Calico Captive

by Elizabeth George Speare

  "Goodness no! At Number Four the men themselves had to build the houses out of logs."

  "Number Four? What is that?" The white forehead wrinkled.

  "That is the name they gave our settlement at first. Now it is called Charlestown."

  The girl motioned to a footstool near the bed. "You stay here with me while I eat. Tell me about this—this Number Four."

  Hortense broke in with a protest, obviously explaining that Miriam was expected to work in the kitchen. The laughter went out of the girl's face, the red lips pouted, and for an instant there was the faintest echo of Madame Du Quesne in her blue eyes and in the quick imperious gesture. Hortense did not argue; she curtsied and was out the door in a flash, leaving Miriam behind.

  "Now," said the French girl, nestling back among the pillows, her sunny nature restored. "You tell to me. How you come to be with the Indians? Did they treat you bad?"

  Where could she begin? Miriam wondered. What words could possibly give this exquisite creature an inkling of what it was like to march cold and hungry, covered with mud and insect bites, along a forest trail? Instead she decided to tell about the settlement at Charlestown. Even that sounded outlandish enough, here in this dainty room, but her story found an eager audience. Encouraged by those astonished blue eyes and the soft gasps of amazement, the words began to pour out. The joy of having someone her own age to talk to! She had forgotten the circumstances, the fact that she was a prisoner, and she was living again the night of the dance at Number Four, when the door opened, and the mistress of the house stepped into the room.

  She surveyed the two girls with displeasure, and broke into a sharp hailstorm of words and gestures that indicated plainly that it was high time to be up and about. The girl on the bed was not in the least cowed by this tirade. She pouted prettily.

  "Oh, Maman, she is so droll, this Meeriam."

  It was Miriam's turn to feel that icy glance, and she stood uncomfortably waiting for the wrath to descend on her head.

  "They have given you some work to do?" queried Madame.

  "Yes, ma'am," Miriam answered meekly, trying to gauge whether she could slip between the wide-spread skirts and the doorway. But the girl on the bed had other plans.

  "But, Maman, I wish her to stay here with me!"

  The older woman considered this for a moment. Then she turned to Miriam. "Can you read and write the English?" she demanded.

  "Why of course, ma'am."

  "What can you read?" persisted Madame.

  "I have read the Bible all the way through twice, and the sermons of Cotton Mather." That was everything she had found to devour in her father's cabin, but the list made slight impression on this woman.

  "Perhaps it will do," she said finally. "I should like my daughter to learn to read the English and to speak it correctly. When I was her age there was an English sister at the school who taught us very carefully. She was very particular about how we spoke. But she has died, and the sisters do not bother any longer. Felicité speaks a little, as you see, but she is lazy. I shall get a book of English from the sisters, and you shall teach her to read."

  "Oh, I should like to try, ma'am," cried Miriam eagerly. "I always helped the little girls at home."

  "Then perhaps we shall get some good out of you after all," concluded Madame. "You will come up here every morning and teach Felicité for two hours."

  "Two hours!" squealed Felicité in consternation. "But, Maman—!" Her protest was broken off by a sharp rebuke, and Madame, the business settled, swept out of the room.

  Felicité was sulky. "What good is it to read the English? Who I ever speak English to anyway? Everybody speaks français."

  "You might like it," coaxed Miriam.

  "Maman, she always say someday we go back to France—Paris—and then we visit London. But I know we stay right here. I marry Pierre, have French babies. What I need the English for?"

  Madame's plans were law, however. From that morning Miriam became a teacher and Felicité a reluctant pupil. At first it seemed to Miriam pure enchantment to sit in that pretty room, to watch Felicité, with her appealing birdlike ways, to have a fine leather-bound book to read. But that it was not going to be an easy task to teach this pupil she soon began to suspect. Four-year-old Sue was quicker at her letters. Felicité's bright eyes and attention darted everywhere, but came to rest invariably on herself, on the shadow of a curl against the wall, on a fingernail threatened by a tiny snag, on the ruffles that had to fall just so over her dainty wrist. Over and over Miriam pulled her back to the words on the page—the same words every day, for they seemed to make no progress whatsoever. She must be a very poor teacher, Miriam decided. Surely anyone so delicate and beautiful as Felicité could not be—no, it was disloyal to even think the word. The failure must be her own.

  Meanwhile, down below in the kitchen, another kind of education was in progress. The kitchen was still the place where Miriam properly belonged, and once the two hours with Felicité were over she returned there and took up her share of the work. Here she became both teacher and pupil, for Hortense was quick to follow up that first lesson in the loft. Now as they washed the dishes, and peeled potatoes, and polished the brass and copper, side by side, the tongues of the two girls wagged merrily. These lessons were pure fun. Where Felicité puckered her pretty forehead over one phrase, Hortense picked up dozens of words in a day, and generously tossed back to Miriam dozens of French words in return. She marveled at Hortense. This kitchen maid who admitted she could neither read nor write and had no reason in the world for wanting to speak a foreign tongue grasped the words and stored them away like the quick little squirrel she resembled, just for the fun of it. The hours passed quickly as they jabbered in a ridiculous mixture of languages, and often Hortense doubled up in merriment over Miriam's mistakes. But Miriam worked in earnest. Every day there was less English and more French in the mixture. Gradually both Hortense and Felicité lapsed into their native tongue, and Miriam rapidly learned to follow.

  As one day after another went by, however, and the novelty of the household no longer distracted all her thoughts, a deep uneasiness began to increase in Miriam's mind. Still no word from James. Surely something had gone wrong with his plans. And where were the little girls? They might not have been so lucky as she. For she had been lucky beyond anything she could have dreamed. It was hard to remember that she was a prisoner, and that Montreal was a dreaded and evil city. Surely it was treacherous of her, but she had to admit that she found every feature of this new experience exciting. If only she could know about the others. Not knowing was the one shadow that dimmed this adventure.

  "You are not happy," Hortense accused her, as they sat one afternoon filling the great preserving crocks with crisp green cucumber slices. "We are not being good to you?"

  Miriam looked into the anxious black eyes of her new friend. "Oh, Hortense, you are being good to me! I like it here, truly I do. But I am worried about the others. I told you my sister had to stay behind with the Indians, but we thought it would not be for long. And if I could only know what they have done with the little girls!"

  "But of course. I would feel the same. Madame does not tell you anything?"

  "I hardly ever see Madame, and then she is always giving orders. I don't dare ask her. She is so—so—"

  Hortense laughed. "I know. We find out for ourselves. I ask Jules when he comes tonight."

  "Jules?"

  Hortense's eyes danced. "Jules is my—" She hesitated, and a rosy blush supplied the word she could not find. "He is a habitant," she went on hurriedly. "He owns one hundred arpents of land, and he already has two horses and five cows. He is very smart man, my Jules."

  Miriam stared at her in surprise. Felicité of course had any number of admirers. They drove up to the great front door in carriages, and the servants peeked through the drawing-room curtains and commented on this one and that one. It was hard to make Felicité stop chattering about her drives and her parties long enough to concentrat
e on an English sentence. But it had never occurred to Miriam that Hortense might have a life of her own beyond this kitchen. She felt a quick prick of envy.

  The envy stirred again when Jules arrived after supper. There was quite a flurry in the kitchen as he stepped in out of the chilly night. The women greeted him familiarly, and made way for Hortense with good-natured, outspoken jibes that made her cheeks flame. Miriam stared curiously. Yes, Jules was unmistakably a farmer, and quite as certainly successful and self-confident. His shoulders strained the rough homespun coat, his waist was stocky under the red woolen sash. Black hair curled tightly under the red cap, and his white teeth flashed in his broad swarthy face. He was totally unlike the young man she remembered so well; yet, watching Jules and Hortense standing together just inside the kitchen door, Miriam knew exactly how they felt. She herself stood all at once inside another door, and Phineas Whitney's face came before her memory so clearly that her heart gave a leap. Would she ever know again the magic that wove such a spell about a man and a girl that they could stand completely alone in a room full of people?

  Hortense had not forgotten her completely, however. She came back to Miriam a little later with a small frown between her eyes.

  "Jules does not know about your little girls," she said. "He will find out for us tomorrow, perhaps. But he has heard about your brother, the English captain."

  "What about him?" Miriam begged.

  "They have put him in the prison. But don't look like that, Miriam. Jules says they often keep English prisoners there. He will try to find out more. You must not worry about it."

  Miriam shivered in the warm kitchen. She had felt all along that it was treacherous of her to enjoy this place. Now the fragrant steam rising from the hearth sickened her. It was all an illusion, this luxury she had begun to take for granted. If James were in prison, there was no hope that Susanna could escape from St. Francis. They were all separated and helpless, and what hope was there that they would ever go home again?

  "Come, Miriam," coaxed Hortense. "It is not so bad. I think you like Montreal, when you know it better. Besides, tomorrow night Jules will come back, and maybe you be surprised. You see."

  Chapter 9

  FINISHED already?" inquired Hortense, as Miriam came back to the kitchen next morning.

  "Madame cut the lesson short," Miriam responded. "They are going out for a drive."

  "You are still sad, n'est-ce pas?" observed Hortense. "That is not good on a morning like this."

  On the tip of Miriam's tongue, ready to pour out to any sympathetic ear, was the latest snub that Madame Du Quesne had inflicted. That morning Felicité had had a sudden impulse.

  "Maman," she had begged, "let Miriam go with us to drive in the carriage. Think, Maman, she has never even ridden in such a carriage as ours!"

  Madame's icy glance had flicked both the eager young faces. "You forget yourself, Felicité" was all she had said, but Miriam accepted the rebuke meant for her.

  No doubt she had forgotten herself. How could she think that Felicité could really be her friend, when she was a prisoner and a servant? But she was a Willard too, and wasn't a Willard good enough to ride in a carriage with a Du Quesne? However, something warned her that she had best keep this disappointment to herself. It would never occur to Hortense to have her feelings hurt because she wasn't invited for a drive in the carriage. Better to allow Hortense to assume that it was worry and not snubbed pride that dampened her spirits.

  "I am going to take you to market with me," Hortense announced now. "They cannot expect you to work all the time, and you can help carry the vegetables. I ask Madame."

  She was back in a moment with permission. Presently both girls set out, red wool scarves tied about their heads, baskets swinging on their arms. Miriam's spirits bounced upward. Shafts of sunlight slanted through the narrow street. Above the steep gabled rooftops the sky shone a brilliant October blue.

  "That is the Mayor's house," Hortense pointed out, as they descended the hill past fine stone mansions. "And there is the Séminaire de Saint Sulpice."

  Miriam stared curiously through the iron gateway. Beyond the stone building she caught a glimpse of quiet gardens between neat paths, of lovely old trees whose yellow leaves drifted gently into a tranquil pond. Against the high protecting walls branches had been carefully trained to spread in graceful patterns. A priest in his dark robe was pruning a small fruit tree. How strange that men should have leisure to cultivate plants and trees not for sustenance at all, but merely for beauty! There was much about this place that she would like to ask Hortense, but the practical French words she had learned would never convey the questions that crowded her mind.

  They came out on the Rue de St. Paul. Between this long street and the river were crowded the busy shops of shoemakers, gunsmiths, hatmakers, bakers, furriers, with their wares displayed in windows and doorways. Beyond these rose the dingy warehouses that fronted the water's edge. What a bustling there was everywhere! Housewives stepped briskly toward the market place, nodding and chatting to one another. Servants in short skirts and bodices like her own and matrons in flounces, with elaborately curled and powdered hair, mingled with soldiers in white uniforms laced with black, and priests in their dark robes. Along the street came two smiling Sisters, in gray robes, marshaling a group of little girls in neat wool dresses. As they passed, Miriam stopped to stare at the children's smooth dark braids.

  "Why, they are Indian children!" she exclaimed.

  "But of course," answered Hortense. "They belong to the School."

  A school for Indian children! Miriam had never heard of such a thing. Back in Charlestown, in peace times, the Indian traders had sometimes been trailed by children, sly dirty little rascals, skittish as wild animals. "Keep an eye on them," the settlers' wives had said, "they can steal a loaf of bread quicker than you can wink." Who had ever seen Indian children like these happy little girls, scrubbed and decorous and smiling?

  "What do they learn?" she asked wonderingly.

  "The same as French girls, to sing hymns and paint pictures and sew and embroider. Indian girls have very clever fingers for sewing."

  Miriam turned reluctantly from the charming procession to match the impatient stride of her friend. In a moment the Indians were forgotten as the sounds and colors and smells of the market place rose about her in such wealth. Housewives bargained shrilly over stalls piled high with golden carrots, glossy red apples, green lettuce and cabbage, and great orange pumpkins. Chickens squawked from wicker baskets. At the end of the row they stopped at the fish stall and Hortense selected a huge silver cod and four loathsome, snake-like eels. It was a pleasure to watch Hortense shop, to see her move from stall to stall, knowingly pinching the ripe fruit, keeping a sharp eye on the scales, battling good-naturedly for a bargain.

  "They all know your name!" Miriam marveled. "Why, in my whole life I have never seen so many people as you have talked to just this morning."

  Hortense did not hear her. She was standing stock still, her round cheeks quivering with excitement.

  "Regardez!" she exclaimed. "The coureur de bois! I thought they had all gone!"

  There was a burst of raucous, rollicking song. Down the street, four abreast, causing everyone to step aside to make room, strode four young men. One of the four, standing taller, singing louder, and striding a little more confidently than the others, captured every eye along the way. He was certainly the handsomest man Miriam had ever seen, yet he reminded her strikingly of Mehkoa. He moved with the same panther-like grace; his head and shoulders had the same arrogant lift. He was dressed almost like an Indian, too, in a deerskin jacket and leather breeches. He was burned dark as a redskin. But the black hair that curled tight and short against his head and the flashing white teeth proclaimed him a Frenchman, and no ordinary habitant, by the way the humble folk moved out of his way.

  As the girls watched, he checked his rapid stride and raised an arm in greeting. Following his smile, Miriam saw a sight calculated
to cause any young man to stand still. Reined in on the opposite side of the street were two sleekly matched horses, and in a handsome carriage, behind a gold-braided footman, sat Madame Du Quesne, out for her morning drive. Beside her was her daughter Felicité, a pink and white vision of ruffles and bows and powdered curls. Her pretty lips parted in a bewitching smile as the coureur left his companions and bounded across the street. From the carriage a white-gloved hand stretched daintily, to which he bent with a flourish. Madame Du Quesne was almost unrecognizable, so transformed with nods and smiles. As the three chatted, Hortense and Miriam were not the only ones who gaped, forgetting business and manners.

  "Ah—what a pair they make!" sighed Hortense. "Both so handsome, n'est-ce pas?"

  "A pair?" echoed Miriam. "Felicité and that—that coureur?"

  "If Madame has her way," laughed Hortense. "At least that's what they say. It won't be easy to snare that Pierre—he is a fox!"

  "So that is the Pierre Felicité is always talking about?" Miriam was shocked. "Why, he looks like a savage!"

  "Oh, they all dress like that, the coureur de bois. It is part of the game. But that one—that Pierre—he is the grandson of Monsieur Laroche. His grandpère made a fortune in the fur trade. Any girl in New France would be proud to marry a Laroche."

  "Even you, Hortense?" teased Miriam, amused at her friend's respectful tone.

  Hortense was scandalized. "Pierre Laroche is a nobleman!" she said, flustered. "And even if he weren't, I'd never trade my Jules for any coureur!"

  "What are coureurs, Hortense?"

  "Fur traders. They go out on their own, not like the regular voyageurs. They think they are too good to work like ordinary folk. They leave their families and go off to trade with the Indians and get rich. A wild lot, most of them. They say they sleep in Indian wigwams, and eat dirty Indian food, and when they come back in the summer—pfft!—they spend everything they have earned."

  The coureur de bois, Pierre, had rejoined his companions across the street, and Miriam lost sight of him in her absorption with the carriage and its occupants. She admired the way the sleek horses lifted their feet daintily from the road as though vain of the precious cargo they drew. Félicité was like a delicate flower. What must it be like, to wear a dress like that, and to ride so elegantly, to have gloves on one's hands, and to know that all along the way people tinned their heads and stared? Lost in envious wonder, Miriam had no idea that at the same time that she stared at Felicité, at least one pair of eyes was as keenly fixed on her own face. She was completely unaware of the soldier who had halted nearby. Had she stayed demurely at Hortense's side he would doubtless have gone on his way without daring to accost her. But as she stood, quite forgetful of herself, her attention was suddenly distracted by a familiar figure, a pair of erect shoulders and a head of grizzled hair. A little ahead of the carriage James Johnson, accompanied by a French soldier, was just turning away from the street into an alleyway. Without an instant's thought, Miriam flung herself into the roadway.