by Carol Matas
And tonight as I get ready to go home I realize that although this hasn’t been “fun,” I’ve maybe had the best holidays ever. I can’t describe it exactly, except to say that it’s like a good feeling inside. I did something that matters, and that makes me feel happy. And although Baba never ever seems to have fun, she really feels that what she is doing is important, and maybe that makes her happy.
I wonder if she really is a spy.
Geneviève feared for her brother’s life when he and his friend fought to defend New France against the British siege of their city. Their hopes came undone in one day following a fierce battle on the Plains of Abraham. With Québec in British hands, everything — everything — changed. And now another shift in their fortunes brings a new challenge.
These Three Gifts
Le 1er décembre 1760
Tard
Montréal. I can scarcely believe that we have arrived. I worried that I would not be able to sleep in Monsieur Bélanger’s house, which is a house of death, but the weariness of two days travel has overcome my fears.
Tomorrow Madame Claire’s uncle will be buried in Notre Dame Basilica.
Le 2 décembre 1760
Tard
It is over. Monsieur Bélanger has been laid to rest. It would be best, though, to set down exactly what has happened. Andrew believes that a journal should be a clear picture of events, like a straight road. It comes from being an officer, I suppose. I am not an officer, and so I fear that my journal is often like a crooked path. As a good friend, Andrew understands this. Mère Esther says it is because of my Abenaki blood, that it is my nature to take a different route, but that it is of no consequence. The important thing is arriving.
So. Three days ago, Mme Claire received shocking news by way of a letter from a Montréal lawyer, one Monsieur Verges. Her ancient uncle, M. Balthazar Bélanger, had passed away suddenly, apparently from an apoplexy. The funeral would be on the coming Tuesday if Mme Claire wished to attend. She did, and so immediately made plans to journey. I had never met the deceased man, and so I felt no sadness, I must admit. I did feel a bit of excitement, though, since I had never seen Montréal.
There was no time then to write about any of that. Governor Murray arranged for a carriage upon hearing the news. The governor, although he is British, is a considerate man. When Mme refused a military escort, Governor Murray insisted that Chegual travel with us, which pleased me, since I can never get enough of my brother’s company. Cook said that she would look after Wigwedi and La Bave, but that they had best not get into mischief. Wigwedi, in spite of having only three legs, can jump remarkably high, even for a rabbit, and is sometimes guilty of stealing vegetables from Cook’s table. La Bave’s only crime is drooling, but Cook does not care for dog drool on her clean floors.
The journey was as pleasant as could be expected. Still, I wish there had been more snow, so as to hide the remains of farmhouses that the British burned last year. To see Québec itself in ruins is bad enough. It bothered me somehow, when we arrived, to note how little damage was done to Montréal. I know Montréal surrendered quickly this septembre past, and I wonder what would have happened had we in Québec done the same. No matter. It is done.
But I digress. The funeral was one of great dignity, the Mass said by the Vicar General, Curé Montgolfier. Monsieur Bélanger had no family other than Mme Claire, but he did have many friends and admirers, being such an important and wealthy man. It is the reason the funeral Mass was held in the Basilica, I suppose, a building of amazing beauty. Later, Mme Claire said that many of the mourners reminded her of vultures, all hoping for a piece of something. They hoped in vain, for Monsieur Verges says that Madame’s uncle has left his entire estate to the Church.
Le 3 décembre 1760
A note has arrived from Monsieur Verges. In it, he said that the Vicar General is permitting us to stay here as long as we wish. In spite of that, and in spite of the kindness of the servants here, Mme Claire has decided that we are to leave tomorrow. None of us is comfortable in this house. There is an air of waiting, which reminds me of last summer, when all of us at Québec awaited the arrival of the British warships.
But this is not a war, only a matter of Monsieur Bélanger’s estate and possessions being turned over to the Church, which seems like so much business to me.
The note also said that Monsieur Verges will be coming here this evening, since Mme Claire has been left a small bequest from her uncle. Whether it is a jewel or a sum of money, none of us can guess.
Très tard
Monsieur Verges wasted no time on formalities this evening. His servants had finally located the bequest, and it was out in front of the house. We should bring it in quickly, he said, for it was prone to escaping, just as it had after Monsieur Bélanger’s death. And Monsieur Verges suspected that the creature liked to bite — it might be a good idea to purchase a chain and a whip, if neither was at hand. Here were its papers. Then he left, wishing us all the luck in the world.
“What can it be?” Mme Claire wondered. Her uncle had not been fond of savage animals, as far as she knew. I recall that images of wolves and bears came into my mind as we left the salon and opened the front door. All I could see was Monsieur Verges, making a rapid retreat. It was then we heard a terrible scream come from the kitchen, and how I prayed to the Holy Mother of God that the cook was not being eaten alive.
She was not. But she was in a corner of the kitchen, having been forced there by a small and filthy boy of perhaps ten years, who was holding a chicken leg in one hand and a toasting fork in the other, one that he jabbed in her direction every few seconds while he tore at the chicken.
“His name is Luc Panis,” said Mme Claire, peering at the boy’s papers.
It told me everything. He was an indien slave, a panis, and he had been left to Mme by her uncle. My stomach tightened, for I loathe slavery, as does Mme Claire. Even indentured servitude is unacceptable in most cases, since the terms are often so harsh. What would we do with a panis?
“Sell him!” shouted the cook. “It has been peaceful here since that creature took to the streets. See that? The brat has already stolen food, and I know he would stab me like you do one of those English sausages, given the chance. Sell him, Madame, for if you do not, your life will be a misery! Why Monsieur Bélanger ever purchased such a little monster is beyond me.”
That was when Chegual entered the kitchen, drawn by the shouting. He snatched the fork from the boy, who tried to run past him, but Chegual easily caught him and
Chegual came in but has now gone from my room. What a terrible tale of suffering he told me. Chegual made the boy a pallet in the kitchen and by now is also bedded down there. Later. I will finish this later.
The boy’s name is Pìtku. He does not speak — Chegual thinks it is from grief and sorrow — but signs with his hands using the trade language my brother used when he travelled in the West.
Le 8 décembre 1760
Le soir
Home at last to a joyful welcome from Wigwedi, La Bave and Cook. Andrew, we learned, was not in his quarters in our library, but attending the Governor on some military matter or another, and would be here later. I scarcely have the heart to write about what happened on the way here.
Tard
Mme’s friend Lieutenant Stewart came to call, some hours after Andrew’s return, bearing a cheese as a gift. It was a Gloucester cheese, we were told, one that had been made in England. Over the cheese and small glasses of port for the men, Madame Claire told them all that had occurred over the last week.
It saddened me to hear Pìtku’s story yet again, how he had been the second-born of twin boys, his name being the Pawnee word for two. Of how the twins were of particular interest to the slavers who slaughtered all the adults in their village, and stole the children. Pìtku’s brother had died on the trail, as did many others. I was certain that the horror of all this was the reason the boy never spoke.
“That he lived is a miracle,” said the li
eutenant solemnly, and I agreed. Then he asked if he might see the child.
“You cannot,” my brother told him. “He ran away when we stopped for the night at Trois-Rivières.”
How my heart ached for Chegual. Pìtku had been well-behaved as we journeyed along le Chemin du Roi, passing through Repentigny, St. Sulpice and Berthier. But then at St. Charles, the child had acted out, and when Pìtku kicked me — I am certain it was not intentional — my brother had scolded him severely.
I can still see Chegual’s face that next morning when he realized Pìtku was gone. For two days he searched, offering the reward that Mme Claire was willing to pay, but to no avail. In the end, we left the inn and also left Pìtku. All the way home, Mme Claire worried aloud about the poor boy we would have cared for until he was old enough to be freed. It would not have been slavery at all, but simply a means of keeping him safe and in one place.
Later, Andrew said that perhaps it was for the best, that Pìtku may find his own way in life well enough. I pray that is so, but it still saddens me.
Plus tard
I have been thinking about the war. The British, for all their marching and drumming, have not been unkind. Our own civil laws remain, as do our churches. They also permitted people to keep their slaves, both negro and panis.
We lost so much during the war. Why could we not have lost slavery?
Le 9 décembre 1760
Sometimes I feel as though I have become a soldier. This household certainly keeps the same hours as the British garrison here in Québec does, which is why I am out of bed and writing in this diary. Reveille never fails to wake me. Sometimes, as I did today, I wake before the drumming and bagpipes begin, and lay in my bed waiting for the sound of them. I cannot help it. Even now, these many months after Québec was lost, I hope just a little that I will not hear them, that it will all have been a dream.
I keep thinking about the grand basilica still standing in Montréal, and then our own Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, destroyed by the British during last year’s siege. It was a terrible thing, that siege. I must cease, though, and not give in to such foolishness. The British and Les Écossais are here for good.
But I return to my day, which was shopping for Cook this morning, as she refuses to do so herself since her poor English is an embarrassment to her. I cannot blame her for that, and so the task of purchasing our household goods falls to me. It is no hardship, and besides, work takes my mind away from Pìtku.
Mister — he prefers this — Mister Wharton is a fair man, and so it is his shop that I favour. So does Mme Claire. None of us can truly become used to the British and American goods, however, but they are all we can buy, since nothing at all comes from France anymore. Best not to complain, even in this journal, since at least we have food. I do not want to remember the hardships of last winter.
In the market, I heard a rumour that Les Écossais have taken a prisoner, one who attempted to steal bread from their bakery. They say that the penalty for theft is death. Food is precious, but a loaf of bread cannot possibly equal a life — even to Les Écossais.
La nuit
My earlier words, that the British and Les Écossais are here for good, are like a two-edged blade. It is hard in some ways, yet it also is good. That is because of Andrew, who has become so dear to us, but only in the privacy of this journal can I say how dear he is to me.
Le 10 décembre 1760
What a day this has been! It began as always, with reveille, but then as I lay abed, the sound of bagpipes seemed to grow closer. By the time I quickly dressed, the sound was right below my window and a glance below showed me Chegual and Andrew, with Lieutenant Stewart playing the bagpipes. A dozen other soldiers waited behind them in a close group.
“A loaf of your household’s best bread,” Andrew demanded, once Mme Claire, Cook and I stood before him. When I inquired why, he answered, “I will take it in trade.”
That was when the soldiers parted to reveal what their bulk and their kilts had hidden. It was Pìtku. Pìtku, who had tracked us here to Québec, who had searched the town for us, and in desperate hunger had tried to take bread from Les Écossais’ stores.
I remembered then how Andrew had told me about the hunger he had suffered after the Battle of Culloden in Scotland. His mother had died from starvation. I knew in my heart that Andrew would never harm a starving child, and felt a great fondness for him overcome me. Then I saw his muddied knees and stockings.
“La petite bête sauvage should be renamed La Mule,” he grumbled. “Best teach him manners, mademoiselle.”
Later Chegual learned that it was the scolding at Trois-Rivières that made Pìtku decide to follow us after all. The boy used no words, but signed with his hands that Chegual’s scolding had made him recall a memory nearly lost. Pìtku’s father used to scold him and his brother that way. He had not cared for scoldings — who would? — but he had loved his father very much.
Although it was not said aloud, I understood then that Pìtku must be grateful to Chegual for helping to keep a precious memory alive. Poor child, to grasp at even that small shred of comfort.
Le 11 décembre 1760
It is necessary that Pìtku bathe, and then be deloused by Chegual, who
I cannot say I care much for the howling, or for
It seems that Pìtku has a strong dislike of soap and hot water. Still, the task was completed, and although Chegual and the kitchen were soaked, Pìtku was finally wearing clean clothing. With the layers of filth gone, I could see that he was a comely enough child. Cook cast somewhat doubtful looks at him, but she is a kind woman and I also saw looks of pity — Chegual would have told her Pìtku’s story. And she had given Pìtku a knife — a rather dull one — with which he was peeling potatoes!
Le 12 décembre 1760
Perhaps Not Tormenting Animals should be added to the list of rules Chegual gave Pìtku yesterday, although I suppose the boy was only being playful. But when he tried to play with Wigwedi she was not pleased. She growled, which should have warned him, and then she nipped his finger. Later Wigwedi went into the kitchen and fouled Pìtku’s pallet. It fell to me to wash out the urine, but I insisted that Pìtku help.
As for La Bave, she is a patient dog. I thought I knew her well, as she has lived with us since the siege, but this morning I learned something new when Pìtku tried to place Wigwedi on her back. La Bave does not consider herself to be a horse. Ah, well, he survived being sat upon by a heavy New Found Land beast, and possibly has learned a lesson.
Le 13 décembre 1760
Chegual signed to Pìtku that he must accompany me this morning. So he walked with me to Mister Wharton’s shop, as we were short of salt, ink and a number of other things. It was how I learned that Pìtku is given to staring and pointing. I think it is because he is unable to express himself in any other way if Chegual is not with him. It was one thing for him to stare at common people, but when he stared at Mère Marie-Charlotte de Ramezay, my embarrassment was indescribable.
On the other hand, Mère Marie-Charlotte is a very tall nun, at least six pieds. When she is walking about the town on some business or other, she is easy to see in a crowd. They say that Governor Murray suggested she might like to become a grenadier, because of her height and her patriotism. I doubt that it is true, though.
Le 14 décembre 1760
Mass at the Ursuline chapel as usual. As I knelt, I recalled something that Mère Esther once told me, how one of the first Ursulines who came to Nouvelle France many years ago made an infant Jesus of wax for the indiens who visited their mission. I then began to think of Christmas, and in particular, of our crèche. It and its waxen figures of the Holy Family were destroyed last year when our house in the Basse-Ville burned.
When we walked home from Mass, I mentioned my musings to Andrew and Mme Claire. Andrew said that he recalled his grandparents’ crèche from when he lived with them in France as a child. Mme Claire said that perhaps someday we would have another crèche, but it was out of the questi
on for now.
Le 15 décembre 1760
Wonderful news! Mère Esther has been elected by the Ursuline sisters to be the superior of their convent. Mme says that Mère Esther is very deserving of the position. With our city now in the possession of the British, the nuns were very clever to have elected an American. After all, the American colonies are also British possessions.
Americans. I wonder if it is any easier for them to be British subjects than it is for us.
Le 16 décembre 1760
When I went to the kitchen to find a candle for the candlestick in my room, Cook remarked that Pìtku seems to be clever with his hands. He can peel a potato, leaving behind barely a sliver of white flesh. As for the candle, she added that we must get a cat, since the candles are disappearing, and that is a sure sign of mice. Odd.
Le 17 décembre 1760
The library has remained Andrew’s chamber since last year when he was billeted with us. He and Chegual have begun spending evenings there with Pìtku. None of us is to enter, since they feel that the company of men will do him good. Mme Claire says we must use the situation to our advantage, since we are secretly knitting mittens and stockings for all three of them as Christmas gifts.
Le 18 décembre 1760
La Bave and Wigwedi were admitted to the library tonight. That both are females seemed not to matter. I heard no growling, so I suppose it all went well.
As for Pìtku, I believe his earlier behaviour was born of fear. He has nothing to fear in this house, though.
