“Man overboard!” I shouted. “Blue Sam is in the water!”
They found no one. Captain Wheelock questioned me sharply, but I remained fast. Blue Sam had gone overboard. Whether it had been an accident or intentional, I could not say. We recalled Sam saying that he could swim, but here the current was strong. Finally Mr. Cook wrote in the log, Departed this life, 25th of August, 1759, Blue Sam Taylor.
The next morning Sam’s possessions were sold to those who had coin to pay for them. Mr. Cook then sent what was left of our mess ashore to cut wood. Cramming our feet into shoes — how the dratted things pinched after months of not wearing them — we boarded the boat to go ashore. Since he was feeling poorly, Gum remained behind and another fellow named Ed Parr was ordered to take his place.
Once we reached shore, Tom remained behind with the boat, a musket cradled in his arms. His eyes skittered around. Davy, equally armed, followed the rest of us into the forest, where he would stand lookout while we worked. I took my spyglass from my pocket and slowly scanned the water for canoes. Seeing none, I set the glass down on a stump and picked up my axe. Best not to think about what might be creeping around in the shadows. Best to just work, which is what we did, sweat dripping down our faces and bodies. Finally Tom ordered an end to it. Evening was coming.
“I would say we have enough. Another stick,” he added as we walked back to the boat, “and one of us will have to swim home.”
“My father’s glass!” I said suddenly. “I left it back there.” In my mind’s eye I could see it standing on the stump.
“You’ll be the swimmer, then, Jenkins, if you do not hurry,” teased Ed.
I hurried, hearing Ed’s good-natured grumbling about sailors who left things behind. I was not quite able to ignore the spot between my shoulder blades which might draw an arrow as surely as a magnet draws iron. It was then that I heard Ed scream.
I ran, all thoughts of the glass gone from my head. Not into the woods, but back to the edge of the forest, unable to do anything else, running towards the sound of musket fire, the howling of the Indians, the shouting to “Row, row!” and Ed’s horrible shrieks.
He was crawling across the sand, gore streaming down his face, the top of his head an open wound. A shrieking warrior held poor Ed’s scalp in his bloody fist, waving it about triumphantly, droplets of blood spattering into the sand. Beyond the terrible scene was the boat, the men pulling furiously away from shore. I was stranded.
“Run, William!” cried Baldish. “Run or the savages will roast you alive!”
I ran. Away from the sound of Ed’s skull being clubbed into pulp, away from our salvation in the boat. Away from the thudding of the moccasined feet that were now pursuing me. I ran until the breath burned in my lungs and nearly split my side. Still I ran, branches whipping across my face. A musket fired. I felt nothing at first, and then pain bloomed across my calf as blood began to soak my stocking. I staggered, tripped, fell. The image of Ed’s smashed head leapt into my mind. Then my own hair was in someone’s grasp, my head jerked back. I felt cold metal, and a flash of hot bloody pain.
“Akwi!”
It was an Indian, but not an Indian, speaking urgently. A Canadian, I thought through a haze of fear so sharp it stank. Militia. Was he pleading for my life? If so, I wished him all the luck in the world. I could feel my eyes bulging with terror as one of the Indians threatened me with his tomahawk. I held my hands up to protect myself.
“Get up,” the Canadian said in passable English. “Get up before I change my mind and leave you to them, sauvage.”
“Give him to the Abenaki,” said another of the Canadians carelessly. “They deserve trophies, as pitiful as this one is.”
“Non, mon ami,” said the first Canadian. His face was beginning to swim about as my vision blurred. “This one we take to the officers. A little poking. A little prodding. Perhaps a hot coal applied to particularly sensitive parts. He will talk.”
“Are you a deserter?” asked the other Canadian. “If so, you may tell us what you know, and things will go easier for you.”
Ben’s words rose up in my mind. If you are ever taken, do anything you can to survive. But then I remembered what Mr. Cook had said. Without honour, life is meaningless. I did not know which of them was absolutely right. I only knew what I had to say.
“I am not a deserter, sir. I am a loyal servant of King George. Long live the King!” Then I vomited mightily at my captor’s feet.
One of them tied a filthy scarf around my leg, and they pushed me through the woods. The branches of saplings whipped against my face and legs. Then we were in a small clearing on a beach where a party of Indians waited. I knew these must be the Abenaki. They stared at me coldly while the Canadians spoke to them in their own tongue. My own eyes remained on the ground. Insects buzzed around us, as bloodthirsty as the men who had captured me.
“We will wait until dawn before taking you in,” said one of the Canadians. “Try not to die before then, loyal Englishman.”
That is what I did. I sat there in the dirt, my calf throbbing as the night slowly passed. I prayed that rescue would arrive, even though I knew it would not. It would be madness to send men into the forest at night.
* * *
I slept, but it was long in coming, for I wondered if I might be murdered. The Abenaki’s faces had been filled with cold threat. Crickets and night insects sang in the woods, but all I could hear were Ed’s horrible howls when they’d scalped him. Would that same fate be mine?
Finally, when the sun was just coming up, I was ordered to my feet, and we made our way to the beach. Three canoes had been hidden in the bushes. The Abenaki carried them down to the water and launched them. I was motioned to get in. I could see lamps still burning on Pembroke and some of the other ships. Did they think I was dead? Was anyone mourning me? Were my few belongings — and my journal — being sold at the mast right now?
The canoes slid almost silently over the water, driven by the steady paddling of the Abenaki. Pembroke was quickly left behind as we drew closer and closer to what was left of Québec’s lower town. When we drew into a small harbour, the light was bright enough for me to see just how much damage we had done. Not a building was left intact. What had not burned lay in crumbled piles of stone. The whole place smelled of rot and ashes, but most of all it smelled of despair. The streets were filled with rubble, broken furniture, rain-soaked books with their pages all swollen. A child’s doll lay on the cobbles, its cloth head torn off, and again all I could think of was poor Ed and his terrible death. A dog wandered by in search of food, its tail between its legs. I know how you feel, I said to myself.
There was a great flash, and then another and another. We all turned, and that was when I heard the thunder of the British cannons and mortars on Pointe Lévis. One of the Canadians swore in French, cursing all things British.
We left the Abenaki behind. I supposed that they were not permitted in the city, and would go back to their own camp. It was a steep climb up the choked streets and then along a passage that led to the upper town. My calf pulsed in time with every step. Blood was seeping from under the cloth and running into my shoe. The climb was also a fearful one, since not for a minute did the bombs stop falling. Thirty-two-pounders were the biggest of them, and if one of those were to hit us we would be blown to pieces. On the other hand, if the artillerymen decided to load the cannons with jagged chunks of iron and pieces of chain, we would be cut to pieces. The thought made my stomach clench.
It was then that one of the cannonballs struck the side of a building. Jagged bits of stone flew everywhere. I fell to the ground, my ears ringing, my heart pounding. A Canadian dragged me to my feet, heedless of the blood that was running down his cheek from where a shard of stone had struck him. One of his companions lay motionless in the street. The others picked up the body and on we went. I couldn’t help staring at it. That could have been me, I thought grimly. My life over in one second, with one cannonball, just like that.
> As we neared the gate, I could see the silhouettes of soldiers on the wall above us. They called down a greeting and one was shouted up by the Canadians. On we walked through streets that were filled with rubble. Every time a cannonball crashed down, we all cringed and turned away from the bits of wood and stone that pelted down on us. The air became filled with dust and smoke that caused my eyes to water and then run. When I coughed and sniffled, one of my captors sniggered. I suppose he thought I was weeping, but I did not care enough to tell him otherwise.
When we stopped, it was at a small redoubt where a few French soldiers stood at guard. Their white coats were foul with grime, and their faces were fixed.
“What do we have here?” asked a deep voice.
Two men stood in the shadows inside the guardhouse. One of them, an officer, stepped into the doorway. I would learn in time that although he was French, he commanded the Canadian militia.
“An Englishman, Capitaine Vergor,” said one of my captors.
“A British deserter?” asked the captain with interest, his eyes travelling over me. “Welcome to Québec, Monsieur Déserteur.”
“I am no deserter, sir. These men captured me.”
“Who are you?”
“William Jenkins of HMS Pembroke, sir.”
On and on he went, questioning me about the ship and her officers, about what role we had played in the fighting, about what were Wolfe’s plans.
“The general does not confide in me, sir,” I answered honestly. “I am a simple sailor.”
“Simple and useless,” sighed the captain.
“You say you are William Jenkins?” asked a voice from the shadows.
“Yes. William Jenkins of HMS Pembroke, and before that, Halifax,” I said boldly.
“Well, well,” he answered. I thought I heard a snort as he leaned his head to one side and stroked his chin, as though carefully considering something. Then he seemed to smile. “I will take this worthless captive off your hands, Vergor.”
“Why should I allow that? This is a common sailor, not an officer, and only English officers may be given the freedom to roam the city. You know that. Worthless though he is, he might still be of use in ramsoming back one of our own soldiers.”
“He was once a capitaine of sorts. I swear on the sandals of St. Gentian, who is the patron saint of all innkeepers.”
Capitaine Vergor laughed out loud, bent over and slapped his thighs. When he stopped, he wiped his eyes, and said, “Patron saint of innkeepers! How can you keep your sense of humour after all that has happened, my young friend? Well, I commend you.” Then his voice grew more serious. “It would not go well for you if this capitaine of sorts were to escape. Understand that. And he will work. By the sandals, robe, beard and tonsure of your St. Gentian, he will work. There is rubble to be cleared.”
The two bowed to each other, and then the officer walked off. I could hear him chuckling and muttering about St. Gentian as the hobnails on his shoes clicked against the stones.
“Are you here to question me, as well as make false promises of freedom?” I asked my new jailer.
“I am not.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want you, William Jenkins.” When I had no comment, he went on. “You are to be billeted with a friend of my family until the army decides what to do with you. And you will work. I assure you of that. It should be pleasant enough, in spite of the fact that there is no ice house from which to steal ice. We often wondered what became of you.”
“What?” was all I could say in response.
“I said there is no ice house at my employer’s home. Nor are there raised garden beds filled with plump cabbages. The siege has seen to that. But there is friendship and adventure of a sort … if you behave in an honourable manner, Capitaine Rosbif.”
Only one person had ever called me by that name. The speaker took a step forward so that light fell upon his face and the whalebone cross he wore around his neck.
I stared at the birthmark on his cheek. “Vairon?” I whispered. The birthmark was not so small any more, but the shape was the same — a fish.
He smiled and gave a smart bow. “The very same.”
“How is it that you are here? What of your parents? Father and I wondered whether you had been deported with everyone else at Louisbourg.”
Vairon raised his hands for silence. The lace cuffs fell back, and I saw that only the forefinger and thumb remained on his right hand. The fingers of the left were fused together by a disfiguring scar clearly caused by fire. He awkwardly picked up the musket. “All in good time. It is a story better told at a crackling fire than in a prison cell. I must have your word, though.”
“Regarding what?”
“That you will not try to escape from Québec, and that your behaviour will be gentlemanly and honourable.”
I hesitated. It seemed that it was my duty to escape, and if I could not escape, to cause as much mayhem among the enemy as I could. Mr. Cook’s words popped into my mind, as unwanted as a tormenting itch: Without honour, life is meaningless.
But if there was a way to make trouble for the French while doing it honourably, it was beyond me.
“I give you my word,” I said to Vairon, “for the sake of our old friendship, and your offer of hospitality. I will conduct myself with honour, and I will not try to escape. But I do this reluctantly. For the gentlemanly part, I must be honest: It is impossible. You know very well that I am not a gentleman.”
“How could I forget? Capitaine Rosbif always was a scoundrel.”
And so once again it was a good enough beginning.
It was dawn by the time we left the redoubt and walked out into the upper town. Walked is not exactly the correct word to describe how we went along. Vairon walked, but I limped. The townspeople I saw looked weary and thin. Only the children seemed unaffected by the siege. They were as thin as the adults, but unlike them, the children ran about and played, almost as though the greatest army and navy in the world did not crouch at their gates.
Everywhere were the ruins of what once must have been a beautiful town. Windows were shattered, and now their expensive panes of glass lay glittering on the streets. The slate roofs had come crashing down, and many of the buildings’ walls now had gaping holes in them.
We finally stopped in front of a large stable. The stone walls were still standing, and the roof was more or less undamaged. The place smelled of horse and manure, even though not a horse was to be seen. French officers would still have their horses, but almost every other horse would have gone into people’s bellies by now. There were a few tables and chairs where soldiers were drinking and talking amongst themselves. At the end of the building was a hearth where a thin man of middle years was cutting up wizened carrots for a pot of soup.
“Monsieur Fidèle, this is William Jenkins,” explained Vairon, “an English sailor they say we may take in to help clear rubble.”
Monsieur Fidèle gave me a hard look. “I do this only because they will pay me to take you. Otherwise you would continue to cool your heels in that prison of theirs.”
Later that evening, Vairon told me his story. “We left Louisbourg as soon as war was declared,” he began. “Both my parents are safe and well in Montréal. Monsieur Fidèle’s tavern is another matter, though. It was destroyed this July during a night of bombing.” He looked down at his mangled hands. I could picture him fighting through the flames, clawing his way through burning timbers, shouting out for help. “They say I should thank God that He spared me. Too bad my hands could not have been spared as well. I am in the militia, but all but useless in battle. So goes life, eh?”
“I am sorry,” I said helplessly.
“As am I for the passing of your father. You and he were once our friends. I have not forgotten that.”
“Neither have I,” I said truthfully. “Even though at the moment I am your prisoner.” We both laughed at that.
Chapter 8
August 28, 1759
It was a strange sort of captivity, but better than being enslaved by the Abenaki. My wound healed cleanly. The ball had passed right through without touching the bone, though the leg was still sore enough to leave me with a considerable limp — especially as each day I pushed a wooden wheelbarrow from behind the stable out onto the street where Fidèle’s house had once stood. I swept up glass and shovelled up rubble. With my bare hands I loaded the wheelbarrow with chunks of stone and broken pieces of slate. Privately, I believed this to be an entire waste of time. What was the point in cleaning up the damage when each night the British cannonballs only caused more. But it seemed to give Fidèle some satisfaction. “I must clean it up,” he would shout from the door of the stable. He intended to rebuild his home once the British had gone. At night when I lay in the hayloft where we made our beds, I sometimes wondered if the war had not driven Monsieur Fidèle just a little mad.
If it was madness, it did not stop him from thinking up endless errands for us. The man never stopped needing something. Tobacco, brandy, sausage — all things Vairon purchased from soldiers. He also made purchases from the servants of wealthy people, goods that I strongly suspected had been stolen. These things he sold to various customers, which explained in part why he was so popular. Vairon’s favourite source of goods was Governor General Vaudreuil.
“He will not miss any of it, and if he does, that is his problem. Vaudreuil is a worse scoundrel than Capitaine Rosbif, you know,” Vairon told me.
“Is that possible?”
“Definitely. He and our swine of an intendant, Bigot, have been looting Canada for years. All the goods that come to Québec have always gone into the hands of Bigot or Vaudreuil, and the prices they charge for goods would make a stone weep.”
“Far worse than Rosbif, I would say.”
We would walk here and there, Vairon with his musket cradled in his arms. Although he could barely fire it now, it was too much a part of him to leave behind. It was on one of these errands that we came upon a crowd lined up on either side of the street. Everyone was cheering, old men were weeping with joy, and women were holding up their babies to see the amazing sight — at least, I assumed it was amazing from the way everyone was acting. And now, I suppose it was, although at that moment I only saw a line of French soldiers marching behind a man on a horse.
Storm the Fortress Page 6
