Promises to Keep

by Genevieve Graham

  “All done for the day?” Fitch asked. He bent slightly and spat a wad of something into the grass near Connor’s hand.

  Connor resisted the urge to flinch. It was difficult enough to understand the man’s thick accent, but did he always have to speak through a mouthful of something?

  “Shouldn’t you be busy somewhere, Corporal?”

  “No, sir. I’ve completed my work for the day.”

  Fitch seemed to consider this, then he spat again and eased down beside Connor. “I’ll be glad when we’re done here,” he said snidely, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

  “Do you not fancy the countryside?”

  “Not a bit. Too . . .” Fitch narrowed his eyes, searching for a word. When it finally came to him, he nodded. “Too quiet.”

  Connor resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

  “And the women, well, ain’t seen but a few what aren’t mopseys. All these big, strong farmers ought to produce more females is what.”

  Connor was impressed by the stupidity of the comment. “Families here are large enough. I’ve seen homes with more than ten children, and I expect half of those are lassies.”

  Fitch rocked back and let out a knowing bark of laughter, catching himself with one hand on the grass when he lost his balance. “That’s true enough. Rutting Frenchmen everywhere. Disgusting, really.” He hesitated. “Not to say I’d not relish a good romp should the opportunity arise.”

  Connor was glad the night was closing in on them. He didn’t want to watch Fitch’s face, and he didn’t want the sergeant to see his own.

  The man jabbed Connor in the ribs with his elbow. “I’d not walk away if I found myself alone with one of those young French things.”

  Connor refused to take the bait, though his thoughts had gone directly to Amélie.

  “Come to think of it . . .” Fitch lifted a sparse eyebrow at Connor. “I should very much like to get my hands—”

  Connor pushed to his feet, carrying his boots with him. He was simply unable to remain a moment longer in the man’s presence. “If you’ll excuse me, Sergeant. I’m to meet Corporal Brandt—”

  “Now? Must you go now? I only just arrived!”

  “Afraid so, sir. He’ll be waiting.”

  Connor had no such appointment, but he strode hastily from the little spot, ducking under a low hanging branch. He was distracted, imagining Fitch’s rage at being abandoned, so he didn’t hear the swishing of grass growing louder behind him. Before he could make a sound or lift a hand, he was wrestled behind a shrub, far from any suggestion of help. He landed flat on his back, a knife pressed to his throat. A familiar face loomed over him.

  “André Belliveau,” Connor exclaimed, astonished.

  He had assumed the two missing Belliveaus were far from here, hiding in the forest with the Indians, but Amélie’s oldest brother wasn’t dressed like a Mi’kmaq. He wore a white coat with blue trim, marking him as a French fighter.

  André added weight to his blade. He straddled Connor, pinning his arm to the ground with one knee.

  “It is good you remember who I am, because I know who you are as well, Corporal MacDonnell.” André’s eyes narrowed. “I have seen you with my sister.”

  Connor swallowed, and he felt the knife’s sharp edge ride the movement.

  “I have a decision to make, soldier,” André informed him. “I could slice your throat and leave you here—or not.” The Acadian’s blue eyes were hard, his brow slick with sweat. Connor doubted he was bluffing. “Fortunately for you, I am a good Christian. Because of that I will choose the second option and hope I am right. But in return, I demand a promise from you.”

  The sharp pain of the Acadian’s knee on his arm was distracting, and Connor could not wriggle free. “What is it?”

  “You know my sister.” André waited, but Connor did not speak. This was uncertain ground. “Fine. You do not need to confirm that which I already know. What you do need to know is that I detest your army with every drop of my blood. It has come here and torn my family apart, and I would be happy to see it destroyed. But you . . .” He drew in a breath, and Connor heard the effort it took. Emotion was creeping into the young man’s voice though it did not show on his face. “Well, you have caught Amélie’s eye, which tells me you might not be entirely wicked.”

  Connor held so still he barely breathed.

  “We all have options in life,” André continued. “Yours are clear. You are in a position where you can can either protect my family or you can follow your colonel’s despicable orders. I am asking you to do the right thing, Englishman. In return for your life today, you will look after Amélie and the others. Keep them safe since I cannot do it myself.”

  “That decision has already been made.” Connor’s voice was hoarse. “I swear it to you, as I have already sworn to Amélie. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  At that, André’s pale eyebrows lifted. “That I do not believe. You speak Winslow’s words, and those are words which must be feared.”

  “But they are not mine. Right now, as I look you in the eye, I speak the truth. These words are my own.”

  André hesitated, giving Connor a brief opportunity to study him. He saw Amélie in the thin line of his lips, but more than that, he saw their father.

  The knife lifted, and a moment later the agonizing pressure eased off his arm. André stood, staring down at him.

  “If you fail, MacDonnell, I will hunt you down and I will kill you. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  They held each other’s stare a moment longer, anchoring the vow between them. Then Belliveau was gone, vanished into the tall grass.

  TWELVE

  Connor awoke with a sense of apprehension. Other than the clang of tin cups and the shuffling of boots, the camp was oddly hushed, the usual protests over having to get to work muted. He stared up at the blackened seams of the canvas, listening for clues. At last someone came near enough for him to make out a few words.

  “—stupid bastard,” he heard.

  “The arse had been warned more’n once. He deserves what he’ll get.” The voice laughed. “And I hope it’s a lot.”

  The speakers edged close enough that Connor could hear the rustling of their coats when they moved. He rolled to one side, curious.

  “She’s a bonny thing, though,” the first voice mused. “I can see why—”

  Alarm shot through Connor’s veins. Please don’t let it be Amélie. He rolled to his feet, dressed quickly, and pushed through the flap of his tent, but by the time he poked his head out, the men were gone. Nothing seemed amiss around the camp, so he wandered farther, lured to the church. There he might find answers.

  “Terrible business,” Winslow grumbled, greeting him at the door.

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  The colonel’s expression brightened, and he slapped Connor on the shoulder. “But it is a most excellent day for you, Sergeant MacDonnell.”

  He was utterly confused now. “Sir?”

  Winslow shook his head so his jowls wobbled slightly, then stepped toward a small table, where he served tea to Connor and himself. “So you’ve not heard yet. The camp’s gossips have not yet risen from their beds, I gather. Well, today’s news is that the former Sergeant Fitch gravely overstepped the boundaries of his position.” He took a sip, then pressed his lips together with distaste. “Indeed, he overstepped the boundaries of moral responsibility.”

  Connor’s fingers tightened around his cup.

  “The man overindulged—as far too many men around here seem wont to do,” Winslow said. “Then apparently felt he was within his rights to hunt down a young Acadian girl.” He cleared his throat. “Have his way with her, as it were.”

  Connor’s stomach filled with ice. “And the girl, sir?”

  Colonel Winslow glanced up at him. “Oh, she is fine. She escaped the creature’s clutches before he could . . .” He chuckled. “Well, suffice to say she now has an adventure to tell or keep to herself, howev
er she should wish. She’s a pretty young thing and is now under my protection.”

  “Does her family know?”

  “Good of you to think that way, MacDonnell. Yes, yes, they have been informed.” He frowned. “Of course her father and brothers are being held, but the Doucet women have been here, and we have spoken. Since the girl was frightened but no one was harmed, we decided not to inform her father.”

  Doucet. Not Belliveau. It was all Connor could do not to slump with relief.

  “As a result of Fitch’s idiocy, you have been temporarily promoted to sergeant. You’ll be pleased with that?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “You’ll arrange for the flogging.”

  “Sir?”

  “The flogging. As interim sergeant that will be your responsibility, of course.”

  Connor couldn’t deny the satisfaction of seeing Fitch led forward in chains, snivelling in fear, but a small part of him felt sorry for the wretched creature. By the time this day had arrived, the man had already been incarcerated for two days. He looked leaner and dirtier than ever.

  Seeing Connor, Fitch gave his approximation of an endearing smile. He’d lost a tooth, Connor noticed. He hoped the girl had kicked it out of him.

  “Up to you, then, is it?” Fitch’s usual cockiness was still there, but it lacked his customary confidence.

  Connor said nothing, only waited stiffly. Two guards tied Fitch to the pole and removed his shirt, revealing a pasty white back and the outline of ribs. The tail of Fitch’s hair quivered with fear, but the coward soon put a stop to any of Connor’s reserve.

  “It were almost worth it. If she’d just stopped fighting, I’d have got what I came for,” he muttered, giving Connor a sideways leer. “But I’ll tell you what, if I were to do it again, I’d go after that young doxy I’ve seen you with. Tell me when you’re done with her, would you?”

  Connor swallowed bile and gave the guard a grim nod. The order was called, and the flogging began.

  Other than better rations and less abuse from his superiors, what was the point of having a position of authority if there was nothing he could do with it? Certainly Connor could issue a few orders, but matters of importance were completely out of his control. He handled Winslow’s mail—orders for a milk cow or a better horse—and the troops’ constant whining about the shortage of rum and molasses, repeated complaints of how cold the army’s tents were, how greatly they were suffering at these inconveniences . . .

  Would it not be better for everyone if the English army simply returned to England? If only they could abandon the need to possess every region upon which they landed, there would be no cause for such grievances.

  Connor reached for a quill and scowled at his own bright red sleeve.

  Where was Amélie? Was she all right? He hadn’t seen her in some time and was aware that some of the residents had been vanishing quietly into the woods. He wondered if she might do the same. He wanted her to escape, to flee the nightmare he knew was coming, but the thought of her being gone was more difficult than he’d thought it would be. He forced his mind back to the work at hand, going over the commander’s missives of the day, filing what needed filing and taking care of what needed taking care of. Only after that could he head out to tend to other, more physical aspects of his position.

  The monotony of this post was driving him mad.

  Sept 13. Orders of the Day

  That all officers & Soldiers Provide them Selves with water before Sun Sett for that no Party or Person will be admitted to go out after Calling the roll on any account what Ever, as many bad thing have been done Lately in the Night Season, Distressing the French Inhabitants in this Neighbourhood and that in the Day Season when the Companys want water a Serjt or Corporal to go with the Party who are not to Suffer the men to Intermeddle with the French or their Effects. These orders to be Publishd at the Head of Each Company at Calling the Roll and Strickt obediance paid them . . .

  At times Connor marvelled at the cool, proper tones of the officers’ missives, the often good-natured, even lighthearted signatures that occasionally accompanied a shocking order. Directions and explanations sounded more like instructions given to merchants taking wares to market, not to soldiers driving families from their homes. But as he stared at the latest Am in receipt of your kind letter, at the I long to be with you I am Tyred of the . . . and at the ever present your most obedient Humble Servant, he understood the men writing the letters had little choice but to write in this detached manner. Their only option was to think of their duty and the job at hand. If they allowed themselves to feel sympathy for the Acadians, the cause in which they so passionately believed would surely be lost.

  Flipping through the morning’s papers, he came across a listing of all the inhabitants of Grand Pré, and his finger skimmed down the names until he spotted Amélie and her family—or at least those who had not mysteriously disappeared before they could be recorded. From what he’d seen, they were a close family; then again, everyone here seemed that way.

  The thought prompted an unexpected wave of homesickness, and the dark chill of his childhood home stirred in his mind. The stink of peat returned—both miserable and comforting—and he shivered reflexively. The raw air of the Highlands had often forced his family to huddle together by the fire, to warm each other’s hands, to tell stories to distract themselves. For a brief moment he closed his eyes, welcoming back the half memories of cold, rainy days and nights, then the days spent outside when the sun finally braved a visit. A song whispered through the reminiscence, and he missed his mother with an unexpected pang of grief. The faces were fading; the longing remained.

  Winslow appeared at his side and cleared his throat. “Have you the missive from Osgood? I believe I gave it to you this morning.”

  Connor straightened, blinking away his thoughts, then rifled through the pages and produced the one in question. “Yes, sir.”

  Rubbing his bristled chin with forefinger and thumb, Winslow made no move to take the document from Connor’s hand. “He was in agreement with my recommendation?”

  This was rarely a question, since the men with whom Winslow communicated generally bowed to his wishes. Still, since Winslow was obviously waiting, Connor read the original letter and its reply out loud.

  Grand PRE Camp, Septembr 15th, 1755.

  A Court Martial to be held this Morning for the Tryal of Simon Bloode of Lievt Colo Winslows Company & Ephraim Parker of Capt Hobbs Company for Unlicensed Interference with French Civillyans Last Night and of Jonathan Gould of Capt Hobbs Company, for that he being Postd on Centry at the North Gate Suffered the sd Parker & Blood to Pas and Suposed to be Confederate with them, and make return as Soon as you can

  Members: Captain Osgood, Lievt Smith, Lievt Crooker, Lievt Wheeler, Enn Gay.

  John Winslow

  And the reply:

  In obedience to the within warrant we the Subscribers have assembled and Sent for the Prisoners, upon Examanation do Finde Simon Blood & Ephraim Parker to be Guilty of the Crime aledged against them, and do award them Thirty Lashes apiece well Lade on and do Finde Jonathan Gould Not Guilty.

  Phineas Osgood

  Winslow nodded, pensive. “Thirty lashes apiece. Right. Answer for me, would you? My hand is stiff with the rheumatism this morning.”

  Connor pulled out a fresh page and dipped his quill.

  “ ‘Sentence confirmed and ordered to be executed at the relief of the guards.’ Then sign for me, if you will.”

  Supply requests, minor criminal sentences, the occasional note of gratitude—all passed under Connor’s scrutiny, but most failed to rouse any interest in him. None of the news was good, as far as the Acadians were concerned. Recently, missives specifying actual ships, numbers of passengers, supplies, and destinations had begun to pass through his hands. The Acadian names had been reduced to no more than scratchings on a list of goods. Just another package to be shipped. But no matter how this parcel was wrapped, the corners woul
d always be sharp, the contents fragile. And those responsible for its transport were already careless.

  Yet another chart of names and numbers lay on the desk before him. Resigned to finishing as much as he could for the day, he began to work through it, comparing it to other charts, marking names and numbers as other villages were being emptied. Over time, the lists and letters on Connor’s desk drew closer to Grand Pré. The noose was tightening. The women and children of the village seemed to sense it; they now regarded the uniformed men—including him—with a tight wariness. Would Amélie look at him as they did? After all, as she had said, he was the enemy. He knew well from the letters he handled and wrote that more ships would soon crowd the harbour. She would be driven into those rocking boxes along with the others, trapped by the hundreds in the darkness. How would she live?

  He felt sick with helplessness. Despite everything, he would be one of those charged with pushing the Acadians onto the ships. With musket in hand, he would give them no choice but to cross the gangway. Would he see her? Would she even look for him? Could he bear to meet her eyes?

  He paused, his quill poised over the words. When Grand Pré became part of one of these final lists, those pages of numbers and names would come to Connor just as precisely as this one had. He would see her name here. He would know where she was being sent.

  When the time comes, he’d told her, I will take care of you.

  That moment was coming. He was running out of time.

  Amélie

  THIRTEEN

  The weir was full, a dozen or so shiny silver tails splashing in the low tide and protesting their confinement. My feet slurped through the thick, knee-high mud, but I’d hiked my skirt high enough that it wouldn’t need washing right away. I plopped ten wriggling fish into my basket, set the rest free, and stared reluctantly down at my captives. In truth I had grown weary of eating seafood. Unfortunately, without the men here to hunt, I had no choice. Our livestock was forfeit to the crown—as were our weapons, of course—and I was reduced to setting snares. I’d managed to bring in one rabbit and two squirrels in four days. Not enough by far. Lately, our entire existence seemed to have been reduced to worrying about food. Most of the fish I’d just caught would end up in pies for the men in the ships.