Bruises darkened the man’s skin overnight, but the Mi’kmaq hunter was ready to go in the morning. He was moving a little stiffly as they continued their journey.
Days later they met two Acadian men travelling all the way from South Carolina to Nova Scotia. One, named Victor, was about Connor’s age. He was travelling with his uncle Alexandre. Connor introduced himself as Pierre Guilbeau—remembering a surname from the rosters that had once passed across his desk—and said what he could about his Mi’kmaq companion. He could only hope these two were not well acquainted with any Guilbeaus. Both the Acadians had seen battle and months of harrowing travel, and their stories were engaging. Connor was content to spend a few nights around the campfire with them, and his Mi’kmaq companion seemed satisfied as well, for he had not gone his separate way yet. The Acadians had not only seen conflict, fighting alongside the French militia during the battle over Fort Beauséjour at Chignecto, but had been victims of the expulsion as well. When Connor asked how they had escaped, they explained that their reluctant hosts in South Carolina had wanted nothing to do with Acadians.
“We left most of the others on the way to Saint John when they wearied of the journey. Now we travel alone, my nephew and I. We have not met many others of late,” Alexandre said. Of the two, he did most of the talking. “At first I thought we would have trouble with the British, but they must be busy somewhere else. I have not seen even one in the past two weeks.”
Connor’s mouth went dry. Was the man testing him?
“They would be easy to find, Uncle. Even just one on foot is as loud as four horses crashing through the brush.”
Both men laughed, and Connor joined in. To his relief, neither eyed him with suspicion.
“The Mi’kmaq keep us safe,” Victor said. “They hate the English as much as we do.”
The silent hunter gave a shadow of a smile.
Connor did not contribute much to the conversation lest he inadvertently say something that could reveal him for what he was, but he encouraged the men to say more.
“I am glad to meet men such as you,” he said at one point. “Like me, you are not defeated despite all you have suffered.”
“Many men and women feel as we do,” Alexandre said, “but they are not always able to do anything about it.” He stared into the fire, then shoved a stick into its heart. Sparks shot out like gunfire, but Connor leaned closer to the heat. The night was crisp. “This has been a cruel, cruel winter. We have met a great number of people who will not survive it.”
“People are dying because they can find no food,” Victor muttered, “and what they are eating is rotten.”
“There is no place for them to go,” Alexandre agreed. “We do what we can, but it is not much. Victor helped a small family recently, but those opportunities are rare.”
“It was generous of you to concern yourself with strangers when you, yourselves, are suffering,” Connor noted.
Alexandre nodded. “We must all do what we can. That is what men of God do.”
“And not all of them remain strangers for long,” Victor said, shifting on the log. “We have even learned about our own families’ fates through the stories of strangers.”
“And we have made many friends along this voyage,” Alexandre said. “My nephew even thought he had found a wife, but it was not to be.”
“Ah? I’m sorry you were disappointed,” Connor said.
Victor shrugged. “She loves another, so I understand.”
“Did she say that?”
“No, but she wore his ring.” His gaze dropped to his own hands, and he spoke with regret. “She turned it constantly on her finger. For a while I had hoped—selfishly, I know—he had died so she might be more open to my attentions, but it was not to be.”
“And now you must stop moping, nephew. Find another.”
Victor nodded. “This is not the right time to fall in love anyway.”
The three stared at the fire, their minds elsewhere; then Victor looked at his uncle again. “She was something special, wasn’t she? She was not afraid of anything, that girl. If I could have married sweet Amélie, I would be much happier right now.”
Connor blinked, suddenly alert. There must be thousands of Amélies in the world. Surely he didn’t mean—
Alexandre chuckled. “Charles would not allow you near his daughter. You know that. He watched her like a hawk.”
“Where did you meet this girl?” Connor asked, fighting to keep his tone steady.
“She was near Saint John with a group from Grand Pré. At Camp de l’Espérance,” Alexandre said. “She and her father and little sister came with us to Quebec.”
Connor stared at him, grateful his face was shadowed. It was too incredible. These men had been with Amélie! She was alive and so close!
“But Quebec City was in a bad way,” Alexandre continued. “Victor heard of a cabin an hour outside the city and brought them to it. He left them there.”
“It was the best I could do,” Victor added.
“Do you know the family name of the three people you helped?”
“Belliveau,” Alexandre said. “Why?”
“I just . . .”
He hesitated, not wanting to sound eager. He noticed the silent Mi’kmaq beside him had leaned forward, looking as surprised as Connor felt. He had to be careful. Anything he volunteered could be misinterpreted. But he had to know.
He shrugged. “When you said Amélie and Charles, I wondered if I knew them.”
“But you said you are from Chignecto, yes?”
“Yes,” began the lie. “Although my wife was from Grand Pré.”
“Ah. Je m’excuse. I did not know. She . . . ?”
“Was taken.”
The men exchanged a sympathetic glance and did not pry further.
“We are leaving tomorrow,” Alexandre said, breaking the silence. “We go to Chignecto. Will you travel with us?”
He tried to think of a reason to refuse, but in the end he had no choice but to go in order to keep his secret. Now that he had a vague idea of where she was, he planned to return later for Amélie.
On the first day the four men were met by a larger group of Frenchmen, Mi’kmaq, and Acadian fighters. It was something of a shock for Connor to see the blue-trimmed, white uniforms of the French army up close, but he did what he could to hide his apprehension. Alexandre and Victor appeared overjoyed to see the others, and it became apparent that they knew each other from before. Since they were friends, they seemed to trust Connor, and they exchanged news freely. Connor sat quietly in the background, listening, but he heard nothing that would have been a secret anyway.
Suddenly a sharp blow crashed into the base of his head, shooting lightning through his vision, and he crumpled to the ground. Through the roaring in his head he heard Victor come to his aid, heard Alexandre’s startled exclamation. Voices were raised in accusation and denial.
But nothing they said could save him, he knew.
“He is an English soldier and a liar, you fools,” he heard. “I know this man.”
He knew him? Connor pressed his palms against the forest floor and struggled to turn his body so he could squint up at his accuser. A furious Acadian glared down at him, rage pulsing from familiar blue eyes: André Belliveau, Amélie’s oldest brother, the one who had left the family so he could fight with the French. The one who had once dragged him under a shrub and demanded a promise.
“Wait!” Connor’s voice was choked with pain. “I have news! Your family—”
André Belliveau’s hard black boot swung up, striking Connor square in the stomach, nearly lifting him off the ground. He curled instinctively into a ball, all the air gone from his lungs. In the next instant, Connor’s hair was yanked back and his nose punched. His vision swam with the impact, rolling waves of black beneath hazy smears of colour. The urge to vomit was strong, but there was no time for that. André knelt beside him and pulled his hair back again, setting the ground spinning beneath him.
Blood drained from Connor’s nose, sliding over his teeth. Based on the Acadian’s expression, he thought it possible that he was about to die. André was not finished. He dragged his captive toward a boulder a few feet away, grunting with the effort, then he seized Connor’s head in his hands. Once again, he squatted in front of Connor, his bloodshot eyes delivering the message before he even spoke.
“For my family.”
Connor squeezed his eyes shut just before his head was slammed into the rock face.
André
THIRTY
André Belliveau paced before the wigwam, his moccasins having already beaten a dark path across its entrance. He had kept his determined vigil for hours.
What was he to do with MacDonnell? He and the other fighters had come all this way, had farther still to go. He couldn’t spare the men to send the Englishman back to their headquarters, but he certainly couldn’t just let the two-faced, lying criminal go free. Perhaps he had only to wait. The brief beating had laid the man out flat. It would be a while before he could fight back. If he chose to try, perhaps André would slit his throat and leave him here to bleed among the hungry creatures of the forest.
Seeing the British soldier had been a shock. Catching sight of him in the midst of André’s friends and fellow fighters had angered him beyond what he could have expected. He remembered that face well. A lifetime ago the man had made him a promise. The next time André had seen MacDonnell, the Scot had been standing beside Winslow on that horrible morning, stoic and proud as he sent Papa, Mathieu, Guillaume, and the other men to the boats. Ever since that day, André had witnessed the inhumanity of which the British were capable, and he had connected MacDonnell with all of it. He had wept when he saw his dear maman carrying food to the ships day after day, but there was nothing he could have done. They were so few, and the English seemed to multiply by the day, as had their weapons and resolve. Certainly the freedom fighters kept the army busy, but there was nothing the Acadians could do to halt the bulk of this disaster.
They should not have trusted the English to have hearts. He should not have trusted MacDonnell.
He was aware that his emotions were taking control, and he struggled to think beyond them. Throughout his life, Papa had shown him how important it was to resist giving in to the animal within, to rise above nature and think logically.
“There may be times when killing is the only choice,” Papa had said when André confessed long before that he wanted to do exactly that to the soldiers. “But those times are few. Killing, my son, inevitably leads to more trouble. A good man knows this.”
André had never imagined himself to be a killer. Observing his father’s penitent, bowed head in church, André believed he was forever tortured by the guilt of killing those two men many years before. Like his father, André was strong. Like his mother, he was practical. Killing, he had understood, could only be a last resort.
But life had changed. Having watched his family be stolen away, he had joined the fight. He had grieved over far too many slain friends both Acadian and Mi’kmaq, and their deaths had infused his life with the need for revenge. Still, he had never killed a man, had hoped he would not have to. Now he wasn’t sure he could. To look in a man’s eye and end his life seemed . . . daunting—even if that man was MacDonnell.
Perhaps there was another option. The man lying behind him was more than an ordinary soldier. He was one of Winslow’s important men, though heaven only knew why he had been wandering these woods as he had. Was he a threat? Would Winslow pay to have him returned? If so, what was he worth?
On the other hand, God had practically handed the man to André. Was this a message? A sign he should kill him?
He stopped pacing, leaned down through the wigwam door, and peered into the darkness. The beaten soldier lay by the fire, his senseless, bruised face lit by the flames. André’s hand went to his hip and slid his knife from the sheath on his belt. It would be easy. With his eyes on the unconscious prisoner, he ran the blade against the callused skin of his thumb, trying to think clearly. So easy.
Connor
THIRTY-ONE
Connor lay on his back like a starfish, unable to move. His eyes were swollen shut. At one point someone had come and tended to him—he felt a difference after the tightness of the dried blood was cleaned from his face—but they could do nothing for the pitchfork of pain that dug into his brain. He couldn’t breathe through his nose, and his lip was split. If he inhaled too deeply, he felt as if he were being stabbed, so he imagined André’s boot had broken a rib.
The wigwam flap swept back, letting in the suggestion of sunlight. He forced his eyes open a crack, wary of the next attack, but was relieved to see it was only a young woman carrying a bowl of water. She knelt at his side and had slid one cool hand behind his neck before he could object. When she urged him up so he could drink, he gasped at the pain of movement, sucking air through his teeth. She didn’t stop, didn’t offer sympathy, simply angled the bowl high enough that she could pour the water between his lips. He sputtered, shooting agony through his chest. She kept pouring, so he kept swallowing, though much of the water dribbled over his lips and down his chin. He didn’t mind. It was soothing. When the bowl was empty, she placed his head back on the ground and left. He was too weak and beaten to contemplate escape, so he drifted back to sleep.
Sometime later, the woman returned. This time she carried a bowl of stew as well. The light was different outside the wigwam, and he realized it was raining. How long had he been lying here?
“Why am I still alive?”
Her distaste was obvious in the tight set of her mouth. “Because we have not killed you.”
Surprisingly, when the corners of his mouth curled upward, it didn’t hurt too much. “And I thank you for that. Why not?”
One eyebrow flicked up, but her overall expression didn’t change. At first he thought she wouldn’t say anything, but then she exhaled slowly through her nose.
“We’re trading you. They say you are worth two Frenchmen.” Her shrewd gaze wandered over his injuries, at least the visible ones. “I am not sure why. You might have been worth something before, but you do not look good now.”
“Who?” he asked, suddenly anxious. His mind had gone immediately to ten years before, when he’d been sold to the highest bidder. Please God, don’t let me be traded as a slave. “Who is trading for me?”
“Winslow,” she said. She dropped the bowl of food before him and got to her feet. “Tomorrow.”
She was reaching for the flap when he spoke again. “Thank you.”
Her hand stopped, and she turned. “I have no reason to hate you, soldier. You are a child of Mother Earth, no different from me. But André hates you, which is interesting. He does not hate easily. You must have done something very bad.”
Perhaps it was the curiosity in her voice; perhaps it was the overwhelming misery he felt. Whatever it was, Connor wasn’t strong enough to hold back the wave of regret that washed over him in that moment, remembering the terrified Acadians he had helped destroy. Remembering Amélie. Remembering the vow he had once made.
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
“And are you sorry for it?”
“With all my heart.”
She looked thoughtful. “You should sit up and try to walk. You will have a long walk tomorrow.”
He took the woman’s advice and carefully raised himself to a seated position. He had to wait a bit before going any further, since the ground was swaying, but the food she’d brought was warm, and he discovered he was ravenous. After he finished the stew, he wiped the thin bannock over what was left, savouring every bit. He felt stronger, and his head ached a little less, so he felt able to think about what she’d said. She’d brought good news, for sure. At least Winslow had decided he was still of value
. Connor was certain things would not have ended well for him had he been forced to remain here.
The next morning he got to his feet and tried in vain to assure himself that the agony radiating from the side of his face was only temporary; it felt as if half his skull were missing. His entire body felt bruised, but when he tried to pinpoint the source of the worst pain, he narrowed it down to his head, his gut, and the back of his neck. Mostly his head. If only it could be removed and replaced, he’d be a much happier man.
Wary of sudden movements, he shuffled through the door flap and stood a moment, letting his eyes become accustomed to the dreary light. The sun had risen, but overall the day was grey. A light mist tingled over his skin, barely more than a fog. Connor took a couple of tentative steps and raised his face to the sky, and the chill was soothing.
“So. You live,” a familiar voice stated flatly.
Ten feet away, André leaned against the trunk of an oak tree, whittling a branch to a fine point. At sight of him, Connor’s heart leapt to his throat, but other than the quick widening of his eyes, he didn’t react. André wasn’t looking at him. He had removed his coat and now wore only navy trousers and a loose linen shirt. Waves of golden hair hung to his collar. Surely he couldn’t mean to inflict more pain. The woman had said he was a good man, that he didn’t anger easily.
“Yes. Thank you for that.”
André’s blue eyes slid from his work to his captive. “You weren’t worth killing.”
They stared at each other, and Connor’s eyes dropped first.
“What does it feel like to break a promise?” André asked. “I have never done that.”
Connor thought hard about that. “Never?”
“Never.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
One blond eyebrow lifted quizzically, and in that expression Connor saw Amélie, clear as day.
Promises to Keep Page 20
