by Frieda Watt
Ignoring the sensible voice in her head that told her to run, she pushed her way into the hall. The war had come to the hospital. Two craters gaped in the floors, and sunlight flooded in from the holes in the roof. Fires had started along the path the mortars had taken as those who could walk scrambled over the beds to get to safety.
Another mortar exploded in the courtyard, and Marie ducked as the force of the impact blew out the hospital windows. She felt as if someone had clubbed her over the back. Panting, she looked around for someone, anyone, to help. Two priests, their black coats catching around their legs, were rushing to put out the flames with buckets of water from the kitchen. More and more horrified patients were trying to flee. Marie ran to the closest door. It seemed that the choice for the patients was between dying in the chaotic confines of the hospital and losing their lives under the sky. Marie chose the sky. Throwing the door open, she began shepherding as many people as she could out of the ward and into the courtyard. Those too ill to walk were lifted by those who could. As the procession slowly made its way outside, Marie scrambled back in. One of the fires was out and the others were almost extinguished.
Gasping for breath, she looked around. Most of the patients were out, and those who still remained were safe from the fires at least. The bombardment had blasted out most of the floor, making craters large enough for Pierre to lie down in.
Bombs were still falling in the vicinity, and people were still screaming. Overwhelmed, Marie saw a small girl, no more than seven, crouched in the corner of the room, her arms wrapped around her knees. Marie crawled toward her before realizing that the child’s torso had been burned by the impact of the mortars. Without thinking, Marie scooped the girl up into her arms and ran into the kitchen, one place that was still relatively unharmed. Paying attention to nothing around her, Marie laid the girl on the table, quickly cutting her scorched clothing away.
“What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Anne,” the girl sniffed. She was making a remarkably small amount of noise for the amount of pain she must be in. It probably hasn’t hit her yet, Marie thought clinically.
“Okay, Anne,” Marie said, grabbing some linen and pouring cold water on it, “I need you to be brave for me.” She laid the cloth on the burn, hoping it would give some relief.
“I want my mamma,” Anne sniffled, tears streaking down her round cheeks.
Marie’s heart dropped. “Where is your mother?”
“She’s at home,” Anne wailed.
Marie’s brain didn’t seem to be working right. “If she’s not here, then why were you here?”
Anne started to sob uncontrollably. Marie’s heart was pounding. She needed to get Anne to her mother if she could, but she couldn’t transport her in this condition. The burn wasn’t serious, and it would heal if treated, but the poor girl’s system had been immensely traumatized. How had this child got here without a parent?
Spotting a jar of balm of Gilead, Marie quickly slathered it on the girl’s shoulder and chest before wrapping her up in a towel that was so dirty it would have made Sara scream. “Anne? Can you tell me where you live?” Anne rubbed her eyes. “I’m going to take you home to your mother, but I need you to tell me where you live.”
Anne hiccupped and choked but nodded. As gently as she could, Marie picked her up and laid the girl’s small body against her shoulder. For a moment, as she stepped out into the city, she thought she’d walked into a different world. Gunpowder and smoke filled the air, mortars had made gaping holes in the roofs of the nearby buildings, and rubble was strewn about the streets. People were running all around her, trying to get into the hospital to help. This wasn’t the fortress of Louisbourg; it was hell.
With direction from Anne, Marie hurried through the ruined streets as quickly as she could. Anne, it turned out, had sneaked away from home to try to find a friend who she thought was in the hospital. Unable to find her, the young girl was about to leave when the mortar struck.
“Your mother’s going to be sick with worry,” Marie scolded as they rounded a corner. Anne pointed to a home that Marie knew very well. She froze, overcome by fear.
“Is your mother’s name Sophie by chance?” Anne whimpered, “Yes.” Marie suddenly wished she wasn’t delivering Anne back home. “And your father will be Philippe,” Marie mumbled under her breath. Marie hadn’t had much to do with Sophie after Pierre’s disappearance, but she had gone to the wedding. Searching back into her memory, she remembered that Sophie’s oldest was named Anne. Now that she inspected the child, looking for a resemblance, she realized that Anne looked very much like her father, with her sandy curls and large eyes. Sophie, the gossip, was the last person Marie wanted to speak to right now.
She wanted very much to turn and leave the child on the steps, but the look of utter terror on Anne’s face made her realize that wasn’t an option. With a sense of foreboding, Marie knocked on the ornate oak door.
***
Sophie was as striking as ever, with her green eyes and well-coiffed ebony hair. Apart from the frantic worry crossing her face, she looked as if she’d been living in a world apart from the battle—at least until the bombs had started coming right into the city. Sophie pulled open the door, took one look at her daughter, and let out an ear-piercing screech. Without looking at Marie, she pulled Anne into her arms and held her tightly to her chest, tears of joy coursing down her cheeks.
“Oh, Anne,” she repeated over and over again. “Where have you been? I’ve been so worried.”
Hoping that she’d been overlooked during the joyous reunion, Marie tried to beat a hasty retreat.
“Wait!” Sophie cried.
Marie stopped and turned. She saw the shock on Sophie’s face. Obviously, she hadn’t been expecting Marie.
“Marie? What are you doing here?” Anne had snuggled, sobbing, into her mother’s chest.
Marie smiled awkwardly. Sophie had not seen Marie since the night she’d broken her engagement to Jacques, and last she’d heard, Marie was too ill to receive visitors. “Hello,” Marie said, stepping up onto the stoop. “I brought Anne back. She was at the hospital looking for a friend of hers. I’m afraid she’s been badly burned. She’ll pull through, but she’s in pain.”
Sophie looked down at her daughter, horrified. She retreated into the house, calling for Marie to follow. Leaving the door open, Marie reluctantly stepped inside.
Sophie laid her daughter on the sitting-room sofa. She bent over the little form, fussing over her and caressing her while trying to assess the extent of the damage.
Marie peered over her shoulder. Angry blisters were rising on the burn sites, but they would heal. “She’ll be all right, Sophie,” Marie said. “Just continue to apply salve to the burns. They should heal.”
Sophie looked stricken. “What if it leaves a mark?” she asked hysterically. “No one will want to marry her then.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Marie exploded, completely losing her patience. “That’s not important right now. She’s a little girl, Sophie! Just be thankful she’s alive and not maimed! Two mortars hit the hospital this morning! What was she doing there alone?”
Sophie’s eyes grew larger in response. She called for one of her maids, and when she arrived, Sophie pulled Marie into another room—right off the sitting room.
“Two bombs fell on the hospital today?”
Marie wasn’t in the mood to deal with Sophie’s silliness. “Yes. Hit one of the wards.”
“Is anyone hurt?”
Marie laughed, disgusted at the stupidity of the question. “Of course, people were. The hospital’s filled to capacity. How did she get there?”
Sophie looked extremely uncomfortable. “She was friends with the older woman who lived a few houses down. The woman’s dead, but I didn’t want to tell her and upset her, so I told Anne she was sick and in the hospital.”
Marie rolled her eyes. “Why wouldn’t you just tell her the truth?” She pinched the bridge of her nose. It didn’t
surprise her that Sophie wasn’t paying enough attention to her child. That made her even angrier.
Sophie crossed her arms defensively. “The woman killed herself, Marie. What was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know, but maybe keep a better eye on your daughter.”
Sophie looked murderous. “Really? You’re going to judge my parenting, are you? Annette’s been sick with worry about you. She doesn’t know where you are and thinks you’re dying. What have you been doing, since it’s now obvious that you’re not at death’s door?”
“It’s none of Annette’s business,” Marie replied fiercely. “And it isn’t yours either.” She turned to storm out of the house, but Sophie grabbed her arm.
“Where have you been?” Marie tried to untangle her arm from Sophie’s grasp. “Tell me or I’ll tell Claude you’re at the hospital.”
For one brief moment, Marie realized that Sophie knew exactly what had been going on in the Babineaux home. “You little bitch,” she breathed. She wanted to slap her. “All this time, you’ve known what Claude is and you’ve never said a word.”
Sophie looked offended. “Of course, I said things, but what is anyone supposed to do? I knew you weren’t sick. No one believes that story. I don’t blame you for running out on the wedding—but disappearing completely? That’s not fair.”
Marie wanted very much to remind Sophie that her own daughter was lying in the other room, covered in burns, because her mother had lied to her and neglected her, but she bit her tongue. She looked at Sophie full in the face for a long, calculating moment. “You can tell Claude whatever you like.”
Sophie shook her dark curls that had begun to fall out of the complicated arrangement on top of her head. “You weren’t always at the hospital! Claude checked there.”
Marie wanted to believe that Sophie knew this information out of concern and not because of her insatiable desire for gossip. She must have spoken to Annette. “I need to get back,” Marie said quietly, pushing her way out of the room.
Sophie looked scandalized. “Does this have anything to do with Pierre Thibault? I heard he was back.”
Marie stopped, amazed at how many people knew about Pierre when she hadn’t.
“He wouldn’t want you after a broken engagement,” Sophie goaded, trying to get a reaction from Marie. A tiny cry came from the other room.
“Your daughter needs you. Don’t tell anyone you saw me. Please. If Claude finds me, I’m dead.” She doubted Sophie understood the gravity of the situation. She turned on her heel and ran out of the house, ignoring Sophie’s protests.
Marie had given no thought to Claude when she’d rushed out with her little patient, but as she darted through the damaged city, she was suddenly very aware of how vulnerable she would be if she met him. Sophie knew now where Marie was. It was only a matter of time before word got out about where she was.
The fires were out when she returned to the hospital, and with most of the structural damage assessed, engineers and craftsmen were already working to repair the damage. Marie wondered vaguely if Claude and Annette’s home was still untouched by the bombardment.
Only two mortars had hit the building, and most of it was still undamaged. Governor Drucour was standing just outside the entryway, having a heated discussion with a group of priests from the hospital and other officials. Marie paused behind a column at the entrance to listen. From what she could hear, Drucour wanted the hospital evacuated, the patients sent somewhere more secure. Unfortunately, no such place existed.
As Marie slowly stepped around the debating throng, she noticed the dark gleam of the head of Jacques-Xavier de Charlevoix. He hadn’t noticed her, but if he lifted his head, he would easily spot her through the crowd. Heart pounding so loudly she was surprised people couldn’t hear it, Marie darted back the way she had come.
Out of breath and face flushed with anxiety, she circled the complex and entered into a corridor through a side entrance. No one had followed her, so she must be safe for the time being. Sister Berenice was pacing up and down the length of the corridor, muttering violently to herself.
Upon laying eyes on Marie, the nun exploded. “Where have you been?” she roared.
Marie stopped short. She hadn’t realized she would be missed. “There was a little girl here, Anne. She was burned in the bombing. I treated her and then found out that she was here alone, so I took her home.” She fiddled nervously with the pockets on her smock. She had never seen Sister Berenice so agitated. It was an impressive sight.
The nun stopped and took several deep breaths. “We’ve been trying to make an account of everyone, and you were the only one missing. Next time, tell someone before you decide to run off.”
Marie felt it was best not to argue and nodded meekly.
Sister Berenice pulled herself up to her full, not inconsiderable height. “Now, I must warn you that my nephew is here with the Governor while everyone tries to sort out how to deal with the situation.” She threw a contemptuous look at the wall as if it were responsible for the present situation. “You need to be inconspicuous until he leaves, which, God willing, will be soon. I’m dealing with enough today. I’m not dealing with him too.”
Marie didn’t have a problem with that. She’d already dodged her former fiancé once and didn’t want to have to do that again. Meeting up with Jacques wouldn’t be much better than running into Claude.
“Do you know where I can find Sara?” Marie asked. “I need to talk to her.”
The nun’s eyes softened immediately. “Follow me,” she said quietly.
She led Marie back out of the hospital into the courtyard. A bomb had landed there as well, but the damage was more superficial than in the building. Most of the garden had been blown away and the walls peppered with mud and missing a good number of stones, but the officials weren’t coming here. Along the far wall, Marie could see three long bundles wrapped in white sheets. She stopped immediately. Sister Berenice looked back at her. She didn’t say a word but just nodded.
Marie didn’t move. She didn’t want to go any closer. A lump was growing in her throat that she couldn’t swallow. She didn’t care which one was Sara. The thought of the feisty, young aspirant lying there, cold and lifeless, was almost more than she could bear.
“They’re not going to stop.” Sister Berenice’s voice quivered as she stepped back toward Marie. “They’ll even kill nuns. What is this?”
Marie put a reassuring hand on her arm. It was true. The hospital spire clearly marked where the hospital was. It wasn’t an accident that they’d been bombed. The British didn’t care who was killed; Louisbourg would be theirs.
Sister Berenice stood a moment longer in silence and then turned back to the building. “I am needed. Say your goodbyes. But remember that the living still need you.” She walked away quickly, leaving Marie alone with the corpses.
***
Drucour and his minions left shortly after Marie was shown the remains of her friend. He had left frustrated that the hospital could not be housed at another location. That brought up an even more sobering issue. The decision to capitulate was one that Drucour alone could make. It was the 9th of July. So far, the siege had lasted only a month, and already he knew they could not drive off the British. Already they were running out of cannonballs and gunpowder. They had tried to plan for this, but the British were proving to be too much.
The situation in the hospital was not improving. Though it was spared any more damage, bombs were falling even more frequently all around the city. And since the hospital had been hit once, people no longer thought of it as a sanctuary but as a more dangerous target than people’s homes. Everywhere she turned, Marie found panic along with illness and injury. No one felt safe within the walls. She tried her best to stay upbeat but felt her nerves rubbed raw. For every person she could help, there were two more who could not be helped.
The evening sun slanted through the windows, bathing everything in orange. Marie had been assisting two soldiers w
ho had come in with bullet wounds, both to the stomach. One had expired almost as soon as he’d been laid down in front of her, but the other had bled to death as she’d tried vainly to staunch the flow of blood with her hands. After he was gone, Marie screamed at him to wake up, pounding on his chest. Father Laval had pulled her away, trying to stop the scene.
Close to tears, she went out into the courtyard and sat down on the outside stoop leading to the kitchen. She felt utterly hopeless. Her hands were still stained with the blood of the dead soldier, and bombs were falling without mercy. So many people had died in the last few hours that the courtyard was completely covered in rows of corpses bundled in white sheets. She laid her head on her knees, unsure whether she would ever have the strength to walk back into the hospital. How many more lives would end before Britain was finally victorious?
Just then, she felt a large, warm hand on her back as its owner settled his weight on the stoop beside her. It was Pierre. She leaned toward him and snuggled her head against his warm shoulder. The tears began and wouldn’t stop. The dead soldiers, Sara, Nic, Anne—they all flashed before her eyes. Pierre lifted her onto his lap and stroked her back softly, murmuring reassurances into her ear as she shook in his arms.
For the first time that day, she allowed all her fear and despair to come to the surface. Pierre said nothing but gently rocked her until there were no tears left. Then she raised her head to look at him for the first time. He smiled sadly and pushed the damp hairs away from her face.
“I came as soon as I heard about the hospital, which was apparently hours after it happened.” He held her tightly as if he could prevent another bomb from reaching her. “I’ve never been so scared as I was on the trip here.”
Marie stroked his hair, covered in sweat and dirt from the battlefield. She could tell him what she felt. He wouldn’t judge her. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”
