The Displaced

by Frieda Watt

  “Say nothing.”

  Pierre nodded. It wasn’t hard. His heart was pounding in his throat.

  The soldiers perked up as Pierre and Anderson drew closer. “What’s going on?” one of them asked. Both men smelled strongly of drink. At least the blame for his escape could easily be placed on more than one Redcoat.

  “I’m taking this man to the cemetery,” Anderson said with a great deal of authority for such a low-ranking soldier. Pierre wanted to point out that the cemetery was on Rochefort Point, through the Maurepas Gate, but none of the British seemed aware of this. “Why?” The guard on the left spat on the ground. “The dead are already gone. They should be buried within the hour.”

  Anderson sighed impatiently. “I know that. He was away when his son’s body was taken. He never got to see it.” This excuse had a ring of prophecy to it that made Pierre deeply uncomfortable. He tried his best to look like a grieving father, and that wasn’t difficult, given his current state of mind.

  The guards turned away impatiently. They didn’t have time to deal with grieving Frenchmen. “Good of you to take him,” the one muttered and then looked away, as if afraid he would be called upon to join in the grief.

  As soon as they were out of sight of the guards, Anderson stopped. “This is where I leave you. Most of the troops have either left or are in the fortress, but be careful. There are still two camps out here.” He pointed in their directions. “Also, there are still soldiers around. I can’t promise the patrols are exactly where I said they were. If anyone asks, you’re going home after foraging for food. I say less than an hour before your absence is noticed.”

  Pierre nodded and looked across the fields. There was very little cover until the safety of the forests, and the forests were a distance away. Sensing his hesitation, Anderson shrugged off his coat. “Wear this. They won’t look twice at you from a distance.”

  Pierre held the thick, woollen fabric in his hands. “Why are you doing this?”

  Anderson grinned. “You saved my life once. In a different time, we were friends. That counts for something.”

  Pierre nodded. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  Anderson’s smile widened. “I need you to do one thing for me.”

  At this point, Pierre was willing to give him anything.

  “Knock me out.”

  Pierre scoffed.

  “I’m serious. I’ll tell them you escaped and made off with my coat when I tried to stop you. You’re a big guy. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

  Pierre laughed. “You save my neck and in return you want a broken face.”

  “It’ll save my neck.” Anderson glanced behind them. “We’re running out of time.”

  “Thank you,” Pierre said sincerely as he raised his fists.

  “Go find your wife.”

  Pierre nodded and threw a right hook into Anderson’s bad side. The soldier grunted and stumbled. Pierre waited for him to recover before knocking him out with a blow under the chin.

  “I’m really sorry, Anderson,” he said, standing over the unmoving form. Then, with one final look behind, he ran off into the darkness.

  ***

  The capital’s harbour lay before her, shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. After the demolished harbour of the fortress, this seemed picturesque enough to have been a painting. She hadn’t been here since she was a child and was whisked away to the strange land of Île-Royale. She had thought she might remember something, some long-forgotten memories that would resurface now that she was actually in Quebec, but there were no memories—only the strange newness of a bustling city.

  The air smelled clean, with only fresh air coming off the water. She didn’t realize what a difference several hundred pounds of salted cod could make. Everything was so modern and well kept here—unlike the fortress, which was, first of all, a fortress and not a terribly prosperous one at that. Function came before form every time.

  After almost six weeks at sea, Marie was exhausted and very weak, but she did somehow remember the route to her uncle’s house. Annette used to talk a lot about the city and how she used to walk from place to place. After a longish walk and doubling back when she missed a turn, Marie finally arrived at Uncle Joseph’s two-storey stone cottage. It looked the same as it always had, with its patchwork garden surrounded by the short wooden fence that couldn’t even keep the rabbits out.

  Marie knocked and entered the house. It was as still and silent as a crypt.

  “Hello?” she called, moving toward the kitchen at the back. “Anyone home?”

  A round, pink face peered around the corner. The full white cap on top of the woman’s head gave her the appearance of a mushroom. “Who are you?” she demanded, wiping her hands on her apron. “You can’t just walk in here!”

  “Are you Madame Guitton?” Marie asked, concerned that her legs would give out soon.

  Madame Guitton nodded but looked ready to tackle her.

  “I’m Marie Lévesque …” Before she could go any further, the housekeeper’s mouth had dropped into a large “O.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she gushed, rushing forward. “Your brother wrote to tell me you’d be coming, but I completely forgot. Come here. You look dead on your feet.” She led Marie over to a cushioned armchair by the empty fireplace. “I haven’t seen you since you were a little girl. You look so much like your mother.”

  It wasn’t true, but Marie appreciated the sentiment. She collapsed, feeling weaker than she had ever felt in her life. She was dirty, starving, and exhausted.

  Madame Guitton hovered nearby. “My dear, you finally escaped.”

  Marie leaned her head back against the chair. Yes, she’d escaped, but the story she hadn’t told Madame Guitton was far more complicated than that.

  ***

  It was September 13th before Pierre arrived in Quebec. As he stepped off the boat, he knew for sure that he was no longer on Île-Royale, as the wind was completely devoid of the scent of cod. He smiled as the fresh air hit his face. Louisbourg was finally behind him. He tried his best not to think of what he would do if he discovered that Marie had not made it.

  It had taken over a fortnight to find anyone on the island willing to speak to him. He had had to burn Anderson’s coat to prove he really wasn’t British military. Then, finally, he found a fisherman in a far-flung part of Île-Royale by the name of Charles Daniau. He’d agreed to take Pierre to Quebec only because he was fleeing from the invaders himself. Pierre had nothing to offer in exchange for the journey. The deportations had started, and Daniau had no intention of being a part of them.

  Despite his pessimistic attitude and crusty exterior, Pierre quite liked the man. Daniau, in turn, had been enthralled by Pierre’s stories from the army, his escape, and his return to Louisbourg. In Daniau’s tiny boat, the journey had been treacherous and its captain swore they would never make it. But eventually, they arrived in the bustling harbour of the capital, soaking wet and starving.

  Daniau left Pierre as soon as they passed the first tavern. They’d run out of spirits after a week and the lack of alcohol had almost done the old seaman in. Pierre stood on the road, unsure of where to go. If Marie had arrived, she would have known no one in the city. He assumed she would have gone to her uncle’s house, but he had no idea where that was. He could search for Tomas, but he had no desire to deal with his family at the moment. He wanted his wife.

  Dominique Renault was the only name that came to mind. If nothing else, Renault could tell him the address of Marie’s Uncle Joseph. So he headed over to see his former employer. When he arrived at the office, it looked as unchanged as ever. The spacious apartment above the office that he knew so well still had the ugly blue curtains in the window. The bell tinkled as he pushed open the door. For a moment, he stood in the doorway, silently appreciating the stillness and faint scent of ink and paper. His heart ached as the memories came flooding back, the life he had had here that was stolen from him.

  Renault was sitting behind his desk, in t
he same position he could always be found. He looked much older now, his hair and chin mostly white. His back had begun to bend with the arthritis and his hands looked almost useless, although there was a quill clutched in the right one. He sat open-mouthed, gazing at the visitor for some time until speech returned to him.

  Then he stood up so quickly that he knocked his chair over. As speedily as he could, he crossed the room and threw his arms around Pierre in a bear hug. “You’re alive!”

  For one brief moment, Pierre thought that his fate had never been communicated to his mentor.

  “Marie was sure you were dead.” Renault released him, holding him at arm’s length, his yellow eyes sparkling.

  “She’s here?” It felt too good to be true.

  Renault nodded.

  Pierre’s strength finally gave out. Renault helped him onto a nearby chair. “It’s all right son,” he said quietly.

  Pierre hung his head down as relief washed over him. Renault waited quietly, with one hand on his shoulder. “I can take you to her. She’s staying at her uncle’s place.”

  Pierre cleared his throat and looked around the room.

  “How is she?”

  Renault continued to keep his hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “The journey didn’t go well, and the pregnancy seems to be making life very difficult for her. She was very ill and lost a great deal of weight.”

  Pierre began to stand in alarm, but the old lawyer kept him seated. “She’s been recovering very well since she arrived. There’s nothing to fear.”

  “Can you take me to her?” Now that he knew she was alive, he had little interest in anything else.

  Renault smiled kindly. He knew better than to suggest food or a change of clothes. “Of course, follow me.”

  ***

  Joseph Dumas lived on the other side of the Upper Town, so it was a bit of a walk, but that gave Pierre and Renault time to catch up. Pierre asked the Procurator General about the preparations and defences that Quebec had in place.

  Renault sighed heavily. “What you see around you is what has been prepared.”

  The city looked the same as it ever did. Pierre gave Renault a questioning look.

  “I have spoken to Marie at length about the siege at Louisbourg and what went on in the last days. The other leaders, Montcalm, Vaudreuil, and Bigot, will want to have an official statement from her, but I thought this best given her fragile state.” He paused. “I am aware of the terrible situation Louisbourg was in before the siege ever started. Goodness knows France was no help to you. But there is a feeling among a great deal of the population here that a stronger people could have lasted longer and could possibly have been victorious.”

  Pierre felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Renault nodded sadly.

  “But how could they?”

  Renault continued walking at his slow, steady pace. “These people have not seen war in many decades, and there are few who remember the violence of the last attack. You experienced this last time you came here. The citizens of Quebec know nothing of the horrors of the island and choose not to believe much of what they do hear …”

  Pierre didn’t say anything for a long time. Renault finally broke the silence.

  “I know nothing of what you intend to do now that you are here. I know Marie has given information to Montcalm, but that was the extent of her plans.” Uncle Joseph’s house was now in view. Renault stopped, wanting to finish before Pierre left him.

  “I never hired another assistant. You are welcome back at any time.”

  Pierre nodded. “There are some things you may want to know first, though.”

  The lawyer smiled. “Your wife told me all. I think you will find a very capable lawyer if you ever wish to fight those charges.”

  Pierre chuckled.

  “Now go see your wife. You know where to find me.”

  Without thinking, Pierre threw open the door, calling Marie’s name. The young maid standing on the other side of the room screamed in alarm. Apologizing profusely and explaining who he was didn’t seem to help the situation. But Madame Guitton finally arrived on the scene and sorted the problem out.

  “She told me you were dead.” There was a hint of accusation in her voice that made Pierre want to point out that his current circumstances weren’t a bad thing.

  “Well, I survived, and I would like to see my wife,” he said bluntly, matching her sour tone.

  After looking around the house for Marie, the housekeeper and the maid concluded that she was out. Where, no one had any idea. She had a tendency to wander around the city at times. Pierre grumbled under his breath.

  While he waited, he cleaned himself up somewhat and then accepted food from the still suspicious housekeeper. Unable to sit still, he left a note for Marie in case she returned while he was gone. Then he let himself out, full of frustration and nervous energy.

  It felt incredibly immoral and naïve that life had continued along as normal here in Quebec. The people of Acadia had been deported and Louisbourg lay in ruins, her inhabitants’ future uncertain at best. Quebec was next as the British prepared to focus on the capturing of the capital. Yet life still went on, the streets teeming with people going about their daily lives, unconcerned about or unaware that the British forces would be invading within a year.

  Worse still, Pierre doubted that Montcalm and the others would take the situation seriously. If they couldn’t see the loss of Louisbourg for what it really was, how could they possibly protect the rest of New France? Pierre kept on storming his way through the city, trying to calm down. He turned down streets blindly, paying no attention to where he was going.

  Suddenly, he found her sitting by the well in the square of Place Royale, a basket of food lying at her feet. He felt his breath catch in his throat as he paused at the corner, staring at her as she sat, taking in the city around her. She looked healthy, but he could detect lines of strain around her mouth and eyes. There were also dark circles under her eyes that only appeared when she hadn’t had enough sleep. Her hand dropped to the tiny swelling of her belly—his child. He watched in amazement as she crooned and stroked her stomach, utterly unaware of the world.

  Pierre knew that she wouldn’t survive the three-month trip to France until after the child was born, and that wouldn’t be happening until early spring. Once the ice melted, though, it would be too late to leave. By then, the British navy would be descending on them. And there was no escape.

  Marie spotted him then, a look of utter amazement on her face. He smiled shyly and waved. An empire hung in the balance, but they would be forgotten in history as the high-placed heroes and villains played their roles, fighting to control New France.

  For one mad moment, he wanted to take her and run, away from all this, to the dangers of the wilderness, away from the politics, desires for personal glory, and war. But the conflict would find them. It would find every soul in the country.

  Marie stood up with such haste that she knocked over the basket at her feet. She left it there, though, not caring about anything except Pierre. She pushed her way through the mass of people between them, crying out his name as she went. Then she flung herself into his arms. As he lifted her off the ground, he felt her tears mix with his own and their child pressed hard against his stomach. He lowered her slowly to the ground, unwilling to let go.

  Their fate was sealed.

  The End.

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  Maps

  Map 1: Po
rt of Louisbourg

  Map 2: Louisbourg

  Regarding the maps of Louisbourg: PD-1923 This work is in the public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 100 years or less. This file has been identified as being free of known restrictions under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights.

  Acknowledgments

  First, I would like to thank my Mom and Dad for bravely packing three kids in the back of a station wagon and driving us across the country to see what makes Canada so great. That trip to Cape Breton Island really impacted me. Thank you to my longsuffering editor Kathryn Dean, your advice has made me a better writer and this book so much more interesting. Thank you to Nancy Grove for reading the very first rough draft and for the research books. Thank you to my children, Grace, Laura and Emma for being patient when inspiration struck, during the many trips to the library and for eating pancakes for dinner. Finally, thank you to Stuart for all your love and support. I could not have done it without you.