But I’ll worry about me.” He didn’t laugh now or offer any empty reassurances. He bent to kiss her one last time. “I’ll come visit if I can. Off you go. They’re expecting you.”
Marie nodded. She tried to speak, but her throat was too constricted for words. Pierre stepped back into the shadows and nodded for her to go on. With a huge effort, she turned into the hospital, leaving Pierre standing in the darkness.
Memories flooded her mind as she walked back into the long, whitewashed corridors of the hospital. It still smelled the same, she thought ruefully, wrinkling her nose. Dirt, blood, death, and vinegar were mingled with the faint smell of the fresh flowers and herbs that the nuns had placed around to try to combat the less desirable odours.
Sister Miriam was waiting for her. Marie had missed her most of all after Jacques stopped her from working at the hospital, as he felt it was below the station of a woman he was courting. The nun greeted Marie in a rib-splitting hug.
“How long it’s been! Much, much too long! I thought your fiancé didn’t approve of you working here. Has he changed his mind? Either way, I’m very excited to see you again, even in the circumstances as they are.”
Marie smiled. “Actually, I ended up marrying someone else.”
Sister Miriam was tactful enough not to say any more on the subject, although her eyebrows did disappear under her wimple for a minute.
She took Marie’s arm and led her down the hall. She had quite the grip. “I know I’ve trained you in everything you need to know, and you were always excellent at following instructions, but Father Weber has informed me that until your arm has healed, you can’t do anything too difficult. You have one more week, am I correct?”
Marie nodded. Hopefully, the bandages would be coming off in six days. She was eager to get rid of them and put the memory of the beating behind her.
“Well, until that’s all healed up, you aren’t to be doing anything too strenuous. Hopefully, we’ll have a bit more time before things get out of hand.”
Marie’s stomach flipped over, thinking of Pierre.
Sister Miriam led Marie through the courtyard to the nuns’ apartments. The wide vegetable garden was the only source of food for the compound during this time of war. They walked in silence to the second floor, where Sister Miriam nodded toward a small room at the end of the hall. “You may stay here for the time being,” she said kindly. “Tomorrow, we’ll see just how much you remember.”
Marie shook her head at the idea. “Probably not very much.”
Sister Miriam smiled as she walked Marie into her room. “You’ll be surprised how quickly it comes back. If you need anything, let me know.”
She left Marie alone in the spartan room. A cot stretched along one wall. It was the only furniture apart from a table that held a candlestick, a flint, a basin, and a pitcher of water.
Marie sighed and sat down on the bed. There was no fireplace, but the open window let in a warm breeze. Marie undressed, put on her night shirt, and crawled into the bed. Here, alone in the huge hospital, the upcoming siege was more real to her than ever before. Was it truly better to be here than back at Augustus’s house? She drew to her mind the image of Pierre standing in the semi-darkness at the foot of the hospital steps,
and how he’d said, “I love you” for maybe the last time. The idea caused her physical pain. She curled into a ball, trying to wrap herself around the feeling of hopelessness. Now that she was away from him, she was more frightened of the future than she wanted to admit. She wrapped the blanket around herself, not for heat but simply for the comfort of something to hold onto.
***
The King’s Bastion was filled with the tight energy that precedes battle. A large number of men were now in the colossal building, awaiting the order to defend King and country with their lives. Most of the soldiers posted at Louisbourg came from the rural towns of northern France. Voluntary enrolment in the army took them to the colonies, and most spent the rest of their lives there. Difficult as life was in the army, it was better than toiling in the fields as a peasant and still never having enough to eat.
Most of the young men didn’t enjoy this new world of harsh and frozen conditions. It was an alien, primitive place with only the basics of civilization and culture—and with very few people to defend. Many men were so demoralized by their new situation that they simply deserted. If caught, they were shipped to the West Indies as forced labourers. Desertion eventually became such a common problem that the government gave orders to shoot any soldiers they found trying to escape. Pierre wasn’t the only one to carry the desertion brand, but he was the only one on Île-Royale. The entire garrison knew it and treated him accordingly.
Every settlement in New France had a militia: civilians who were trained, albeit minimally, to defend the area. Louisbourg’s militia was one of the largest in the colonies, made up of men born and raised in New France.
Pierre was an exception. Most military men of his age were in some form of leadership position. But at thirty, he was still just a soldier, who, after two years of patriotic service, was still sentenced to the life of a cadet, sleeping in shared accommodations, the least of all servicemen, but the first to meet the enemy. His colleagues were still teenagers, and his superiors were younger and sometimes less experienced than himself. Being in the French army was not a service; it was a life sentence.
In the twelve days they had had together, Marie had helped him forget the humiliation and injustice that had become his life. But she was gone now. Safe or at least as safe as any civilian was at this point, but still gone from his life. Leaving the hospital had been one of the hardest things he had ever done, abandoning her to an unknown fate, unable to be there to protect her anymore.
He ran his hand idly along the rough stone walls as he walked back to the barracks, realizing there was only one good thing in this whole situation. Whatever happened now, she was his again. She was his, and whatever sacrifice he had to make was worth it because he was now fighting for her.
The barracks were quiet. The bravado and confidence of the day was quietly slipping away as sleep came. And the snoring, farting, and grunting that usually filled the dark night air in the barracks had been replaced with silence. Every soul was preoccupied as the reality of battle and death loomed.
Pierre found his bunk and swung his large frame onto the mattress, folding his limbs to fit in the small space. Gérard lay in the bunk beside him, staring up at the ceiling. He was an orphan from Normandy—part of the last boatload of soldiers from the mother country. He had been enthralled by stories of frozen winters where a man could skate on mighty rivers that were frozen solid. Now the likelihood that he wouldn’t live to see such a sight weighed heavily on him. He may now be missing a thumb, but he was still expected to fight.
“She finally kicked you out, eh?” Gérard asked with a trace of bitterness.
Pierre flung his boots to the ground and lay back. “You could say that,” he sighed.
***
The grey smock Marie had been given to wear was comfortable if not flattering. It fit easily over her clothes but made her look as if she’d wrapped herself in a sheet. There was one good thing about the uniform, though; it had two deep pockets in front. Years before, when she’d first worked at the hospital, she discovered that those pockets allowed her to carry a loaf of bread, cheese, medical supplies, and a roll of bandages comfortably with her at all times. This time around, though, she kept only her supplies and Camille Thibault’s silver ring in a tiny pocket pinned inside one of the large pockets. It was slightly too big for her finger, and she didn’t want to lose it among the blood and bile of the hospital. It wasn’t safe to leave it back in her room either. In these days of war, anything could happen.
On the morning of June 13th, she washed and dressed quickly, putting an apron on top of the smock. She knew that she needed to be ready for work early. It was going to be a long day.
Once she’d reported for duty, she was introduced to Sister Berenice, a middle-aged nun with iron-coloured curls that didn’t fit completely under her wimple. Sister Berenice was the daughter of the Commissaire-Ordonnateur, the ordinance officer in charge of keeping the financial records of the city. She’d joined the convent at sixteen and had begun to work in the hospital the following year. At this point, she was in charge of the new recruits. Marie had worked with her before and was always impressed by her ability to organize just about anything. While the Frères de Saint-Jean-de-Dieu were in charge of the hospital, it was really Sister Berenice who kept the institution running. Nothing went on within the grounds that she didn’t know about.
While related to Jacques, she was the complete opposite of him in every way. She was also one of the few people whom Marie had confided in about her treatment at Claude’s hands. Sister Berenice would keep Marie’s secret. She was also well aware of the kind of person her young cousin was and had been very vocal in her opposition to Marie’s union with him. The nun knew the marriage was happening for all the wrong reasons, and Marie knew without asking that Sister Berenice was thrilled that things hadn’t worked out.
The portly sister wrapped her arms around Marie’s thin shoulders.
“Oh, my dear, it’s so good to see you,” she exclaimed. “I’ve missed you so much. You look lovely.”
Marie laughed. “I’m happy to be back.” The longer she was in the hospital, the more comfortable she felt. While her stomach ached with homesickness for Pierre, the familiarity of the smells and sights of the hospital hallways made her feel comforted despite the siege looming on the horizon.
“I heard you were married,” Sister Berenice jabbered on. “Congratulations. I’m so glad your husband allowed you to come back and you didn’t marry my good-for-nothing cousin.”
Marie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
“Who is this lucky young man?” Sister Berenice turned and led Marie down another hall.
Marie hesitated, unsure if it was wise to connect herself to Pierre publicly, but then she remembered that her very presence here was being kept a secret. “He’s actually a friend from childhood. We had hoped to marry years ago, but then the war started.”
Sister Berenice nodded. “I’m glad things worked out for the two of you.” She meant it.
The hospital was quiet, as the staff had no problem caring for the patients already admitted. Most of them had become ill from exposure to the elements and the effects of starvation, and most of them were soldiers. When the siege began, the hallways would be filled not just with soldiers but with civilians. The British would spare no one.
“I want Father Weber to examine your arm one more time,” Sister Berenice announced, leading Marie toward the priest’s office. Once he’s given me an update, I can assign you the appropriate kind of work. I don’t want to be responsible for causing you further discomfort.”
Marie groaned inwardly. She wasn’t looking forward to talking with Father Weber, but there seemed to be no way out. Sister Miriam left her at the bench outside the priest’s office door, where she waited uncomfortably. She contemplated running away, claiming a clean bill of health, but then thought it would be unwise to lie to a nun.
Father Weber eventually ushered Marie into his cramped office. He didn
’t say anything at first but simply glared at her from across the desk. Not feeling intimidated, Marie glared right back. It wasn’t her first choice to be living in sin.
“I’m concerned about your welfare,” Father Weber began gravely.
“Not enough to actually perform the ceremony and eliminate the need for said worry. Sir,” she added hastily. She wasn’t going to accept his illogical admonishments, but she also didn’t want to be banished from the hospital.
Father Weber kept glaring at Marie. “You realize there are laws I am expected to follow.” For such a short man, he could look very intimidating.
“I thought your laws came from God.”
More scowling. “Mademoiselle Lévesque, I realize that this man has convinced you to elope with him, but it is a very serious offence before God.”
Marie cut him off. “I can assure you that this is not a case of Pierre convincing me to do anything. I am very capable of making my own decisions.” She swallowed hard. She couldn’t let him see any vulnerability. “Seven years ago, Pierre and I became engaged, with plans to wed as soon as possible. We have known each other since we were children. Pierre was falsely charged with desertion from the military before we could marry.” Father Weber’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he rearranged his face into a more neutral expression.
Marie continued, her heart beating wildly. She could feel her face flush with anger. “There is a General in Montreal who we suspect orchestrated the whole thing. I actually went to Montreal to try to find Pierre. That’s when Claude’s abuse became worse. I have wanted to marry this man for many years. I would have married him long ago if I could have. I am well aware that you have rules that you must abide by here, but I have done nothing wrong. Neither has Pierre. If we could marry in a church before you and God, we would. I don’t believe the offence lies with either of us.”
Father Weber said nothing for a long time following this speech. He merely looked at Marie in a calculating way as she sat there quietly. She refused to be the first to break the silence, hoping her speech had made him uncomfortable. Finally, Father Weber spoke. “I see that there is no convincing you otherwise, my dear.”
