The Sacred Shore

by T. Davis Bunn

  Jean Dupree glanced at the sharp-faced man standing next to him. “I came back here because you said it was over.”

  “It is over because you make it so!” She did not care that all the men were staring at her, did not care who heard or what was said later. All the entreaties she had planned to speak, all the last efforts she had hoped would win the love of her life to her side, everything was lost. By choosing to be with these ruffians, Jean Dupree had confirmed that he cared more for the dark side of his own nature than he did for her.

  The future they could have had together was ashes in Nicole’s heart. “You refuse to see that these men are evil! This Daniel destroys everything he touches! Even his shadow is poison. And he will make you into a fiend just like himself!”

  Daniel Lafoe’s features twisted into their accustomed snarl. Reaching over, he demanded of the first man, “Give me your gun.”

  “No!” Jean Dupree stepped between the two of them. “Nicole, go! Leave immediately! You are not welcome here!”

  The older man snarled a French epithet. “Get out of my way, Jean!”

  “You will not harm her!” Jean Dupree squared off against the smaller man, his fists large as mallets. “Let us be, Daniel. I will make her leave.”

  The man, obviously not accustomed to being crossed, muttered, “Better you leave with her.” He turned away. “Go and hide yourself in a woman’s skirts.”

  Jean Dupree’s voice trembled with controlled rage as he turned back to Nicole. “You were wrong to come like this, Nicole.”

  “I was wrong to ever become involved with you,” she lashed back. “I was wrong to ever think you would be worthy of more than scorn.”

  His voice became menacing through the gloom. “This is why you came, to push us even further apart?”

  “No. I came because …” And just as suddenly as it had ignited, her rage was gone. And with it all hope, all caring. Nicole slumped over an empty heart. “I came for no reason at all.”

  “Go home, Nicole. I will see you—”

  “No, Jean. You will never see me again.” She pointed downriver, and the two men immediately turned the boat to begin their return. “This is a sorry end to what never should have begun. Good-bye, Jean. Forever.”

  Chapter 9

  Catherine felt as though she were two people. One stood by the kitchen window, making dinner and listening as Andrew and Charles walked back and forth and argued quietly in the front garden. The other person seemed to be watching herself as she worked. She studied her flour-covered hands, rough and hardened, as though they belonged to another. Two sets of hands filled her vision and her mind. One picked up the rolling pin and pressed the dough upon the table. The other recalled a day some twenty years earlier, as she had fastened a ribbon into her hair and listened to the music of her wedding trilling in the air. It had been a strange day, her wedding—a lively village festival, yet carrying a martial air in keeping with Andrew’s position as a British officer. She had walked down a row of saber-wielding soldiers to where her Andrew waited, tall and proud in his uniform. Silver trumpets had heralded the day and the time to come, joyful and foreboding all at once. Catherine sighed over the young girl and all her hopes and fears, and felt the past push hard against her.

  Now angry tones drifted in through her open window, forcing her attention upon the present outside her kitchen. Charles nearly shouted, “I fail to see why you resist my decision to go in search of your daughter.”

  Andrew’s tone did not meet that of his brother, neither in hardness nor in volume. Only someone who knew him as well as Catherine would fathom his turmoil. She knew his heart as well as she knew her own. It was for both of them that he answered firmly, “First of all, brother, the decision is not yours to make. And secondly, our daughter is here with us now.”

  Charles’s strident voice told better than words that he was used to having his own way. “You know perfectly well what I mean!”

  “Listen, my brother. Are you listening? I don’t mean just hearing the words. I mean hearing what I am saying and what I am not saying. You owe me this much, if I am to speak at all. Because it is the only way you will ever understand how much it costs me to speak of this.”

  Catherine put down her rolling pin and went to check that the pots were not boiling over. She pulled them farther from the flames so they would only simmer. Then she returned to the window. She wanted to give full attention to what was said next.

  “All right. Yes,” Charles was saying as he heaved a great sigh. “I will listen. Speak away.”

  “Thank you.” Now the two brothers were seated side by side on the bench, positioned so it would catch the afternoon sun. Their garden was the first in the village to lose its snow, the first to bloom. This early spring day was warm enough for the brothers to sit in shirt sleeves. Andrew continued in a voice as controlled as it was quiet. “In the early days, we tried to make connections with the Acadians in every place we knew the boats landed. We had agreed to be conduits for correspondence between those scattered to the winds. Almost no mail ever arrived, I am sorry to say. And what news we did receive was not good.”

  “Perhaps it was because you did not go through official sources.”

  “But we did, brother. We did. You have met Catherine’s father. John Price was the garrison’s notary and a friend of the governor. He used his official position to garner information, which was refused to all but a few. What we learned was, as I said, not good.” Andrew paused a long moment, long enough for Catherine to be very glad she had sent Anne off on an errand with Grandfather Price to pick up a ham offered by one of the more distant farms. Andrew finally continued, “Five of the eight ships that sailed from our end of Cobequid Bay were sent to the colony of Maryland. Four of them were lost to a great storm.”

  “Oh no.” Charles’s groan held, in a moment, the despair that Andrew and Catherine had felt and fought for nearly a score of years.

  “I beg you, brother, don’t mention any of this to Anne. Your arrival is causing her enough distress as it is. We have tried to shelter her from as much of this as we could.” Andrew paused. “Where was I?”

  “The storm.”

  “Yes. Four of five vessels lost there. Three other vessels from this end of Cobequid Bay, I regret to say, we were never able to determine their destinations. We fear it is because they were lost in storms as well, and the officials prefer to keep all this tragedy secret. There was outrage over the actions they took here, expressed at the highest levels. Every new disaster that befell the Acadians only fueled the fire. We heard that one entire convoy bound for the African colonies never arrived. I am certain the officials would have done their best to keep this also secret, rather than cast yet another dark mark upon their actions.”

  There was a long silence, one filled with the unspeakable tragedy, then Andrew continued softly, “Four other vessels from neighboring regions were sent to Martinique, a French colony in the Caribbean. We wrote two dozen letters and received only one reply. There was trouble between the colony and the new arrivals. Apparently they were not able to acclimatize and suffered from both heat and disease. Many begged their way onto vessels bound for France.”

  Charles’s own voice began to resemble the quiet flatness of his brother’s. “You wrote there as well, I suppose.”

  “Orleans, Bordeaux, Marseilles, Nantes, Paris. All the cities known to have accepted Acadians. Correspondence was very difficult because of the war. But friends within the church attempted to help with our search. No identification was ever made of an Henri and Louise Robichaud.”

  “What about asking after your daughter herself?”

  “Think a moment, Charles. If you had smuggled aboard an English baby, after everything the English had inflicted on these people, would you admit it?”

  “No. Of course. I see.”

  “You would change her name and declare her as your own.” Andrew’s voice broke slightly. “So, you see, we do not even know under what name our daughter has been
raised—if she indeed is still alive.”

  This time the sigh was quieter, longer, sadder. “I regret that my coming has brought you distress.”

  “Much of life is like that, I find—happiness and sadness so intermingled it is hard to know one from the other.” Andrew’s voice strengthened. “Nonetheless, I am glad you came, Charles. Very glad.”

  Catherine returned to her bread making. She found herself wondering at her own inner sense of peace. If someone had come to her the day before Charles’s arrival and announced that all the memories and wounds from eighteen years ago would be brought back to the forefront, she would have fled in terror. Yet now she felt no pain. Sorrow, yes, but even this was held within by a peace so strong it could not be denied. The calm of her heart made no sense, the harmony almost belied the words she heard spoken just beyond her window. Yet here it was, surrounding her and comforting her.

  Catherine placed the dough on the baking pan and slid it in close to the coals. Their dinner would be a far cry from the fine meals Charles no doubt was used to. Yet even here there was no sense of shame or distress. Their life was what it was, and despite the hardship and the absence of many comforts, it was a good life indeed. She had a home, she had a husband and a daughter, she had a purpose that only serving God could bring. She had love, she had contentment. No grand palace or earthly power could compare with her own wealth. Even now, as she brushed flour from her work-hardened hands, she knew a rightness to her life and her place upon this earth.

  It was the most natural thing in the world to close her eyes and pray for guidance. The only conscious response she was aware of was the smell of bread and the quiet simmer of pots. And the peace that overlaid everything that day. Catherine opened her eyes and accepted the message. So long as that quiet rest remained, she could face the unknown.

  A pair of familiar voices sounded from down the lane. She went back to the window and called out a welcome and a warning both. “Father, Anne, hurry now! Dinner is almost ready.”

  The first birdsong rang out before the light became strong enough to dispel the sliver of moon. Catherine knew because she was awake and staring out the window, watching the gray wash of dawn take shape upon the eastern horizon. Andrew enjoyed sleeping with the window open. When the snows halted and the hard freezes were defeated by yet another spring, he treasured the return to his mild-weather habit of fresh air in their bedroom. No doubt the result of his years leading troops through all sorts of weather, it was a habit Catherine had found difficult at first, but now she loved it as well—all save that first moment when the covers were tossed aside, the frigid floor was touched, and the chill pounced on her through her nightclothes. Andrew did not seem to notice even that.

  She knew he was awake too. Years of loving and lying next to this man had taught her to read the small signs. He was awake, and he was distressed, and he was trying not to trouble her. Catherine closed her eyes and prayed that he would have the same sense of peace she had known the day before. Then she rolled over and murmured, “Tell me what is the worst and most troubling thing of all.”

  Andrew’s eyes turned to her and focused instantly. He studied her a long moment, his expression clear and direct. Without needing to ask of what she spoke, he said, “It is bad enough that one of us is worried.”

  “Tell me, husband dear. I want to know.”

  He sighed as his gaze turned to stare at the ceiling. “All the wounds I thought God healed long ago have been torn open again.”

  Yes, the peace was indeed still there. It was not something she could point at and say, here it is. No, she knew because she could lie there and calmly study the hair emerging from the edge of his nightcap. The dark brown was laced with silver and pewter, matching the fine etching of lines from his eyes and mouth. “My fine, strong, handsome man,” she whispered, tucking her hand in between the jawbone and neck. Andrew covered her hand with his own in silent acknowledgment.

  “I suppose the most distressing possibility of all,” Andrew confessed to the ceiling overhead, “is that if Charles is successful in his search, we will not have regained a daughter. We will find Elspeth only to lose her a second time. She no doubt will become the next Lady Harrow, viscountess and holder of royal charters.”

  When Catherine did not respond, Andrew rolled back over to face his wife. “These things do not distress you?”

  She had no choice but to honestly confess, “Not at this very moment.”

  “Tell me your secret, then. What do you know that I do not?”

  “I only know that God has comforted me. It is such a fragile thing, I fear even speaking about it might disturb the calm.” She kept her voice soft, for only thin walls separated them from Anne on one side and her father on the other. “But it is here. I know it without doubt or question. It is the only thing that keeps me from being immobilized with pain.”

  He blinked once, then reached over and took her hands with both of his. She felt in his contact the strong touch, the years of loving and working together for their God. “Does God say anything to you? Anything at all?” he asked.

  “I have asked for guidance. And if He has spoken, it has been with a voice so quiet I have missed it entirely.”

  “That,” Andrew murmured, “I doubt very much.”

  “I have just one question for you,” she continued. “What if our daughter is out there someplace, and what if her lot in life is hard?”

  He studied the face inches away from his own. “I’m not sure I would ever want to think thus.”

  “No, nor I. But what if it is true? We have heard tales of hardship. What if Elspeth is among those who wander without home or solace?” She had to stop then, for the sudden pain pierced her like a sword. Yet a single breath was enough to still both the pain and the worry, and once again she felt certain that her heart was comforted by an invisible hand. She went on, “What if she has needs that only your brother’s wealth can answer? What if God has brought Charles here because Elspeth needs what he can give? Or what if our Father wishes to use her to reach others also, in ways we could not begin to fathom? Would you deny Elspeth this?”

  “Never.” The reply came instantly. “If I felt God’s hand was upon the search, for whatever reason, I would not do anything to hold Charles back. I could not.”

  Catherine slid forward, closer still, and softly kissed her husband, willing the shadows to be lifted from his features by the strengthening daylight. “There is your answer.”

  Chapter 10

  Louise and Nicole walked in silence from the village to the family’s farthest fields. Land about the village was separated into three tiers. Where the neighboring bayous flowed broad and shallow, the clan had diked the thick mud. Anything would grow in this black earth, anything at all. Moving away from the rivers and the bayous, next came the prized village acreage, not as rich as the bayou silt yet fertile indeed. Beyond this second narrow band began the Louisiana plains. This was strange soil, unlike anything they had ever seen before, porous and loamy. It could rain buckets for days, yet one afternoon of sun was enough to return the land to gray dust. This land was good for growing cotton and indigo and little else. Irrigation ditches had to be rebuilt before each planting, and the crops required constant watering.

  With a careless wave, Louise returned the greetings of neighbors working their land. Guy and his family were departing in four days. A ship was heading for the British colonies up the eastern coastline, the same one taking their indigo to the northern mills. The market wagons were leaving with the indigo, taking her brother’s family. Ever since the letter had arrived, Louise had prepared herself for a momentous battle with her headstrong daughter. But Nicole had hardly spoken of it at all. She had gone about her business, but with a careful nature that left Louise wondering just how well she knew her daughter.

  Louise shifted her lunch basket to her other arm and waited while Nicole spoke to farmwives taking lunch to their own families. She tried to pay attention to what was said, but even her smile ca
me hard this morning. Finally she set down her basket and turned her full attention to studying her daughter, grateful for the bonnet’s shadows that hid her gaze.

  Nicole spoke with a warmth that was both becoming and unusual. She had never been a haughty child, but she could be very abrupt, as though whatever she had on her mind occupied her totally. Now, however, she opened her face and her smile to the women, sliding the bonnet off her head so that it hung down over her long auburn tresses. Her green eyes sparked with genuine warmth, and her smile was from the heart. The women seemed to come alive with Nicole’s attention, laughing and chattering like nesting birds. Louise felt a burning to her eyes, but could not think of why she was saddened by the sight of her daughter being sociable with their neighbors.

  When the women had moved off, Nicole turned a questioning gaze toward Louise. “Yes, Mother?”

  “I was wondering,” Louise said quietly, “what has caused this change to come over you.”

  Nicole could have denied the change or pretended not to understand. Instead her green eyes opened, revealing depths Louise had never seen before. Her daughter replied, “I am trying, the best I know how, to wish my friends and clan a fond farewell.”

  Louise rallied all her resources in preparation for the argument that had been boiling inside her for so long, the one that would begin with the declaration that her daughter was not leaving.

  Louise saw in her daughter’s eyes that she knew the battle was joined. But Nicole did not back away, did not arm herself with that temper famous from Plaquemine to Martinsville. Instead, she simply stood and waited.

  The sun and the warm breeze teased the corners of Louise’s eyes, drawing from them a wetness she had no intention of releasing. She knew now why Nicole’s warmth to the neighbors had sorrowed her heart. They were the actions of a woman. Not a child, not her daughter, not a youth she could command any longer. Louise hid her distress by bending to heft the basket and start down the lane. “We shouldn’t keep the boys waiting.”