Promises to Keep

by Genevieve Graham

  “MacDonnell,” he muttered, reading the paper. He squinted at Connor, assessing him, so Connor stood a little taller. Milton’s face didn’t change. “Been a-ship before?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “You can handle rigging?”

  “Aye.” No need to tell him his only experience had been on much smaller boats than this.

  “Good. We’re a small crew. Four hours on, four hours off. Put your back into what’s left of the cargo. We’ll be gone once that’s done.”

  The icy boards of the dock were worn in distinct pathways by the sailors’ activity, but it appeared the heavy work had been completed. Most of what the captain referred to was rations, with which Connor was well acquainted. He’d included the orders in his own paperwork. For each period of seven days, each passenger had been allotted two pounds of bread and one pound of salt beef. The crew—which numbered eight now that Connor had joined them—would receive a little more. The Pembroke was a large snow of a hundred and thirty-nine tons, and she would sail alongside six other merchant ships, all of them filled to the brim with Acadians. Like them, the Pembroke carried provisions estimated to last four and a half months. Unfortunately, by Connor’s reckonings, Winslow had packed at least sixty too many passengers on board each ship. He could only hope they would reach their destination before the supplies either ran out or rotted.

  When voices rose from the docks below, he set down the crate he was carrying and leaned over the side to see what was happening. A fairly large crowd was making its way toward the Pembroke, but it took a moment before he could discern the reason for the noise. When he did, a satisfied smile spread across his face. A week before, he’d quietly written an addendum at the bottom of one of Winslow’s memos, wording it blandly enough that it got past the colonel without his taking notice. This little procession being led from the Elizabeth to Connor’s gangplank was a direct result of that addendum.

  The hands of the older male Acadians were shackled behind them. They stumbled between their guards, weak and almost blinded by the sun. Seeing the light of day and walking the length of the docks would—despite the freezing temperatures and the clanging irons—be a gift from God to these men, who had gone too long without space to move, fresh air to breathe. Connor glanced quickly toward the single mast of the Hobson, waiting. Wee Mathieu and Claire’s Guillaume should be along soon.

  As ordered, the prisoners stopped before a young soldier who had hastily set up a desk at the bottom of the Pembroke’s gangway; he was assigned to write down names before any prisoners could board. Connor listened intently, waiting for one name in particular.

  “Joseph Guilbeau,” the soldier droned, scribbling on the page. “Next! Denis Petit-tot. Is that how you spell it?” He showed his paper to the prisoner, who merely shrugged. For the most part, these men couldn’t read. “Right then. Move along. Next! Charles Belliveau. Good. Charles Dugas . . .”

  Charles Belliveau. Amélie’s father was a sturdy man, but his recent incarceration had had an effect. His thick golden hair had gone dark for lack of washing, and he wore a three-month beard to match. Despite his weakened state, Belliveau walked confidently onto the deck, standing as straight as a man in his position could. He was thin, his once-strong muscles wasted from the ordeal aboard the other ship, but his eyes still burned with contempt.

  All at once Belliveau stopped in his tracks and stared at the mainmast, looking stunned. After a second, outrage flashed in his eyes, and Connor was transported back to the day when Amélie had baited the guard to take up arms against her. He could easily see where her fiery temper came from. Despite the line of men waiting behind him, Belliveau didn’t move a muscle. He never even lifted his chin, but his eyes took their time, winding slowly up the mast. They paused in places as if to seek some sort of confirmation, then moved on. An odd sort of satisfaction seemed to settle over him, and it showed itself in a weak smile. Then, as if a shutter slammed closed, he shook his head, his lips tight. A guard nudged Belliveau from behind, urging him along, and the prisoner slowly turned. The murderous look in his eyes would have given Connor pause, and he was oddly pleased to see the soldier take a half step back.

  In his own time, Belliveau faced the bow, his movements deliberate. He gave the mast one last look; then he shuffled toward the hatch along with the other men, the heavy metal around his wrists clanging rhythmically with every step. When they reached the open door in the deck, the prisoners held out their hands to have their irons unlocked, and the heavy shackles tumbled into a pile at the guard’s feet. One by one, the men descended into the hold, and their slouched shapes were lost in the darkness. The sailors who had paused in their work to stare at their new cargo returned to their stations, and work continued as before.

  From out of the darkness flew the voices of women and children, filling the air like finches in the trees, and Connor listened hard.

  “Papa!” He heard through the boards of the deck. “Papa!”

  “Papa! Ici!”

  “Papa!”

  “Ah! Mes chéries!” The men’s voices cracked with emotion as they realized why they’d been moved to this ship, and warmth filled Connor’s chest. Charles Belliveau was not the only father who had been missed. At least he had been able to give the families this small kindness.

  “Mes enfants!”

  One choked male voice cut through the others. “Oh, merci Dieu! Sylvie, ma chérie! Claire! Amélie! Ma petite Giselle! Comment vous m’avez manqué!”

  Connor smiled. She was here.

  He looked back over the side, expecting to see Mathieu and Guillaume’s group being marched toward them, but no one else was coming. Then he saw why, and his heart sank. During the noisy confusion of the prisoner transfer, the Hobson had cast off. She was setting out to sea within the convoy of twenty ships, her sails billowing as she rode a strong wind.

  NINETEEN

  It was important that Amélie not see him. At least not until he’d come up with some sort of plan, some explanation that might help her understand. He didn’t think she’d reveal who he was—she would be concerned for her own reputation if not for his—but he had to be careful.

  But he could not resist watching her. The first time he saw her, Connor’s resolve to stay away almost melted completely. She looked so small, so forlorn. Her clothing and face were filthy, and strands of her lovely brown hair hung beneath her soiled bonnet. Hunger and exhaustion glazed her eyes, and the line of her jaw stood out in sharp relief. He wondered when she had last slept. Had she been eating her meagre meals, or had she deprived herself and shared them with the others?

  Occasionally father and daughter came on deck together, but often they came separately, accompanying the more infirm. Echoing her father’s strength, Amélie often supported her mother. He memorized the rough order of the visits to the deck as best he could, but he still looked over every time the hatch creaked open. He regretted the times he didn’t see her, when he was sleeping in his bunk or eating, but he’d needed what moments of rest he could get. As one of only eight in the crew, he was working harder than he ever had.

  The first week had been the worst for them all. The trapped farmers—most of whom had never set foot on anything larger than a small fishing boat—got their first taste of cutting through some ocean swells and crashing over others. Retching punctuated the constant sobbing, and wails of misery filtered through the hatch along with the stench. To make matters worse, the much-needed breaks on the deck reduced most prisoners to convulsive shivers, since the December days were formidably icy whether the wind was high or not. At least the cold gales blew steadily and they had no rain, keeping the captain in relatively good spirits. Then one afternoon the sky hardened and the black sea rolled with froth, warning of an approaching storm.

  “Batten down the hatches!” the captain hollered over the rising wind. “Use deadlights as well. She’s a big one.”

  At first Connor wondered if the captain had misread what was coming. The weather moving steadily toward t
hem seemed so solid, he wondered if it was simply a thick fog. Then again, fog would have brought dead winds, and all the ship’s sails suddenly began to jerk at their ropes. As the threat drew closer, Connor was able to make out a hint of what the low-hanging clouds held, and he realized fog would have been a blessing. He’d never thought about snowstorms at sea.

  “Caldwell!” Captain Milton roared.

  The first mate staggered against the wind toward him. “Sir!”

  “Lock the hatch. No more walks until this blows over.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The walls and floor of the ship shuddered at the next blast, and the Pembroke rolled eagerly up one side of a huge swell Connor could swear hadn’t been there seconds ago. Before he’d set his balance, she dove down the other side, splashing like a breeching whale. He grabbed a rope, trying to ignore the panicked screams cutting through the howling of the storm from below, but the sea twisted again, and the rope slithered through his fingers. Desperate, he gripped the rail with two hands, willing his feet to stay where they were though his stomach rolled with the sea.

  “Brace yourselves!” Milton bellowed, and the echo of his first mate’s voice was sucked into the storm.

  Snow blew in horizontally, a wall of ten thousand needles aiming for Connor’s face and at the hand he used for a shield. As he tucked his chin under his coat, a wave shot the bow straight up, plunging the stern into a valley of froth, and the slush-covered deck slipped from under him. Connor crashed flat onto his back, slammed his head into the boards, then was tossed down the deck toward the abyss. Instinctively, he flipped onto his belly, grasping at ropes and fixtures, managing to hook onto the bottom of the mast as his knee jammed against a post.

  The planks holding the ship together moaned in near surrender as the ocean battered the hull, and he easily imagined the whole craft twisting, snapping, pitching him into the frigid ocean depths. The ship’s bow dove again, dumping a torrent of frozen water over the deck, and Connor held on for his life. He had no idea where the rest of the crew was. If he squinted, he could see the vague outline of the mast, then a terrifying view of the foamy waves below, but nothing more. The cabin was the safest place to be, but he didn’t trust his feet to get him there. If he let go, he could easily vanish into the roiling blackness, and no one would see him go. He gritted his teeth and pressed his body against the deck, praying both he and the ship would outlast the tempest.

  At last the blizzard dwindled, but it was a few minutes more before Connor could convince himself to stand. Eventually he clutched the rail for balance and rose carefully, trying to still the vibrations trembling through him. His stomach lurched and his head pounded, but he thought if he breathed deeply enough, he could manage to not be sick. In the next moment the sun emerged, peeking out from behind the clouds for the first time since they’d been afloat. The golden light felt like a blessing, and he held his face up to it in gratitude.

  The sailors emerged slowly from their refuges, casting critical eyes over the deck. Connor was relieved to count seven men. No one had died. Not on this deck, anyway.

  “Check the prisoners,” ordered the captain, and two of the crew members went to open the hatch.

  The weeping was desperate, and prayers seeped through the hatch. Connor was distinctly aware of the cries of little children, and he turned away in shame.

  “We need help,” came a woman’s exhausted, broken English. “A young girl fall. I think the arm break.”

  “We need water!”

  A man roared in vehement French, “Someone must clean the floor. We cannot live like this!”

  “I’ll go,” Connor said, but the captain put up a hand.

  “No, no, Sergeant. That is not a job for you. First mate! Send the surgeon for the lass. And let’s get the hold pumped out.”

  “I don’t mind going,” Connor tried again.

  “The ship needs your hands, lad. Set to it.”

  The storm had stripped the ship of its double-lashed awnings and torn the trysails clean out of the gaskets; rails had splintered. Connor slid his hand along one, testing its stability and finding it lacking. It was a miracle they were still afloat. If they were to sail another day, most of the craft would require repair and cleanup.

  Connor squinted through the sunlight, marvelling at the welcome calmness of the sea. It was as if a great beast had feasted and now sprawled before them, sated.

  In the next breath, all the blood drained from his head.

  “Captain? Where are the other ships?”

  TWENTY

  For a day and a half they floated without a breeze. The lull gave the crew time to make needed repairs, and the appearance of the sun raised their spirits. Unfortunately, its light barely touched the entrance to the hold. Protests and screams for mercy had faded to the occasional defeated sob.

  They never saw the other ships again. Not even the frigate, which meant the Pembroke was unprotected. They searched the surface of the water for fragments, for splintered boards or floating barrels, but there was nothing. Connor prayed that meant the others had only sailed off course, not been destroyed. Since they had no evidence either way, the captain said nothing about it and ordered the rest of the crew to do the same. No one informed the prisoners they were alone. They didn’t seem to notice the difference when they came on deck; they were simply grateful for the short, glorious intervals when they could breathe the air.

  Connor noticed. Every time he looked out over the empty sea, he was torn by an agonizing sense of both grief . . . and hope. With the disappearance of the other ships had come the solution for which he had been searching. The plan involved a significant personal sacrifice, however. He deliberated over that, trying to find some way out, but in the end he had no other choice.

  He would speak with Amélie tonight, and his anticipation rose as dusk approached. He knew where she would walk, where she would pause to breathe in the night air. He also knew approximately where the other sailors would be when all this was going on, and he wanted his meeting with her to be far from them.

  The sun rested on the horizon, casting one last yearning look upon the world before departing, and Connor watched its crimson light bleed into the sea. Red sky at night . . . The morning should bring a fine day of sailing, with clear skies and steady wind. The prisoners enjoying their brief half hour on deck stood silently at the rail, watching the same sunset. What did it mean to them? In the beginning of this journey the sight had induced tears, had coaxed the prisoners to hold one another tightly . . . seeking what? Comfort? Hope? Other than sorrow, grief, and each other, that was all they had left.

  Four little ones had come out on deck with their mother and grandmother this time. The elderly woman looked feeble, and her white fingers gripped the rail, though Connor knew they must be numb from the cold. He wondered how old she was—probably twenty years younger than she looked. This journey was sucking the life out of everyone.

  Connor usually had little liking for this time of day, but he was glad to see this sunset, for tonight would be significant. He watched the backs of the prisoners, now making slow, painful progress toward the hatch, and nerves skittered through his chest. Next it would be Amélie’s turn. He would have less than a precious half hour to spend with her, and he needed every moment of that time to convince her he had not abandoned her.

  “Move along,” one of the sailors ordered. Smith was his name, Connor recalled. Smith’s usual partner at supper was Adams. They were strong-enough lads, he knew, since he’d seen them hauling in sails, but they weren’t the smartest. None of them were all that bright. He hoped that would work to his advantage when it came to carrying out his plan.

  The Acadian mother stopped at the hatch and glared at Smith, mutely demanding he give her a hand onto the ladder. It was, after all, a dangerous and slippery descent. Especially for an undernourished, sickly woman who had barely stood on her own for the past twenty-four hours. Smith blinked at her, obviously not understanding, then his eyes widened with ap
ology. Connor was pleased to see him take her hand and elbow and ease her down.

  A few moments after the little group of six had disappeared below deck, Connor watched Amélie climb out of the hold. The storm had taken its toll; her bright blue eyes had faded into the pallid grey of her face. She clung to Smith’s arm for balance, then shrugged it off, not giving the sailor even a hint of gratitude. How long had it been since she had actually smiled?

  She and her sister Claire were the first of the six to appear, their white bonnets like faded beacons in the dusk. Amélie turned back to check on her younger sister, who climbed up ahead of their mother. Two other children emerged after them. With eyes round as owls’ the group shuffled down the deck, heading in his direction. Amélie and Claire came last, shepherding the children ahead of them.

  The night was clear, and moonlight fell over the sparkling water like a thin layer of snow. Connor waited in the frosted shadows until Amélie was close enough that he could almost touch her, and he realized he was holding his breath. Suddenly, approaching her seemed the most difficult part. But he could put it off no longer.

  “Mademoiselle Belliveau,” he murmured from the shadows.

  Both sisters spun toward him, startled. In the dim light of the lantern emotions flickered like flames across Amélie’s face.

  “Sergeant MacDonnell.”

  He put one finger over his lips and bowed politely at her sister.

  Amélie regarded him with suspicion. Then she nodded to Claire. “Please. Give us a few moments to speak alone.”

  “You know him?”

  “Did you forget? He cut our firewood.”

  Her sister’s expression was unforgiving. “I recall. He cut it because he had already taken our axe.”

  “He cut it because I asked him for the axe, and he did not wish us to freeze.”