Land of Hope

by Paul C R Monk

  The impetus of the bend and the sudden shift in weight sent the inside sleigh runner flying off the ground. Jeanne saw, as if time were slowed down, the carriage rise up on one side and begin to keel over as the panicked horse continued its course.

  Jeannot turned his head to Paul, now clinging to the wooden frame with both hands.

  ‘Jump, Paul! Jump, now!’ he screamed, knowing the whole thing would be a death trap should it flip over.

  ‘My God, no!’ cried Jeanne as she ran hard, suddenly in a cold sweat, and with a sickening, pounding fear in her heart.

  Jeannot waited until the last moment to jump, until the boy had leapt clear, until the sleigh was almost vertical.

  The big man landed solidly in the snow. He quickly got to his feet, while Etienne up ahead managed to take command of the panicked horse that gradually slowed, with the weight of the sleigh now top-side down.

  Jeannot Fleuret was already at Paul’s side as Jeanne came running up. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said. ‘Paul! Paul, me lad!’ With his large, leathery hands, he gently rolled the boy over.

  Paul did not answer. The smudge of red snow where his head had lain face down, and the blood streaming down the side of his face from his scalp, bore witness to an unlucky landing.

  Jeanne now threw herself into the snow beside her son. She put her head to his mouth. ‘Dear God, he is breathing!’ she said, trying to remain calm. ‘He is breathing!’

  Praying to herself that it was not just wishful thinking, she held the boy’s head as the group of townsfolk made way for a middle-aged man, panting and puffing, who she recognised as the pharmacist. He was soon on his knees, and bending with gravity over the boy to check his arterial pulse.

  THREE

  Jacob did not once think he was going to die in New York.

  His plan had been to rest with friends a few days, then take the first good ship to Europe. But he had not accounted for the bone-biting cold of the New York winter, which forbade any Europe-bound travel until the thaw.

  Neither had he anticipated his sudden illness, though when it struck, he knew from past experience he would just have to resign himself to inactivity until the strain relented. So he kept to his bed in the draughty upper-floor room, heated by a stove that infused the air with the fragrance of thyme.

  But his soul remained in torment, caught in a mind-bending vortex of images of his wife and his children, of war and death, of blood-drenched blades and powder and steel. They intermingled like the swirling dance of snowflakes that continued to cover the fields and trees outside his window.

  By the fourth day of his illness, he was able to sit up on the edge of his bed and stare at the wall. It provided him with a blank canvas on which to put some order to his crowded thoughts. But how to make any sense of it all with a Christian mind? he wondered.

  He clenched his hands together and bowed his head in prayer. But he knew that nothing in earth or heaven could erase the visions of bloody battle, nor take away the grief of losing a child. Consequently, he could not bring himself to pray for the well-being of his family, for he could no longer bear any more disillusionment should tragedy there be. Instead, he prayed to God for his journey to continue, while at the back of his brain, his incessant incantation repeated: They are all right, of course they are all right, they are all right . . .

  There came a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ he said croakily, while the forefront of his mind was still focussed on ending his prayer with amen. He turned as the door was pushed open.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Delpech,’ said Madame de Fontenay in her usual sing-song voice. She was followed by Martha, who gave a little curtsy like a proper lady’s maid. ‘We heard you had come back to the living. How are you?’ pursued the old lady. She then turned to take the tray to let Martha make her way to the window, which the girl opened, and then pushed out the shutters set ajar to let in the purple-grey light of a cloud-laden sky.

  ‘We have brought you some warm milk and honey.’ Madame de Fontenay placed the tray on the bedside table. Martha, on the other side of the room, closed the windows again, then departed, leaving the door half open. ‘She’s coming along fine,’ said Madame de Fontenay to Jacob, who smiled amusedly at the old lady’s determination to keep up Old World standards. ‘I used to bring milk and honey to my husband, you know, whenever his nightmares came on. It never failed to bring him a bit of comfort.’

  Jacob did not quite know how to respond. Did his terrible dreams provoke shouts in his sleep?

  ‘You mustn’t feel ashamed, you know.’

  ‘Oh, I hope my phantoms have not been disturbing you.’

  ‘No, and they will become less tempestuous over time, and perhaps once you have recovered the comfort of your own home.’

  ‘Come, we both know neither you nor I shall ever recover that, Madame,’ said Jacob, who was not in the mood for niceties and make-believe.

  ‘Ah, but I wasn’t talking about your house, Monsieur Delpech; I was talking about your home. For you can make your home with your loved ones around you anywhere, can you not? Do they not say home is where the heart is?’

  ‘Indeed they do, Madame de Fontenay. Indeed they do,’ said Jacob, subdued and slightly guilty at his earlier bluntness. ‘I expect you miss your former life, do you not?’

  ‘Oh no, Monsieur Delpech. And there should be no room and no need for pity of things . . . shall we say . . . lost.’ It was as if she had peeped into his thoughts.

  He had not failed to notice that her attire was now more in keeping with a modest widow than a lady of the aristocracy. How humbling it must be to have fallen from living as a lady to an old settler. But he admired her courage and determination to make something good out of the ruins of her past life.

  She went on: ‘And to be honest, Monsieur Delpech, I have never been more content, never felt more useful in my entire life! Why, I would much rather be a helpful grandmother than a dead weight in my grand stately home in France. So, please, no pity, neither for me nor for yourself, if I may say so. We just have to get on with it, and start up home again. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘I do, Madame de Fontenay. Wise words, well spoken.’

  ‘Bah,’ said the lady, swiping her bony hand as though shooing away flies. ‘I only wish there were more people around of my generation! And between you, me, and the bedpost, I would have rather preferred to live in a warmer climate, like Madame Odet. She got off the boat in Charles Town, you know. Had people she knew there . . .’

  With the evocation of the Carolina colony, Jacob was struck by a thought that had been nagging at the back of his mind, an image of the lady on the ship and her young daughter. She had asked him to find her husband. He had not seen her since then; the news of her husband’s death must have broken the poor woman, in debt as she was. ‘I was going to ask —’ he said.

  But footsteps on the stairs, followed by the voice of Marianne, interrupted his train of thought. ‘Grandma?’ she called out.

  ‘Oh, now look at us!’ said the old lady to Jacob, a look of amusement in her eye. ‘I would never have thought I would be caught in a gentleman’s room by my granddaughter!’ Then, calling out, she said: ‘Here, my dear, I am with Monsieur Delpech.’

  The next moment, standing at the open door with her hand resting on her bump, Marianne said: ‘I am so glad you are on the way to full recovery, my uncle. We have made you some broth. Would you like it here or downstairs?’

  ‘Thank you, that is most kind of you. I shall take it downstairs,’ said Jacob, who then edged in the nagging question that had not left him since he fell ill. ‘By the way, Marianne, do you know what has become of the lady on the ship who lost her husband?’

  ‘Yes, I do. The poor woman is to stand before the tribunal today. They are to decide what to do with her. Her only hope is that a gentleman steps forward to offer to take her as his wife.’

  ‘Oh. Or else?’

  ‘Daniel says her debt will be purchased for her, and she will have to pay back the town treasurer.�
�

  ‘You mean the poor woman could well end up indentured all over again.’

  ‘I am afraid so.’

  ‘But she has only just finished her four-year term. Is it likely that anyone will step forward?’

  ‘Daniel says nobody will.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Jacob, who, in his feeling of injustice, overlooked the non-negligible matter of love and compatibility. ‘Are there not enough men seeking a wife and family? I thought that was the crux of the success of any colony.’

  ‘No one will have her yet because of her husband’s illness. And she has not been here long enough to be sure she does not carry the disease.’

  ‘But she wasn’t even here, and I am willing to vouch for her good nature.’

  ‘But you have been ill, my uncle. It would be as good as a condemned man bearing testimony to a—’

  ‘It would be unfair to send her back into servitude,’ interrupted Jacob. ‘I must get to the tribunal!’

  ‘You are a good man, my uncle,’ said Marianne, calmingly. ‘But you cannot right all the world’s wrongs.’

  ‘No, but one should treat people in a Christian manner, and treat them how you would like them to treat you or your family.’

  ‘I do understand, and I would go with you —’

  ‘No, Marianne, I refuse to have you go out in the snow in your condition.’

  *

  Barely an hour later, Jacob was wading through the glacial morning air, crunching snow under his fur-lined boots despite the country trail having been recently shovelled clear.

  Clad in a heavy waxed cloak, he pulled his beaver hat tightly over his forehead to give protection from the gusts of swirling snow as he headed for the city gates. The blustery wind carried the stirring howl of a pack of wolves from the other side of the distant windmill. He slipped and fell over. He picked himself up. He slipped again. He picked himself up again.

  ‘Confounded stuff!’ he grumbled under his breath, and wanted to kick himself for bothering about the lady on the ship, and got to thinking he would be better off if he were not a man of his word. But to renounce your true self was like scathing your soul, was it not? His was scathed enough already. Facing the thinning snowfall head-on, he did not hear the muted rumble of hooves behind him. When he saw the pony out of the corner of his eye, he slipped and fell again.

  ‘Jacob, please, get in,’ cried a voice from the closed two-person sleigh, driven by a caped and booted black man who tipped his hat.

  Jacob scrambled to his feet again and climbed aboard.

  ‘You should not be out in this weather in your condition, my uncle!’ said Marianne playfully.

  ‘And neither should you, my niece!’ said Jacob. ‘I should like to accompany you back.’

  ‘Ha! I am not ill,’ returned Marianne, ‘and baby is in the warmest place of all.’ She called out to the driver: ‘To City Hall, Joseph!’

  Onwards they sled in the purple snowscape, through the city gate and down the icy thoroughfare Jacob knew now to be called Broad Street. It being weather to be indoors by the fire, they passed only a few handcarts and wagons, and pedestrians wearing native snowshoes, a fascinating invention, thought Jacob.

  Within half an hour, he was kicking off snow stuck to his boots before entering with Marianne through the tall doors of City Hall. The lobby was surprisingly crowded with an array of people conversing in clusters. Going to court was visibly as good an activity as any in this weather, deduced Jacob, as he followed Marianne through the crowd, chattering now in Dutch, now in French, with some English thrown into the mix.

  Daniel Darlington soon came into view, standing with a small group of gentlemen by the courtroom door. He greeted his wife with playful reproach for venturing out on such a cold day. Turning to Jacob, he said: ‘And I was not expecting to see you here, Monsieur Delpech. Are you well?’

  ‘Much better, thank you, Mr Darlington,’ said Jacob. ‘I was setting out on foot when your wife came along and refused to head back. So here we are. I hope I haven’t missed the audience . . .’

  Darlington needed no further explanation. He said: ‘Actually, you are just in time, Sir. There has been a bidding of indentures and redemptioners this morning, and I believe your lady in question is about to pass. But please, let me introduce you to a good friend of mine.’ Darlington turned to his right where there stood a man of wealth, visible by the cut of his cloth rather than ostentatious adornments. In middle age and of average height, he wore a rictus that could have equally been interpreted as a smile or a snarl, depending on one’s disposition or circumstance. ‘This is Mr Jacob Leisler,’ said Darlington. ‘He is in the fur trade.’ To Leisler, he said: ‘Monsieur Jacob Delpech de Castanet, gentleman notary, landowner, and merchant.’

  Both introduced men gave a congenial bow.

  ‘I heard about your tragic plight, Sir,’ said Mr Leisler in a faint Germanic accent. ‘You must know that here you are among friends.’

  ‘Most kind of you, Sir,’ said Jacob, who returned the thin smile, although he was not too keen about his “plight” being talked about in the city hall lobby.

  ‘Indeed, I do believe there are well over a hundred Huguenot families here now, if not two hundred. Many of them originate from a place called La Rochelle. Where might you be from, Mr Delpech? I only ask in case I know of anyone from your hometown.’

  ‘Alas, Monsieur is not from La Rochelle, Mr Leisler,’ said Marianne, standing on the other side of her husband.

  ‘I am from Montauban, Sir,’ said Jacob, who did not fail to notice that the gentleman had made no hesitation in dropping the particle of his name. But the sound of Jacob’s hometown, albeit in his own mouth, fleetingly rekindled his previous life in his mind’s eye. That old life seemed like worlds away, standing as he was in a melting pot of cultures, in a fledgling city surrounded by a white wilderness, freezing fog, and wolves.

  ‘No, I am sorry. I know of no one from there. I can, however, introduce you to the Rochelle contingent.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir. However, my intention is not to remain.’

  ‘Pity, because I believe there is a woman in need of a husband.’

  It was clear to Jacob that he was speaking to a self-made man, quite possibly a diamond among his peers, but an uncut one at that. Jacob had an instinctive liking for him, though. He said: ‘Indeed, I travelled along the coast aboard the same ship as she. And I can vouch for her kindly spirit, although I cannot offer my support in a matrimonial capacity.’

  ‘Then let us see what the “grandees” shall make of the poor young wretch and her daughter from Charles Town!’ said Mr Leisler as the crowd began filtering through the doors into the courtroom. ‘We are going in.’

  *

  She stood before the court hopeful, not browbeaten. Her glance caught that of Jacob. Her features, set in defiance, suddenly cracked, and the pleats between her long oval eyes furrowed —a trait that reminded him of his own wife. Then she resumed her resolute pose.

  The panelled courtroom of dark-wood partitions and balustrades was spacious and full to the brim, every inch of bench occupied. Aside from the tavern near the fort, the city hall was no doubt the best place for entertainment in town, given the weather, thought Jacob. The dead man’s wife was the news of the moment and had attracted feelings of pity, especially as she had a child. Before she passed that morning, a new series of indentured servants and redemptioners off the ship from England had been paraded in to be adjudged. The dead man’s lady was the pinnacle for the day’s audiences.

  ‘Madame,’ said the presiding magistrate, leaning over the bar, ‘you have been placed in custody on charges brought against you by Captain Benjamin Stevens, to whom you hold a debt of the price of your fare from Charles Town. After much deliberation, and given the fact that your husband had only recently arrived in the township, the only way out of your predicament will be for the town treasurer to purchase your debt.’

  A wave of relief spread over the woman’s face as she grasped the shou
lder of her child clinging to her leg. The audience let out a sigh of satisfaction.

  ‘However . . . as you have no sustenance, no immediate income, and no relations here in New York, the only way for you to reimburse the town for your debt is through the terms of an indenture contract.’

  Groans and muffled protests arose from the benches.

  ‘Your Grace,’ beseeched the woman, ‘I paid my dues in Charles Town already as an indenture servant for four years. It is that reason that brought us here to New York, to start afresh. My husband wanted to find some land so we could live off our own labours. I beg you, Your Honour, please don’t make me go through it all again.’

  It was the first time Jacob had heard the woman speak in English, which he thought she spoke impeccably well after four years of servitude in the English colony.

  ‘Madame,’ said the magistrate, ‘I see no other means unless your future husband is willing to pay your debt.’ The magistrate paused for effect, perhaps in the hope that a gentleman would step forward at the last moment. But no one did. For who would pay the woman’s debt when she could come as an indenture? Besides, who was to say she would not bring her late husband’s illness with her? Jacob looked on, beset by his inveterate sense of injustice.

  Amid whispers and chattering in the audience, a French-accented voice suddenly rose up loud and clear: ‘My Lord, Ladies and Gentlemen . . . with all due respect, you are asking this poor woman to pay her dues twofold and by the same token to double her burden. If there is any justice in this New World that respects the justice of God, then surely she should be given charity!’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ murmured voices from the audience.

  The French voice continued: ‘Through no fault of her own, her husband has died prematurely. I can personally vouch for her good character and sound bill of health, having voyaged with her all the way from Charles Town. Surely you cannot increase the poor woman’s burden!’

  The magistrates and the courtroom spectators of New York had just met Jacob Delpech. After a pause to take in both the newcomer and his discourse, a number of courtroom figures voiced their agreement, which led to a free-for-all debate between bench neighbours.