Shadowbrook

by Swerling, Beverly

  Robby sat on the cold ground staring at the East River lapping at the wharves, and at the masts of vessels anchored a bit offshore, listening to the sounds from the shed. A fair amount of time went by during which he heard only the grunts and groans of the white master, and something he couldn’t quite place until he recognized it as the sound of retching. He grinned when he thought about what it likely was the little Ibo was choking on, but it was a long time after that before he heard Taba’s first moan of pain. Then a few little screams, followed by one long one. Not so bad, he told himself. Wimmins always screams the first time. Only thing is, why she be goin’ on screamin’ that way? Going to wake the tars as is drowned in this here river since the beginning of time, she is, the way she’s screaming. Ain’t no fuck, first or fifteenth, is worth screams like that. Never mind. Ain’t Robby’s job to worry about a little Ibo is maybe getting more than she should the first time. Robby’s job is to keep the slaves in line while they’s in the pens and on the block. Long as Robby do that, the bullwhip stay in his hand not on his back. But those is some screams. Some screams.

  There was no resistance when he finally threw her down on the corncob mattress and shoved himself inside her, and not a drop of blood in evidence a few moments later when he pulled out. “Little bitch,” he muttered. “You weren’t a virgin after all.”

  He’d make her scream, by God. And bleed, too. He picked up the coal shovel and rammed the handle into her vagina. Three times, four, all his strength behind each thrust. When he staggered back, gasping for breath and breathing hard, sweat pouring off him, he saw a narrow rivulet of blood making its way down her thin little thigh. “What do you think of that, then? Better then a cock, is it? Want some more?” She was silent, her face wearing that look of total apartness, as if she were not present. “I’ll make you scream, you bitch slave.”

  A pair of iron tongs hung on the wall beside the fire. John grabbed them, and snatched up a red-hot coal. For the first time Taba’s eyes betrayed her feelings. Not just fear but terror. She gasped and tried to roll off the cot, but he hurled himself on top of her pinning her in place with his knee. Then he pressed the live coal to her budding left breast and held it in place until the stench of roasting flesh filled his nostrils and Taba’s screams filled the night.

  Chapter Fifteen

  MONDAY, APRIL 26, 1755

  QUÉBEC LOWER TOWN

  THE ICY COLD rain pelted down mixed with snow, and to Philippe Faucon it tasted of salt. New France. God grant he might see the real France again someday before he died. In Versailles in April the gardens were greening and spring flowers bloomed. The air of April was like a caress in Versailles, and the rain was sweet and full of summer promise.

  He huddled deeper into the heavy black cloak. It had been given him by Monsieur le Provincial especially for this journey, but it had been made for a shorter man; the folds ended well above his knees and the lower half of his soutane was sodden. Philippe turned and glanced upward, shading his eyes with his hand to protect them from the slanted sheets of rain. The Upper Town was shrouded in cloud. He could not make out the steeples of the Collège des Jésuites, or the cathedral or seminary. Even the château of the bishop—much below the fortresses atop the hill—was obscured. The whole of Québec appeared to have disappeared and left nothing but these impoverished shacks clinging to the bank of the half-frozen St. Lawrence.

  The river lapped noisily at the place the priest stood, a small wharf at the northern end of the harbor, upriver from the places where larger boats moored. The ice floes of winter were beginning to break up, enough so there was a passage over to Pointe-Lévis on the opposite bank, but the water was turbulent and angry and rough with whitecaps. The falling rain stabbed the surface like a hail of arrows. An hour he’d been standing here in the wet and cold and still no sign of the small craft Monsieur le Provincial had told him to expect. Blessed Mother of God, he was chilled to the bone.

  The deerskin envelope with his sketchbooks crayons, and pens was clutched close to his heart beneath the cloak. A black leather satchel containing his clothes and his breviary, and a chalice and paten so that he might offer Holy Mass, was on the ground at his feet. A last look at the empty river, then Philippe hoisted the satchel and turned toward the town; there must be somewhere to wait out of the rain. The boatman knew he was collecting a Jesuit. He would come looking rather than incur the wrath of the powerful black robes.

  A single cobbled street lined with fishermen’s cottages fronted on the river, but no fishwife opened her door to beckon the priest inside. The habitants of the Lower Town were caught between the temperamental St. Lawrence from which they must wrest a living and the demands of the priests up on the hill who claimed dominion over their souls. They might not love the diocesan priests, but they thought of the black robes as arrogant oppressors.

  Philippe turned into a narrow alley at the end of the road. He looked for an innkeeper’s sign, hoping for a petite bière. He had not developed a real taste for the local brew, a powerful concoction of spruce, molasses, ginger, and Jamaica pepper, but it would warm him on a day like this. One door was marked with a rough cross that appeared to have been hacked into the raw wood with an axe. Mère de Dieu! Of course, the monastery of the Poor Clares. Philippe pushed and the door opened.

  The public chapel was long and narrow, lit only by two small windows close to the ceiling, and largely empty except for a few battered prie-dieu scattered randomly about. It was only slightly warmer than the street outside, but at least he was out of the rain. Philippe blessed himself in thanksgiving and genuflected in the direction of the tabernacle. There was a strong smell of incense and burning candles. He heard the murmur of voices “Mystical Rose, ora pro nobis. Mother of Divine Providence, ora pro nobis, Mother of Mercy, ora pro nobis.” Philippe dropped to his knees on a prie-dieu and murmured the responses along with the unseen nuns. “Mother of all graces, ora pro nobis, Mother of Divine Hope, ora pro nobis. Mother of the Seraphic Order, ora pro nobis.”

  There were faint rustling sounds from behind the grille and the nuns began to chant. It sounded like the chirping of birds rather than a melodious monastic choir. “Quinque prudentes virgines aptate lampades vestras …” The five wise virgins took their lamps and went to meet the Bridegroom.

  Up on the hill it was said that the Poor Clares had a postulant, so they were six wise virgins these days. Or maybe not so wise. The damp was seeping into his bones. It was hard to imagine living walled into this hovel, forever separated from a big roaring fire, or a roast of beef turning on a spit, or even a glass of decent Burgundy. “Veni sponsa Christi …” Come, bride of Christ, accept the crown that has been prepared for you.

  Today Nicole took the habit. She had imagined that as a bride she would wear flowers in her hair. Quent will wait in the Frolic Ground and I will come down the stairs of the big house, wearing a gown of lawn and lace sashed with ribbons, and there will be flowers in my hair. There were few flowers in bloom in Québec in April. Soeur Marie Françoise, the keeper of the tiny garden behind the monastery walls. She had scoured the small square of earth and managed to find only three snowdrops and a few greening twigs. These she had woven together with some twine for Nicole’s hair.

  “What do you ask?” Père Antoine asked.

  “Mon Père, I beg you for the love of God to admit me to the Second Seraphic Order, that I may do penance, amend my life, and serve God feithfully unto death.”

  Nicole wore the simple gray Poor Clare robe with the wide sleeves and the knotted white cord at the waist. As a postulant she had been given black felt slippers, now she was barefoot That first day with Quent, when he threw her into the stream to stop her hysterics, she’d told him she wanted to be barefoot. Instead, later, when they were at Shadowbrook, he had given her moccasins of soft white leather, and put them on her feet with his own hands. His fingers had traveled up the calves of her legs and touched her knees and then … Madame Hale will open the door of the house and I will step onto the gr
eat front verandah, then walk past the chestnut tree with the wooden bench circling the trunk Quent will be waiting for me in the Frolic Ground. He will smile and put out his hand. I will take it.”

  Soeur Marie Joseph stepped from her choir stall and bowed deeply toward the altar and the tabernacle that contained the Sacred Host, then took her position at the cantor’s lectern. “O quam pulchra est … “she sang in her dear and lovely voice. How beautiful it is to choose to be forever virgin, a sacrifice of praise.

  Thank God she did not have to chant with her sisters. Nicole’s throat was closed and her mouth was dry. Because I am so happy, she told herself. I am filled with joy because today I give myself entirely to le bon Dieu. From now on she was no longer a postulant whose vocation was being tested, but a novice, a nun in training. In the Frolic Ground everyone will cheer when the wedding ceremony ends. Then my great red bear of a husband—called Uko Nyakwai by the Indians and my dearest darling by me—will kiss his bride. How insistent are the lips of my beloved, how sure when he takes what is rightly his.

  Mère Marie Rose left her choir stall. Nicole bent her head. The abbess removed the crown of flowers and little Soeur Marie Angelique brought the scissors. They were long and very sharp, with oversize handles that had once been painted bright blue but were now chipped and faded. Mère Marie Rose took them in her right hand, with her left lifted a hank of Nicole’s black hair, and cut it as close to the scalp as possible. Angelique held open a small drawstring bag to receive Nicole’s curls. Two days before, when it was certain Nicole would remain in the monastery, the gray Quaker dress she’d worn when she entered had been cut up to be used for cleaning rags. A small piece had been kept aside and given to Nicole to stitch a suaire à cheveux, as the nuns called it, a shroud for her hair. Later, at the festive recreation period that would celebrate her new status, Nicole would throw the suaire à cheveux and its contents onto the fire.

  The abbess snipped from forehead to nape of the neck and crosswise from ear to ear. Her scissors missed nothing. Nicole thought she must look like a lamb after shearing. Or perhaps the funny little hairless dog Grandmère always carried around in a bag. Soeur Celeste came forward and offered the abbess two folded squares of white linen. Mère Rose took the one on top and gathered the fabric in her hands and fitted it to the new nun. The wimple covered Nicole’s head and neck and most of her forehead, allowing only her face to show. The abbess laced it tightly in the back “Quia concupivit Rex speciem tuam,” Soeur Joseph sang. Thy beauty now is all for the King’s delight.

  Marie Rose’s hand trembled slightly when she added the white veil and pinned it in place over the wimple. I am a foolish old woman, she thought, not worthy to be an abbess of the Poor Clares. But you have chosen me, mon Dieu, and you have chosen this child as well. And you have given to me the task of making her a saint so that many souls may be saved. I swear to you I will not fail.

  “Vent sponsa Christi,” the nuns chanted. Come bride of Christ, accept the crown that has been prepared for you. The abbess put both her hands on the shoulders of the new novice. “From this day forward, you will be known as Soeur Marie Stephane,” the abbess said. Nicole had been named for the Church’s first martyr, the man who soon after the Crucifixion had been stoned to death for proclaiming Jesus Christ the Messiah, the Promised One, the Son of God. St. Stephane had a very high place in heaven, the Church taught, because he had suffered so intensely for the glory of the Faith.

  Mère Rose helped the new nun to her feet and led her to the door to the public chapel. She unlocked it and opened it wide. “Vous pouvez aller si vous voulez,” the abbess said. “Vous êtes libre.” You can go if you wish. You are free.

  Nicole turned to face the congregation. In the ordinary way of things she would have had family and friends come to see her make this most solemn commitment. If she were in France, perhaps, and if Maman had lived and poor Papa—There was a man in the back of the public chapel. A black robe. She had never seen him before, but Nicole addressed her words to him simply because he was there. “I, Nicole Marie Francine Winifred Anne Crane, make this decision freely, with no coercion and for no reason other than the love of Almighty God.” It was so long since she had spoken all the names that had been given to her at baptism and Confirmation she had almost forgotten them. No matter. She did not have to remember them any longer. “From this day forward I am Soeur Marie Stephane.”

  Philippe could tell the girl was beautiful even though much of her face was covered by the wimple and the veil. And she looked … what? Not radiant exactly. Determined. Alors, it would take a strong will indeed to voluntarily lock yourself up in this barren place.

  Nicole turned back to Mère Marie Rose, who had lowered her black veil over her face. The new nun knelt and the abbess put out both hands. Nicole lay hers on them. “I swear by Almighty God that henceforth you will be my mother and I will be your child. I will obey you in all things, unhesitatingly and with all my heart and soul. I swear this au nom du Père, et du Fils, et du Sant-Esprit,” she added. A solemn promise made in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

  The abbess made a large sign of the cross in the air over Nicole’s head. “Come inside, my daughter,” she said softly. “Your beauty now is all for the King’s delight.”

  An hour later the rain had stopped. There was a thin sliver of blue in the gray sky, even a few sunbeams, when Philippe made his way aboard the small boat that had at last arrived. The man who owned it sailed regularly between Québec and Pointe-Lévis. “Sorry to keep you waiting, monsieur. But we have had much to contend with today.”

  Philippe had never had good sea legs. The crossing to Canada from France had been hell, nine weeks of extraordinary penance. This journey would take less than an hour, but already he felt the nausea beginning in his belly and a bitter taste rising in his mouth. “The weather, you mean?”

  “Not the storm alone. Word is that the English are sending a fleet to intercept our shipping. We must be careful not to sail anywhere near where they may be.”

  “But surely Britain and France are not at war.” The letter behind the angel with the folded wings had promised some six thousand troops in the late spring when the river was entirely navigable. If there were English ships in these waters, they were here for the purpose of intercepting those troops. But no one was supposed to know about the soldiers being sent to Québec.

  The sailor was busy casting off the lines that tethered the boat to the dock. “We are not at war with the English yet, but the way they’re all talking we may as well be.”

  “Then this is to be a dangerous journey?”

  “To Pointe-Lévis? No, I wouldn’t think so. Supposed to be a Mi’kmaq waiting to guide you the rest of the way to Fort Beauséjour. As to the danger …” The old seaman shrugged. “In this life who can say anything for sure, eh? But perhaps your black robe will protect you. Almighty God looks after Jesuits, no?” The sailor crossed himself ostentatiously. “Better find somewhere to lash those things you brought with you. Looks like the rain’s coming back. Maybe even a real blow.”

  The little boat was rocking back and forth. Philippe maintained a white-knuckled grip on the rail that topped the bulwark. To make his way across the deck seemed impossible. Lord, I know Monsieur le Provincial speaks with Your voice. Since he is sending me to Pointe-Lévis and then to l’Acadie, it is truly Your will that I go.

  The Acadians live under nominal English rule, the Provincial had told him, but they are true to the Faith, and in their way, true to King Louis. You will reinforce those directions of their hearts, my son. You will strengthen them in resistance to heresy and heretical allegiance.

  Philipe gribbed the rail. I wish always to follow the instructions of my superior, Lord, but I do not know how I am to do such wonders as he commands. Eh bien, I am content to wait and find out. Only grant that I do not disgrace myself on the journey. He’d no sooner made the prayer when he had to lean over the side and vomit.

  MONDAY, M
AY 10, 1755

  FORT CUMBERLAND, ON THE BORDER BETWEEN MARYLAND AND THE OHIO COUNTRY

  “We meet again, Colonel Washington.”

  “So we do, Mr. Hale.”

  “Quent.”

  “Ah yes, you prefer that. Excuse me, I’d forgotten.”

  Both men were more interested in their surroundings than in each other. What they were looking at was a miracle of sorts. A huge clearing surrounded a vast fortified enclosure fenced by God knew how many felled oaks and murdered chestnuts. There were ramparts, barracks, magazines, walls pierced with loopholes just large enough for a single musket, and ten embrasures fitted with small cannon. Wills Creek, one of the first English trading posts of the Ohio Country, had become Fort Cumberland, marshaling place for the force being assembled under the command of Major General Edward Braddock of His Majesty’s Coldstream Guards.

  “A bit different than when you last saw it, I warrant.” There was pride in Washington’s voice.

  “A bit,” Quent agreed. “And not what I expected. I heard that both Braddock’s regiments arrived shy at least two hundred men.”

  That didn’t seem likely, judging from the bustle around them. A river of redcoats flowed through a heaving mass of provincial militia wearing the uniforms of Pennsylvania, Virginia, and Maryland and the different forms of transport that would carry them into battle. A group of young men dressed in the workaday outfits they wore on the farms and in the towns was assembled on the parade ground. They were the latest colonial recruits to become members of the Forty-fourth and Forty-eighth Foot, the pair of regiments Braddock had brought to the New World. A redcoat whose face dripped sweat beneath his bearskin was drilling them in marching order.