by Philip Roy
It was crowded. I ended up giving my window seat to a young lady travelling with her mother. Now I was boxed in and couldn’t see much out the window. And so I buried my head in my book. It was a copy of Voltaire’s English Essays, in which he praises the English parliamentary system and criticizes the French monarchy. This was the book that had been banned in France, and the reason Voltaire had been imprisoned in the Bastille. Even so, there were copies being quietly handed around and I had borrowed one from an English friend of mine who played violin. Voltaire really cared about France and its people. You could tell by the way he wrote. Yes, his ideas were revolutionary, but that’s what was so exciting. Real change would take courage. And Voltaire was courageous. Even the King had been unable to shut him up. As I stared out through the little patch of window, I thought how much more noble it would be to die for a revolutionary idea than for a senseless war.
As I slowly read and re-read pages of the book, which wasn’t easy with the coach swaying and bouncing along the road, a rather angry-looking man across from me was watching. He wasn’t really paying attention. He was sleepy. He did not strike me as an educated man, but after an hour or so his gaze slowly slid across the cover of my book. I watched as his eyes suddenly opened wide, and a look of disgust appeared on his face.
“Hey!” he barked. “What rubbish is this?”
He jumped to his feet. All in one motion he grabbed the book out of my hands, leaned across the lap of the young lady without excusing himself, opened the window and threw the book out. He sat back down with such an angry expression I didn’t dare say a word.
“Heretic!” he yelled at me.
The next thing that happened surprised me even more. The man to my right, a well-dressed, elderly man, raised his cane and bumped against the roof of the coach, ordering the riders to stop. The coach came to a halt with lots of noise and shaking of the horses. The older man stepped out and held the door. Very politely he said to me, “Go. Fetch your book.”
“No!” screamed the other man. “I will not ride in a coach with a heretic!”
I saw him reach clumsily for the hilt of his sword, but the elderly man drew his own sword so quickly it appeared as if by magic. He bowed and apologized to the ladies, then politely said, “If Monsieur feels so strongly, perhaps he would like to take a moment to step outside the coach.”
The angry man took his hand away from the hilt of his sword and looked away, mumbling under his breath.
“My young scholar,” the older man said to me, “fetch your book.”
Excusing myself, I hopped out of the coach, ran down the road and found my book. I wiped the mud off it, straightened up its cover and put it into my pocket. Then I returned to the coach, thanked the elderly man and took my seat. As we resumed our journey, the man opposite me sat burning up with rage. If ever a man could have exploded out of anger it would have been him. At the next exchange of horses he left the coach and stayed behind to wait for another. He said he would not ride with heretics and traitors and swore that we were all damned to burn in Hell. I found it amazing that a single book could stir up so much anger, especially when the offended man had probably never even read it.
At St. Malo the ship sat in the harbour like a floating bee’s nest. Sailors climbed all over it, loading it and preparing it for sea. At first glance I shook my head. Something about it didn’t look seaworthy to me, even though I didn’t know anything about sailing and had never even been on a boat before. There was nothing quick-looking about it; it just looked heavy, stumpy and slow. For two days they continued loading it until I thought it was going to sink. I smiled when they picked up my chest and carried it on board.
Finally, my father boarded the ship with his regiment and all were given sleeping quarters below deck. As I watched the soldiers march on board I thought the ship would sink for sure. Then I began to realize that there was a relationship between wood and water that was beyond all manner of reason. A ship was to a sailor what a donkey was to a farmer – a beast of burden.
I had to confess there was a moment, just a brief moment, when we first came under sail – when the ship cleared the harbour and caught its first gust of wind with full sails – when I felt a tinge of excitement. I felt the pull of the ship beneath my feet. I turned and looked at my father. He was as excited as a child.
“How now, Jacques?” he yelled.
I smiled a little. I couldn’t help it. A few hours later we were barely out of sight of land when I fell into the worst case of seasickness anyone ever had. Thus began the worst month of my entire life. I felt so sick with the movement of the sea that I truly wanted to die. Night and day I lay on my bunk, except when my father forced me to my feet and onto the deck for fresh air. I wanted to die, just die and put an end to the terrible sickness in my head and stomach.
But I didn’t die. Neither did I improve. At first my father was understanding. He laughed and said, “The sea will do you good. Give you the stomach of a man.” But after a week or so of my lying around whimpering like a dog, I think he began to feel embarrassed for me. “Come on, Jacques! Pull yourself together. Find the man inside of yourself!”
I didn’t care. I didn’t care about his stupid fortress or stupid war or stupid ideas of what a man was supposed to be, I just wanted to get off that cursed, floating nightmare. Halfway across the Atlantic, which I was beginning to believe stretched on forever and ever, and just when I thought things could never get worse … they did.
I had soiled my clothes with sickness and my father went looking through my chest to find more. I never knew he was looking. He found the chest. Then, he found the violoncello. Filled with frustration and shame on my account, he broke into a rage when he saw the instrument taking up so much space, space that might have been filled with the muskets, pistols and swords of a “real” man going to war. He never said a word to me, just passed by with the body of the violoncello in one hand, the neck and bow in the other. I clambered out of bed after him. By the time I reached the deck he was already at the stern of the ship. I had hardly eaten in weeks, and my legs were wobbly. I made a desperate attempt to catch him, to yell at him to stop, but I was too late. Raising the violoncello above his head, he threw it overboard into the sea. The wind howled like a demon as the violoncello disappeared beneath the waves without a sound.
We didn’t talk anymore after that. He occasionally barked a few orders at me and I obeyed, but I never looked at him or answered. I was fully prepared to suffer a whipping if he insisted on giving me one, and I think he realized that. Perhaps he felt he had gone too far. I never knew. My seasickness cleared up shortly afterwards. Something changed inside of me too, though I didn’t know what it was. My father, no doubt, must have thought it was a change towards manhood. But that was the last time we ever made direct eye contact.
Well … there would be one more time.
Chapter Four
The redcoat stood on the ice and raised his musket. The deer turned her head with concern. She sensed his presence but was hearing sound from all directions and was confused. For two days the temperature had risen above freezing and the woods were filled with the anticipation of spring. The soldier braced himself and took careful aim. How pleased he would be to provide fresh meat for his companions. He placed his finger on the trigger and made one final guess for the wind.
At that very moment, Two-feathers let his arrow fly. The arrow sliced through the air and struck the bough directly above the deer. She bolted. The soldier followed her with his eye and pulled the trigger. The musket fired with a sharp concussion that echoed through the woods but missed its target. The noise angered the river. It opened up the ice directly beneath the soldier and swallowed him, musket and all. Two-feathers watched as the redcoat slipped beneath the ice without a trace. It happened too quickly and he was too far away to try to save him. The ice straightened itself and there was nothing left but the redcoat’s track
s in the snow.
Two-feathers waited until the other redcoats came looking for their hunter. He saw them follow his tracks onto the river and wondered how many more the angry spirit would take. There were only five of them left. When they reached the end of their companion’s tracks the river opened again and grabbed at two of them, but the others held on and fought for them. As they fought bravely, the angry spirit let them go.
The redcoats returned to their camp shouting and shaking their heads. They were angry with the river spirit and afraid of it. Perhaps they would not go any further now. But Two-feathers would. It was the third time he had rescued the young doe and now he knew she was definitely following him, or perhaps leading him. Now that she had crossed the frozen river, he would also.
As twilight descended and the redcoats drowned their sorrow in poisonous drink, Two-feathers went to the river’s edge and asked for safe crossing. The river spirit refused. He explained that he needed to cross the river in order to follow the spirit of his mother, who had taken the form of a deer. The river spirit was silent. It was considering his request. Suddenly a wind gusted from behind and pushed him forwards. Two-feathers took this as a sign of permission. Standing tall, he walked boldly across the ice. He knew it was important to show that he was not afraid. If the river spirit detected any weakness in his courage it would swallow him instantly.
On the other side he did not see the doe but found her tracks. That was enough. He was certain she would appear to him again.
He found a gully, cut spruce boughs for his bed, made a fire and roasted a rabbit. The meat was tender and filling, yet not completely satisfying. Always in the spring he felt a hunger for the fruits of summer, the cranberries, blackberries, blueberries, apples, tubers and chestnuts. In the winter he ate like a fox, feasting on rabbits, pigeons and partridge. In the summer he ate like a bear, scooping salmon from the river and berries from the fields. Winter was a time of survival. Summer was a time of replenishing. Only the summertime provided the nourishment he needed to stay healthy and strong.
Two-feathers lay down in his bed and pulled the boughs around him. He drifted off to sleep dreaming of the young doe standing in a field of cranberries. In his dream, she spoke to him, with the voice of his mother.
“I have come to you,” she said, “to give your heart rest. I want you to know that, though I died young, I am content where I am. I am happy. You must not worry for me.”
The dream was pleasant and comforting but not the only visitation he received that night. Some time later, in the dead of night, he heard the howl of a wolf. But this was not a dream. It was a rare sound in the woods. Ever since the coming of warriors from beyond the sea, the wolf was rarely heard and almost never seen. And yet, Two-feathers recognized the howl instantly. He had no doubt it was an angry spirit coming to frighten him, to make him turn back. As he lay still and listened to the howls growing closer, he had to fight down his fear. He was no match against a full-grown wolf, especially in the dark. How he wished he had kept the fire going and had gathered more wood. If he kept a roaring fire through the night he might have held the wolf off from attacking until morning. But it was too late now.
The wolf’s howl was very close. Of all the sounds that haunted the woods, it was the most frightening. It was a sound that spread hopelessness and fear. Two-feathers felt a shiver go up his spine. He scarcely breathed. Then, he heard the punch of paws in the snow. They were so heavy. The wolf had found his sleeping berth. Next came the sound of violent breathing as the beast sniffed at his spruce-bough cocoon. And then … the growl. It was low and deep and terrifying, designed to scare the courage out of every living creature.
But Two-feathers was a warrior. If he were going to die, he would die a warrior, not a coward. Responding to the wolf’s intimidation, he raised a growl from within his own chest. He didn’t even hear it himself, so consumed was he with setting loose a growl more vicious than the wolf’s own. Two-feathers’ growl told the wolf that he was a great warrior about to rise from his sleep and take his long knife and strike the wolf down and slay him and skin him and wear his fur and dangle his teeth in a chain of decoration. All of this Two-feathers communicated in a single growl, with the greatest conviction of his life.
And he really would have risen out of his bed and struck at the wolf with all his skill. And likely he would have died. But he was never given the chance to find out. The wolf was satisfied that Two-feathers was a worthy opponent. There was no need to spill blood to prove anything. And the thought of its teeth dangling in a neckpiece did not especially appeal to the beast. There were many delicious creatures in the woods that would not be nearly so much trouble to catch and eat. So the wolf snorted and moved on. Two-feathers breathed deeply and tried to relax. The creation of such a powerful growl had exhausted him and caused his body to break out in a sweat. He shivered for a long time until his limbs finally dried and warmed again and he was able to fall back to sleep.
In the morning the doe appeared once again. Two-feathers was glad to see that she had also escaped the hunger of the wolf. But something in the look of her was different. It was as if she carried an impatience, as if where she was leading him was now not so far away. Was this, he wondered, why the spirit of the wolf had visited him; to scare him away from what he would discover today?
He followed the doe through the morning, catching glimpses of her twice and staying steadily on her tracks until they came to a great oak, an enormous tree of many generations’ growth. Such a tree would surely be visited by rich and benevolent spirits. Two-feathers stood and admired the tree for a long time, offering words of respect. In its branches the voices of birds sang the song of spring, while below on the ground the ice and snow had melted away from its great trunk, revealing yellowed grass with a hint of green. Two-feathers was in awe. It was as if he had discovered the very origin of spring.
A closer look at the tree revealed an opening on one side. The trunk contained a cavity large enough for a small person to crawl inside. Gripping the wet bark with both hands, he stuck his head in. His heart beat wildly. He knew he had come to a sacred place. After a moment’s adjustment to the darkness inside the tree, he opened his eyes and stared. There, curled up like an infant, was his beloved mother.
Chapter Five
On the third of May, 1744, we sailed into Louisbourg Harbour. If this was spring in the New World I wasn’t very impressed. It was cold and damp, and I couldn’t see anything but rocks and a few stubby bushes. There wasn’t a single flower to be seen, or even a tree. There were tree stumps but no trees. There were many cannon pointed in our direction as we glided into the harbour. Several were fired to announce our arrival. It was a wonder they didn’t sink us right then and there. I had only one thought in my head – to get off that cursed ship and never set foot upon one again. That left me with a problem, of course – how to return to France. For the time being, I decided not to think about it.
The soldiers on the ship were shouting, and the people on the quay were yelling, groping at the air and waving their arms. We dropped anchor, lowered our rowboats and rowed to shore. I saw when we got closer that the people were not yelling out of excitement as much as desperation. They were more interested in the food and supplies we were carrying than the pleasure of our company.
I followed my father onto the quay. We were met by the Governor of Louisbourg, no less, and a few other local dignitaries, who stood out from the people like flowers amongst weeds. The Governor, in particular, looked out of place. He carried himself with an air of exasperation or illness, as if his being here was by accident. The people around him were very rough – soldiers and fishermen mostly. Their children were worse. They were straggly and unkempt. Not a single person struck me as having the strength, the will, nor the ferocity to defend the fortress against the English. They looked already defeated.
We were introduced to the Governor briefly; then to Monsieur Anglaise, a
rich merchant who was staying with the Governor; then to the Master Engineer – a man my father liked a lot; and to the fortress priest – a man my father appeared to hate. I found the priest rather grim myself, but everyone seemed rather grim. I didn’t realize that they were practically starving. The arrival of our ship was their salvation.
I was given a bed in a barracks – my father insisted; he wanted me to experience the soldier’s life – but he stayed at the Master Engineer’s house across the street. I could tell from the way engineers were treated that they were held in high regard in Louisbourg. They were the creators of the fortress’s impenetrable defence system. I didn’t see what was so impenetrable about it; the walls were just heavy blocks of stone. And the stone looked soft, as if it would crumble if you hit it hard enough.
The Governor lived in his own residence above the town. It was surrounded by a wall and moat. Entrance to his courtyard was gained through one gate only, across a drawbridge guarded by soldiers. No one passed through the gate without the Governor’s official consent, but it was the guards who decided who would receive the Governor’s consent and who wouldn’t.
After a few days of settling in, during which time I never even saw my father, so busy was he preparing to refortify the fortress, I was called to the Governor’s residence. A young servant, just a boy, came into the barracks first thing in the morning and shook my shoulder gently. I couldn’t imagine why the Governor would want to see me.
As I left my bed and followed the boy through the cobblestone streets I realized that the supplies of our ship had already raised the spirits of the people. I saw it on their faces in the street. Gone was the dull greyness. In its place were rosy cheeks, laughter and a skip in their step. We had also brought news of war. This raised the spirits of many too. I couldn’t imagine why.
