by Frieda Watt
Now only two ships were left.
No one had let him out of the tent, but he’d heard the reports, the bragging of the British officers as they laughed at the misfortune of those trapped inside the ship. How the people in the fortress were surviving was unknown. Pierre had seen the fortress a few weeks before as he and Marie were fleeing and couldn’t imagine anything still standing.
Two days later, the King’s Bastion, the largest building in the colony and the symbol of French power at the tip of the continent, was hit by a hot shot and caught fire. Men had rushed to put out the fire, but the British had simply gunned them down.
The walls were crumbling, and every cannon blast sent more of the ramparts cascading to the ground. It was the first siege all over again. There was so little ammunition left that as the King’s Bastion burned, the French had scooped up the British cannonballs and shot them back from where they’d come.
Pierre burned with anger at the British for destroying his city and his people. He could hear some of the soldiers placing bets and laughing as the plumes of smoke rose above the walls. He was also furious at Governor Drucour, who kept the fortress fighting. Pierre had heard that the hospital had been hit several more times and was sick with relief that Marie wasn’t there. But why hadn’t Drucour surrendered? Louisbourg wasn’t just a military base. There were civilians in the fortress, including women and children, who shouldn’t be exposed to any more bombardments. He had heard the British casualty numbers were fewer than 150 men, but more than three times that many civilians had died in Louisbourg.
He had woken up early that morning of July 26th, still in the tent. The last two warships in Louisbourg harbour had either been captured or burned the day before. He could see the mist swirling near the ground through the canvas flaps of the tent entrance. Something was different. Mornings were always filled with the thundering of rolling cannons and soldiers running to and fro. Three nights before, the British had dropped three hundred mortars on the town. The air was still choked with the thick smoke from the fires and explosions of that bombardment. But this morning, there was a current, like a spark, running through the crowd of soldiers he knew were only feet away outside the tent. Something had happened.
He waited, heart in his throat. Finally, he heard it: the scream of the crowd growing louder and closer. The shouts of victory. Louisbourg had fallen into British hands for a second time.
A Redcoat entered the tent. His face was unreadable. He stood over Pierre, a thin smile spreading across his face. “They finally surrendered.” He spoke in perfect French.
Pierre closed his eyes and bowed his head in silent prayer. The people had nothing left. They’d lasted six weeks—much longer than Pierre thought they would and long enough to protect Quebec from an assault that year. But four thousand civilians as well as the garrison were now at the mercy of the victorious British army.
Keep her safe, Pierre prayed. And she was safe. At least from whatever was about to unfold within the walls of the city.
***
The last time he’d looked at Louisbourg, Pierre had believed he would never see it again. Yet here he sat, in a jail cell in the King’s Bastion, shackled to the wall by his ankles. Captain Smith, a weasel-faced British officer who had taken an unfortunate interest in Pierre’s fate, had happily informed him that he would stay here until the ships arrived for the deportation. Deportation to France was one of the better options available to the townspeople.
As long as Pierre stayed alone in the cell, he was relatively safe. No member of the French government had come to claim him. Maybe he would be forgotten. He stretched out on the stone floor with nothing but a little straw strewn over it for comfort. Montreal had been worse. At least here, no one was pestering him.
The city lay in ruins and the citizens were humiliated in defeat. The garrison was livid that Drucour had capitulated when they still had fight in them, while the civilians had begged him for weeks to spare them from the ongoing destruction. Having satisfied no one, Drucour now had the unenviable task of trying to broker a peaceful transition with the conquerors. It wasn’t going well. In less than two days, there had been several riots as well as fights breaking out between the warring factions of French and British.
The upper storeys of the King’s Bastion stood charred, the remains smouldering from a lone cannonball that had started a fire in the last days. They had never stood a chance. Being outnumbered and abandoned by France, it had only been a matter of time before the fortress would be captured.
The deportations would start soon. If Pierre was allowed to board one of the boats without the French discovering his identity, he had a chance of making it to Quebec. As a colonist by birth, he would be the perfect person to send there to fight. But all he cared about was to get there to Marie.
A guard came down the hall. It was the man Anderson. Pierre hadn’t seen him since he’d come to deliver him the news about Marie. He looked very uncomfortable. Unfortunately, Anderson wasn’t alone. Whoever accompanied the British soldier was important and French. He was dressed in the muted blue of the French uniform, but it wasn’t dirty and covered in the grime of battle like the uniforms of the rest of the soldiers. The thin officer stared down his hooked nose at Pierre without saying anything. Pierre stared defiantly back.
“Who are you?” Pierre asked, as it seemed the visitor was in no hurry to speak.
“My name is Joseph Esprit des Groseilliers. I am the Intendant here.”
Pierre kept his face impassive, but he realized he was in trouble. The Intendant answered only to the Governor, whom he assumed was busy dealing with the fallout of the defeat. Groseilliers was obviously here to find out who he was. Unfortunately, Groseilliers would have known Claude and the circumstances surrounding his death.
“May I ask who you are?” Groseilliers asked delicately. Something about his sneer made Pierre guess that he already knew the answer.
Pierre stared straight ahead of him, refusing to acknowledge the official.
Groseilliers waved Anderson away and moved closer to the bars. “I asked you who you are, soldier,” he said in a dangerous voice. “And I suggest you tell me before I have you hanged.”
So he knew he was a soldier, Pierre thought miserably, still not looking at him.
“You escaped,” Groseilliers announced. “But you didn’t desert to the British.”
Pierre nodded. “I had information from Deiter Weber, a priest, to give to Montcalm. That’s why I left.”
He could see that this information surprised the official. However, he was able to cover the shock almost immediately.
“I see,” he said uncertainly. “And may I ask where this information is presently?”
“My wife has it. She is on her way to Quebec as we speak.” Hopefully.
Groseilliers’s dark eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid … forgive me, but I find that story to be a tad unbelievable.”
“Go ask Father Weber. He can tell you.”
A nasty smile played over the Intendant’s thin lips. “Deiter Weber died three days ago. I’m afraid you’ll find there’s no one to back up this lovely little story of yours.”
“I didn’t desert,” Pierre said flatly.
Groseilliers ignored him. “Your name. May I suggest that you cooperate with me before I make your life difficult.”
Pierre gave a hollow laugh but didn’t answer.
“There’s a murderer wanted. He killed a man before the fortress fell.” Pierre didn’t move. “Matches your description: tall and yellow haired, a soldier. There was a woman with him. An accomplice, so to speak. She was the niece of the man who was killed.” Pierre’s throat was very dry. The muscles in his throat were constricting. “It would be a shame if word made it to Quebec that she was wanted in connection with murder.”
“Leave her out of this,” he growled, springing to his feet. He knew Groseilliers was trying to goad him into confessing, but his nerves were stretched thin as it was. He stared at Groseilliers’s face
through the bars, mere inches from his own, chest heaving with emotion.
Groseilliers grinned wickedly, showing crooked yellow teeth. “Your name then.”
“Leave my wife out of it,” Pierre hissed.
Groseilliers looked slightly amused. “You’re in no position to be making demands, soldier.”
“You’re going to hang me either way.”
Groseilliers considered Pierre for a moment. If Groseilliers had known Claude, he must think Pierre a monster.
“Please,” Pierre begged. “Leave my wife out of this.”
The muscles around the Intendant’s dark eyes softened slightly. “Fine.”
“Pierre Thibault.”
Groseilliers showed no emotion but simply nodded. “Excellent.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked out.
Pierre slumped against the wall. He had tried so hard to protect his identity from the British and had been successful for the most part, but now the truth would be known. Deserter, murderer, and whatever else Claude had told Groseilliers while he was still alive.
The hours ticked by. He watched the sun travel past the window opposite his cell. Night fell, but still no one came. Staring at the small patch of sky, he could see a few twinkling lights in the darkness. The murder of a dead French official wouldn’t be of great importance to the British. They were too busy trying to quell the anarchy in the streets. However, he had no doubt they would happily comply with the hanging of a French soldier. After all, one more dead Frenchman was one less Frenchman the British needed to worry about.
He must have drifted off because when he opened his eyes, it was noon of the next day. Captain Smith arrived in front of his cell, a look of ecstasy on his face that couldn’t mean anything good. Pierre had hoped for the familiar face of Anderson, but he wasn’t there.
Smith thrust a document through the bars of the cell. “Can you read?” It was almost impossible to determine what he said through the merriment in his voice. “You hang tomorrow. Make an example of you, they will. People won’t be so keen on rebellion when they know we’ll hang ’em.”
Pierre didn’t pick up the document until he heard the door bang shut behind the Captain. He couldn’t read English, but that didn’t matter. No trial, just a decision by someone to exterminate him. Obviously, the new regime was more than happy to comply with the French in this regard. He thought of Marie. The beauty of her face swam before his eyes. He curled into a corner, rested his head against the wall, and finally broke down.
***
Pierre sat in a corner of his cell with his head leaning against the wall. It had been a long day. The waiting was the worst part. He wished they would just get it over with. So many times before, in battles scattered across the continent, he had thought he would die, and yet he had survived them all only to be hanged here in the fortress—the place he once called home and thought of as a refuge.
All the other cells along the hall were empty. It did surprise him that tonight of all nights there were no rebels locked away with him. He would like to have heard the stories they had to tell. But, no, he was alone on his last night. Alone with his thoughts. Always thinking of Marie, to keep her with him until the end.
He could hear Anderson shuffling around down the hall. The man was on guard for the night, the officials not realizing the two of them had a connection. Pierre wished the man would be quieter. It wasn’t the noise of a bored man trying to occupy himself, but the anxious movement of someone grappling with an inner demon.
Finally, Pierre had had enough and he called out, “What’s the matter, Anderson? Never guarded a dead man before?”
Silence followed and Pierre leaned back, satisfied.
Suddenly the pale, pointed face of Anderson appeared at the bars. Pierre was so startled he slumped right down to the floor.
“What the hell! Do you not make noise?” Pierre shouted.
Anderson looked at him with concern in his eyes. Pierre found it irritating and turned away. But Anderson continued to stare as if Pierre was some sort of spectacle at the market. Annoyed, Pierre rounded on him, feeling very much like a caged animal. “What do you want?”
Anderson sucked in a deep breath. “I-want-to-know-why-you-killed-that-man,” he said so quickly Pierre didn’t catch it.
“Excuse?”
“I want to know why you killed that man. The one they’re hanging you for.”
Pierre took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He cracked the knuckles in his left hand. “What do you care?”
Anderson looked terribly embarrassed, his entire face turning a deep crimson. “Well, it’s just …” He fumbled with the words, looking down at his scuffed boots. “You saved my life years ago, an enemy British prisoner. I don’t understand why you would save my life but kill one of your countrymen in cold blood.”
Pierre snorted. “You really think I’m that noble? Besides, I didn’t save your life.”
Anderson bobbed up and down on his toes waiting for an answer. He looked so ridiculous that Pierre laughed unkindly.
He just wanted to be left alone. Alone with his memories. Anderson was annoying him, but if the guard would leave him alone, there was no harm in telling the story now. It would all be over soon.
“It was my wife’s uncle,” he stated blandly, staring directly into Anderson’s pale eyes. “The man I killed. He abused her and I caught him doing it again. I killed him for what he did to her and was going to continue doing as long as he was alive.” He glanced away from Anderson, who looked enthralled by the few sentences.
Pierre shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. “Her uncle put me in the army and in prison.”
“Was she worth it?” Anderson wasn’t being an idiot. He really meant it.
Pierre stared at the wall. He had mentioned Marie to no one since they were separated on their way to Baie des Espagnols, and he didn’t want to mention her now.
“There’s been no account of a woman being found in the woods by anyone,” Anderson said quietly. Pierre began to chew the inside of his cheek. “There were still patrols after the scouts came back. A lone woman, that’s something that would have got around.” This conversation didn’t mean anything, and Pierre knew it. He would never see her again—and would never see his child. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
Anderson continued to stand at the bars, and Pierre continued to ignore him. Marie could be anywhere. He hoped and prayed with all his heart that she was on a ship to Quebec, but a small part of his brain always brought an image of her dead to his mind.
“She was pregnant.” It was out of his mouth before he even thought about it. His eyes burned, and he turned away.
Anderson paced up and down the hallway. Pierre turned back to his corner and tried to bring Marie back to him. Keep her safe, he prayed again. He closed his eyes, remembering her chestnut hair and her wide hazel eyes that sparkled with laughter.
A few minutes later, Anderson was back, having abandoned his pacing. He nodded to himself as if something difficult had fallen into place. Pierre cracked one eye open but said nothing. He heard the rattle of keys and the whining of moving metal as Anderson unlocked the door to his cell and opened it.
Pierre didn’t move from his spot. “What are you doing?”
Anderson fidgeted for a moment, unable to keep still. “You saved my life.”
Pierre scoffed. “I did no such thing.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t. I stopped someone from taking out your eye and even then, I didn’t do a very good job. He wouldn’t have killed you. I’m sure the guards would have intervened eventually.”
Anderson laughed bitterly and shook his head. “Not for a filthy Englishman, they wouldn’t,” he sighed. “I owe you my life. I can’t stand by and watch them hang you.”
“If they find out you helped me escape, they’ll hang you.”
Anderson shrugged. “Only if they find that out.” There was silence for a while.
“How are they not
going to find out?” Pierre was torn. He didn’t want to be held responsible for the death of Anderson, but if freedom was being offered to him, he was going to take it. He studied Anderson carefully. The Englishman seemed determined. “What are you suggesting?”
“I can only get you out of the fortress. After that, you’re on your own.”
Pierre thought for a moment. He had no food, no money, and only his shirt and breeches for clothes. He was battered and wounded from his captivity, but he had to try. He owed Marie that much. Besides, it would be better to die under the stars in the open than by a hangman’s noose.
“I got off the island once before. That wasn’t the problem.”
Anderson unlocked the shackles and went back to his pacing. Pierre stood in the open doorway, scarcely hoping that they would be successful in this plot.
Anderson stopped at the other end of the corridor, his face illuminated by one of the torches on the wall. “All of the patrols are stationed on the northeast and south sides,” he called down to Pierre. “If you go northwest, you should be fine.”
“Are you sure?” Pierre had no desire for further run-ins with British patrols.
“The battle’s won, mate,” Anderson reminded him. “We’re all under British law now. Just keep your head down.”
Pierre didn’t have to be told twice.
“Do you know how far the closest settlement is?” he asked. “One that the British didn’t destroy?”
Anderson thought for a moment. “At least thirty miles northeast.”
Pierre bit his lip. That was at least nine hours on foot. But he could do it as long as no one spotted him.
Anderson hesitated for a moment. “Follow me.” He grabbed the torch and threw it into a puddle of water. Then he took hold of its brass holder and bashed it against the lock on the bars, over and over until the lock bent. “There, now that’s damaged.”
Impressed by his thinking, Pierre followed as closely behind as possible.
The fortress was empty in the darkness, a curfew had been implemented in an attempt to contain some of the tension that had arisen between victor and conquered. Anderson and Pierre went away from the centre of the city toward Queen’s Gate. The gate stood open, with two guards standing lazily by.
