The New Land

by The New Land (retail) (epub)

  “Oh, Ursula,” she said, dropping her head. “I’m so frightened. If only one letter had come.”

  Ursula took her arm. “We must go.”

  The guards rowed with energy, but the passengers were quiet with anxiety. At the landing, the settlers buzzed, their eyes on Armstrong’s skiff as it left his coaster. He had come only twice that summer. He must have news.

  From a hundred yards away, Armstrong waved his hat and shouted words they couldn’t make out. When he had halved the distance from shore, he called again, “Louisbourg’s fallen! Louisbourg’s fallen!”

  The settlers forgot their fatigue and hunger. They cheered, called thanks to God, held their arms skyward. Walther circled the crowd, screaming and blowing the new whistle Leichter had made for him, Hanna just behind with hers. Christiane blinked nervously and kissed Franklin. She held him tight and waited.

  When the grinning Armstrong reached the dock, the cheers came again. Brandishing a letter, he walked quickly to Leichter, who broke the seal and scanned it. He stepped up on the dock and held his arms out for quiet.

  “This is from General Waldo in Louisbourg,” Leichter said in German, then waved to Nungesser to come forward. “The letter’s in English, so I’ll read it that way, and Herr Nungesser will translate.”

  He cleared his throat and began. The men and women, eager for each word, inched forward. Waldo began with a description of the military campaign. The landing on the shore, the bombardment, the fighting, the burning fleet, the final surrender. Christiane heard the words, understanding the English, then the German. But what of their men? What of Johann?

  “The men from Broad Bay,” Leichter read, “have fought with honor and bravery.” When Nungesser translated the sentence, many heads bobbed. Tears tracked down cheeks. Christiane thought her knees might give way. “They landed with the first troops and were with the opening assault. They skirmished successfully against the enemy and were stout workmen for digging the works for our cannon.” The tension tightened as Nungesser translated. What of their men?

  “I am sad to report that the valiant Wilhelm Koch will not come home. We buried him on a hill here on Cape Breton Island with other soldiers who died for King George.” All eyes turned to Frau Koch, a small woman with a steady disposition who had lived alone since the rangers had left for Louisbourg. Two women went to her.

  “The other Broad Bay rangers,” Leichter began again, “though they may have been wounded or sickened, will return.” Christiane dropped to her knees. Blind with tears, she hugged Franklin. “We do not know when,” Leichter read. “The fortress must be occupied and defended, and the regular troops will move on to attack Quebec. I hope they will be home before the winter, but we do not know if they will be.”

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” Walther asked. She reached for him, then for Hanna.

  “Nothing’s wrong, lambie. Papa will come home. Just as he said he would.”

  The settlers lingered on the shore, digesting the news. A woman called out to Leichter. “Is this peace?” Another shouted, “Can we move out of the stockades and back to our farms?” A man answered, “Yes, it’s all over now. We’ve won. We can move back.”

  Leichter held up his hands. He switched back to German. “This is a wonderful victory,” he said. “I expect that our trade will be better, since the French privateers have lost their home in Louisbourg.” He looked at Armstrong, who nodded in agreement, though he understood no German. “But the war is not over. The king’s troops are going to attack Quebec. There is no word of a peace between Britain and France.” The people stood silently, taking in the deflating words. “No, we may not move out of the stockades. Nothing has changed the danger we face. The Indians—especially the Indians—haven’t been defeated.”

  By dinnertime, the settlers regained their spirits. A great victory. The men coming home. In a community that had known so little good news for so long, this required a celebration. Leichter organized a bonfire. The women planned a supper of potato soup, fish, and sauerkraut. Heinrich Weber promised to bring out his barley beer, with small portions for the children.

  Christiane, feeling lighthearted, cut potatoes for the soup with Sigrid. “Where’s your mother?” she asked.

  Sigrid pulled a lock of hair from her face with her smallest finger and tucked it behind her ear. She’s old enough to wear a cap, Christiane thought. “Mama says she’s not feeling well.”

  Christiane put down her knife and picked up Franklin. She found Ursula in her room, combing the hair of her younger girl, Herta. Christiane sat facing them. “You all have such beautiful hair,” she said. Herta giggled, then squirmed as her mother started her braids.

  “Won’t you help with the soup?” Christiane asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Ursula said.

  “I should have thought of you, out there.” Ursula kept braiding the little girl’s hair. “But you don’t want to miss this. There will be singing and maybe even dancing around the fire.”

  “Dancing, Mama?” the little girl said. “Like princesses do?”

  “Yes, dear, though we have no ballroom for our dancing.” She finished the braid and tied it off with a piece of red ribbon that had faded to pink.

  “Can I dance?” Herta asked.

  “Yes, you may dance all night.”

  After the girl had left, Christiane said, “And you may dance all night also.”

  Ursula shook her head. “You know how people talk.”

  “They will talk whether you dance or you don’t.”

  “I can’t have people calling me a whore when Sigrid is just coming into her age. What family will let their son marry her?”

  Christiane giggled. “If you mean Maggie McDonnell, there’s no one less likely to call you that, or to talk behind your back. She says you and Herr Leichter should marry.” She grabbed her friend’s hand when she saw the unhappiness in her face. “But tonight, just come be with us. We’ll eat and sing and give thanks, and dance if we wish. Let Sigrid and Herta enjoy this party without worrying about you. We will all be sad if you don’t.” Ursula put her other hand on Christiane’s. “Good,” Christiane said. “Now come and bring some salt. We’ll have to sneak it into the soup when Frau Krause isn’t looking.”

  As Ursula gathered her shawl and looked for the salt, a cricket chirped in the room’s far corner. “See,” Christiane said. “At last, it’s our time for good luck!”

  * * * * * *

  When Christiane woke up the next morning, she pulled the blanket up and shifted closer to Hanna for warmth. Outside, the stockade was quiet. Her neighbors seemed to think that their celebration included a late start to this day. She accepted the idea and slid back toward sleep. Franklin woke them all a few minutes later, needing to be cleaned. Christiane sent Walther for water. She gave Hanna the night bucket to empty.

  She was alone with Franklin when the shot came. It made her jump. More shots followed. She wrapped the baby and ran to Ursula’s room, where she pushed in the door. “Can you take him? The others are outside.” She handed over Franklin without waiting for an answer.

  Halfway across the courtyard she was shouting their names. “Walther! Hanna!” There were more shots still. It must be an attack. Half of the stockade gate hung open. Heinrich Berger, barely sixteen, was holding it, his musket at his feet. He waved for people to run inside. If the gate was open, the attack must be at another stockade.

  She ran past the gate. Alec McDonnell, his face bright red, had Hanna in one arm, his rifle in the other hand. Walther was behind them, blowing his whistle and struggling to keep up. She ran to lift him, then turned back into the courtyard, his whistle deafening one ear. Heinrich Berger called out, “Anyone else out there?”

  “Close it, close it,” came a panicky voice from the watch platform above. “No one else in sight!”

  Alec placed Hanna on the ground. “It’s the Cumberland stockade,” a voice, still on edge, called down from the watch platform. “It’s a real attack.”

 
“How many?” Alec asked.

  “I can’t see. They’re not showing themselves.”

  Alec raced to the gap between the gates and peered out.

  “Thirty?” came the voice again.

  “More,” Alec answered. “Listen to all the shots.”

  Christiane took the children to Ursula’s room. She stopped by Johann’s workroom for his rifle and cartridge box. Back in the courtyard, she heard no more shots. “Where’s Herr Leichter?” she called up to the watch platform.

  “Out there,” came the voice, still tense.

  When she stepped sideways, Christiane could see that the guard was Jurgen Wolff, a shoemaker with five children. He was probably the oldest guard in the stockade. Johann said he was no soldier.

  She ran to Alec at the gate and handed over the rifle and cartridge box. “If you need them. How else can I help?”

  “Gather any other cartridge boxes and pass them out,” he said, not taking his eye from the gap in the gate. “Powder too. Tomahawks. Every weapon.”

  When she turned, she found Walther behind her holding a stick. “Come,” she said, holding out a hand. They ran to each stockade room and demanded weapons, ignoring the anxious questions that came at them. Their search yielded two cartridge boxes and four tomahawks. She sent Walther to Alec with a tomahawk. She gave the cartridge boxes to the men on the platform, then took the other tomahawks to men who stood at the rifle loops that were cut into the stockade walls. She counted fourteen defenders.

  “Fire out there,” came Jurgen Wolff’s voice. “Past Cumberland.” Christiane’s stomach tightened. That’s where Mayflower Hof was. “Two fires now! No, three!”

  Shots exploded from all sides around them. A child screamed, then stopped abruptly. “Shoot at their powder smoke!” Wolff shouted. His voice was under control now. “Shoot only at targets! Be thrifty with your powder.”

  The settlers began to fire carefully placed shots. Frau Wolff and another woman came into the courtyard from different rooms. Each carried a water bucket. “Yell if you need anything,” Frau Wolff called, crouching down.

  “Yes, over here too,” the other shouted.

  Christiane ran to Alec, who leaned back against the gate to reload his rifle. “Here,” she said, taking it from him. “I know how.” He reached for Johann’s rifle and sighted down its long barrel.

  She tore the cartridge with her teeth, then stood to place the ball in the muzzle and press it home with the ramrod. She knelt again, trying not to rush, flinching when Alec fired so close to her. She poured the powder into the pan and cocked the hammer, remembering to close the frizzen. The powder smell was strong. She exchanged rifles with Alec and started again.

  Sporadic firing kept up. “They’re staying in the woods,” Wolff shouted. “Only shoot at a target.”

  Frau Wolff cried out. A guard on the stockade’s north side had slumped against the stockade wall. He was bleeding. She ran to him and pulled him down on his back. Christiane followed. Blood pulsed from his head. Frau Wolff tore linen and pressed it against his wound, cradling him.

  Christiane picked up the guard’s musket. She checked the charge. She stood and rested the muzzle in the rifle loop, scanning the woods that began only fifteen feet from the palisade. One edge of the loop was splintered, probably by the ball that struck the guard. She shifted the muzzle from side to side. Her heart thudded. Control your breath, Johann always said. She remembered the gun’s recoil, how it bruised her shoulder. Shots continued, some from the stockade, some from the attackers.

  There. A flash of skin, next to a tree trunk. She pulled the trigger, and the barrel flew up. A man ran from the spot toward the river. Missed. She spun around to reload. She felt a hot anger. “What can I do?” Frau Wolff asked, blood splashed on her skirt and apron. The guard on the ground was grey, dead.

  “The cartridges from his pouch.”

  Christiane fumbled the ramrod. She crouched to pick it up.

  “Buckshot?” Frau Wolff said, holding it in the palm of her hand.

  “Yes. Good.” Johann said that buckshot didn’t carry far but didn’t require good aim. The woods were close. When the musket was loaded, she studied the forest again.

  A musket flashed, not twenty feet away. A ball cracked into the palisade next to her head. She fired back. A voice yelped. She saw an Indian run deeper into the woods, favoring one side.

  The gunfire was slowing. Christiane reloaded her musket and watched again through the loop. Five minutes passed. Then ten.

  “Jurgen?” a man shouted from the back side of the stockade. “Where are they?”

  “I think they’re gone. There’s two more farms burning. No, three. Maybe more. I can’t be sure.”

  “Shall we stand down?”

  “Stay where you are.”

  Christiane looked over at the dead guard. His blood had pooled in the dirt next to Frau Wolff. It was Alfred Shuler. In the spring, he made a doll for Hanna. When she turned to scan the forest, her vision blurred for a moment, then cleared. Her arms and shoulders ached from holding the heavy musket.

  Wolff called into the courtyard. “Every other man stand down,” he called. “We’ll take turns. Fifteen minutes on, fifteen minutes off. I’ll call the time. No one leaves the stockade.”

  Christiane helped Frau Wolff to her feet. They embraced quickly. “I’ll get Frau Shuler,” the other woman said. Christiane turned from the dead man. She took some water from Frau Wolff’s bucket, elated to be alive. One hand shook. She hoped it was over. When she wiped her mouth with her apron, the fabric came away smeared with gunpowder.

  They stayed at their stations for two hours, until Leichter came up the path with a guard. He stepped over an Indian corpse above the boat landing. “That was young McDonnell’s doing,” Wolff called down. “Good man in a fight.”

  Leichter gathered the settlers. The Indian band, with a few Frenchmen, were part of a large group from Canada that attacked Fort Georges the night before but were driven off. They caught a woman and her child outside the Cumberland stockade, killing and scalping them. They burned farms north along the river and killed some cows and sheep. They singled out the sawmills and gristmills, burning and smashing them. He said that Broad Bay would remain on alert through the night, but the attack was probably over. Parties were heading out to gather up the slaughtered livestock. There would be meat for dinner.

  Leichter pulled Alec McDonnell aside as the meeting broke up. “That was your shot? That killed the savage?”

  Alec nodded.

  “The scalp is yours. The governor will pay a pretty penny for it.”

  Alec looked around uncertainly. “I don’t know.” Maggie McDonnell entered the gate, carrying her youngest and leading the other four. They had run from their farm to the Governor Shirley stockade when the fighting started. She trotted the last few steps to Alec. He shied from the hand she reached out to smooth his fair hair.

  “You decide,” Leichter said, and stepped away. “They’re taking two scalps down at the Cumberland.”

  “Decide what?” Maggie asked. Alec explained. It could be a lot of money, he said.

  She looked out the gate at the corpse, then back at her son. “If you’re old enough to kill him, you’re old enough to decide.”

  Alec took a breath. “I don’t want it.”

  His mother smiled and sighed. “God help us. Another poet in the family.”

  Jurgen Wolff found Christiane on a bench in Ursula’s room. Franklin was climbing on her lap while Hanna washed the black powder from her mother’s chin. “You’re a brave girl, Frau Overstreet,” Wolff said. “I thank you. You don’t need to stand the watches.”

  She nodded.

  “I should see to Alfred,” Wolff said, then began to leave.

  “No one else?” Ursula asked.

  Wolff shook his head.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  †

  Every day until the river froze, Christiane hoped to see the ship, the Broad Bay rangers dropping into ski
ffs to come ashore. In November, when unforgiving skies were already cloaking the land with snow, Armstrong brought a letter from Johann. When Armstrong handed it over, she stared in wonder. He really was alive. And he was thinking of her. She thanked God, then curtsied to Armstrong before putting the letter in her pocket.

  That night, she asked Matthias—as she now knew Leichter—to read it for her. Ursula and all the children gathered around. They lit two candles for the occasion.

  In the letter, which covered one side of a sheet, Johann wrote mostly as captain of the rangers. The words were meant for everyone. The Broad Bay men, he wrote, had been more brave and more willing than any professional soldiers. General Wolfe had commended them. Now they defended the seized fortress. They had no idea when they would return to Broad Bay. Because the harbors would freeze soon, he was writing to say so.

  But the last sentence was for Christiane and Walther and Hanna and Franklin. It is my fondest wish, Johann had written, to be home with my family. He signed, Johann Overstreet.

  “Would you like to hear it again?” Matthias asked.

  Christiane nodded. After the second time through, she took the letter from Matthias and spread it on the table before her. She stared at the signature at the bottom. She traced her finger along the last sentence. “You heard that?” she said to the children. “We are your papa’s fondest wish.”

  Hanna and Walther, on either side of her, crowded in to look.

  “I should tell the others his news,” Matthias said. “They should know.”

  Christiane nodded. “But not the last part,” she said.

  * * * * * *

  The ship was larger than most that stopped at Broad Bay, but the settlers didn’t think it could carry the ranger company. It was only mid-April. Louisbourg’s harbor probably wouldn’t be open so early. Only Walther and a few other children watched as a brisk wind sped the ship up the bay.

  The Indian raids had stopped, partly because of winter, partly because of the British advance inland from Louisbourg. Hunters from the settlement, always working in twos, were roaming more widely for deer or moose. The trading ships had sailed to Boston through the autumn, allowing Broad Bay to sell timber again and feed itself through the dark months.