Blood Brothers in Louisbourg (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

H
e saw many ships in his dream. They floated on the sea like leaves in an autumn stream. The voices of the spirits rose up in chorus: “An enemy is coming. They will bring bloodshed and destruction. Prepare yourself.”

Two-feathers woke from the dream in a sweat, jumped out of bed, ran to the seaward side of the swamp and scanned the horizon. He saw nothing but snow flurries. The dream had been so real he fully expected to see ships. Surely the dream was a warning. The redcoats were coming. He must prepare. But how? What more could he do?

The next day, the same dream. Two-feathers jumped out of bed, ran out into the icy air and down to the beach. The dream had been so vivid. The ships were surely coming. He stood on the beach and stared at the horizon until his body shivered. There were no ships. The next day it was the same, and the next, only each time he saw the ships more clearly in the dream, as if they were drawing nearer. His dreams had never failed him before. The voices of the spirits, a sound like the wind twisting through the trees, had always been faithful and true. And yet there were no ships.

The voices said he must prepare, and so he did. He inspected all of his tunnels and dens, taking special care to make their entrances imperceptible to the eye. To the passing traveller they might look like small depressions, unappealing and not leading anywhere, obstructed with roots and debris. He created several lookout stations within the tunnel system from where he could see across the top of the ground. Then he practised crossing the swamp from every angle, in the day and night. Finally, he inspected all of his food caches, making certain they were spread out evenly in case he became caught in one location when the swamp was overrun with warriors.

But the preparation he was most concerned with was not in the swamp at all; it was with the girl of the rainbow. He knew that the redcoats would bring bloodshed and destruction and it would become too dangerous for her in the bluecoats' great village. But how could he protect her? Would she even want to leave with him? And where would he take her? To the swamp? No, she wouldn't want to come there. It would become too dangerous anyway.

The dreams continued. Always it was the same dream with the same message. But he stopped running down to the beach to look for ships because they never came. Be prepared, the voices said. Bloodshed and destruction were coming. Prepare! How, he complained to the spirits. What else did they expect him to do? Prepare how?

For the very first time, Two-feathers felt angry with the spirits. He felt as if they were mocking him. Where were the ships anyway, that they had been showing him in his dreams? In a dark mood he sat at the fire and stared into the flames. The longer he sat and brooded, the darker his mood became. For the first time in his life, Two-feathers felt the painful sting of doubt. First, he doubted the girl of the rainbow's interest in him. Why did he even think she might love him? Then, he doubted his father. He didn't carry himself like a warrior at all. Then, he doubted himself. Why had he even bothered to come all this way? What had he learned? Finally, he turned inward and began to doubt the very spirits who had been guiding his steps for as long as he could remember. It was a dark and lonely night as he sat at the fire and let these doubts run through him. They entered through his head, spread throughout his limbs and back, collected in his stomach and finally entered his heart. When the doubt settled in his heart, his heart began to ache and he cried out. He cried to the spirit of his mother. But she did not answer. He cried to the spirit of the deer. No answer. He cried to the spirit of the bear. No answer. He did not cry to the spirit of the muskrat. He was tired of the swamp now. He wanted to leave it. He wanted to return to the woods, where the rivers ran crystal clear and thick with salmon. He wanted to climb into the hills where the high trees grew and build teepees and hunt swift-footed deer to feed a whole family.

Eventually Two-feathers cried himself out, wrapped up snugly in his bearskin blanket and went to sleep. He slept long and he dreamt. Once more it was the same dream, only the ships came so close to the land the soldiers jumped out and ran up the beach with their fire weapons, shouting. He woke from this dream in a heavy sweat. He stepped outside and was shocked to feel the earliest spring air. Had the winter carried itself away in the night? No, the ground was still frozen. Yet the air had warmed. Spring was indeed coming.

He ran down to the beach. The ships were coming, the spirits had said. Where? he said. There, they had said. Look harder. He looked. There were no ships. Harder, said the spirits. Two-feathers bit his tongue and travelled further down the shore. There were no ships to be seen anywhere. Enough! He had had enough!

“Where?” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

There, was all the spirits had said.

Two-feathers turned one final time and scanned the horizon to his right. On the thin line where the sky rested upon the sea he saw a small brown sail. Then he saw another. Then another. Then many more. There they were. The redcoats had come.

He raced back to his den, apologizing to the spirits all the way. Forgive me, he pleaded. He had lost his reason. He would never doubt the spirits again. No matter, said a voice inside his head, humans are as fleeting as flowers. Spirits are eternal. The eternal does not take offense from the fleeting.

He collected his weapons and a supply of food. He would warn the bluecoats and bring food to the girl of the rainbow and to the children, but not before dark, and not before he had reconnoitered the redcoat force that was landing. It would take them quite a while to land and unload. There was time. Two-feathers wanted to know what the bluecoats were up against before warning them.

Chapter Twenty-five

T
he winds of spring. What a glorious thing they were. They carried a warmth that melted the ice outside the windows and melted the hearts of every inhabitant of Louisbourg. Well, nearly every inhabitant. I didn't expect the spring made much difference to the priest one way or another. But the winds had brought something else. I supposed it was inevitable.

A solitary fishing sloop sailed frantically into harbour. Her sailors were firing their guns. English ships had been seen, dozens of them, maybe more. The English were coming. They were intending to invade.

I rushed to inform my father. He had taken to his bed of late – so uncharacteristic of him. He had not recovered his fighting spirit since Annapolis Royal. I stood at the door and gave him the news. I had barely gotten the words out of my mouth when he bolted out of bed, dressed into uniform and reached for his sword and pistol.

“Are the regiments gathering?” he asked, as if I were his battle attendant.

“I don't know, sir. I came to inform you right away.”

“Of course. Of course.”

I followed him out. He started barking orders even before there was anyone near enough to hear him. For a moment I actually wondered if he had lost his mind or perhaps woken from a dream too quickly. He raised his nose to test the wind, then hurried into the thickness of soldiers gathering. I stopped and watched him go. I was not on duty.

All day the officers and soldiers were busy positioning and re-positioning their cannon. There was excitement in the air. Everyone hung around the quay, waiting for the English ships to turn the corner of the harbour so that our cannon could start firing upon them, sending them all to the bottom. We waited and waited but they never came. This tried the patience of the officers. They paced back and forth, sighing heavily and barking orders. Finally, they decided to send out a scouting party on a small fast ship. They would try to count the English fleet, see what they were up to and get back as quickly as possible.

As it turned out, there were about a hundred ships in all, mostly private ones, and a few bigger naval vessels. Only a small part of the fleet appeared to actually be with the English navy. The rest were New England settlers coming together in a militia, just as M. Anglaise had predicted. My father and the other officers laughed when they heard the news. How ridiculous, how outrageous, that a ragged collection of farmers would come to attack the greatest fortress in the New World. And yet, the ships never did come even remotely close to the range of our cannon. Instead, they landed a few miles down the coast, on the other side of the swamp. Still, our soldiers readied their cannon, practised aim, discussed strategy … and continued to ignore the swamp. But the attacking fleet did not approach our harbour.

After a day, the officers decided it would be a good idea to send a contingent of soldiers across the swamp to see what the English were up to. Of course my father was going. He ordered me to come too.

There were a few dozen of us. We went out in the afternoon and crossed the swamp in close formation. I was fascinated to get into the swamp and look for signs of my ghost. I had visions of stumbling upon him in some makeshift teepee somewhere, but there wasn't a single trace of him nor anybody else – not a single trace.

On the south side of the swamp were a few scattered bushes and trees that eventually gathered into a short-treed woods, no taller than a man. Before we could enter the woods we caught sight of a flash of red amongst the trees.

“Form a line here!” yelled my father.

He pointed to the ridge of a tiny bluff. It was a good spot to take cover and still see the enemy. Within an hour the English had formed a line at the edge of the woods. They really were a motley-looking group. For every English soldier dressed in proper uniform, there were half a dozen settlers who looked as though they had come out to plow the field. Yet, all brandished muskets. And that was not all. With telescoped glasses, our spotters had seen the English unloading cannon onto the beach.

“Hah!” laughed my father. “A lot of good cannon will do them here.”

The cannon were impossibly out of reach, and, I had to confess, the swamp looked impassable. Horses and oxen would not have been able to drag them across it, even if they had brought such beasts, which they hadn't. I couldn't imagine the kind of fortitude and determination it would take for men to drag those cannon across the swamp by themselves. That truly did not seem possible. I remembered the Acadian settlers we met on our way to Annapolis Royal, who had pledged themselves so earnestly then failed to show up the next day. In contrast, these New Englanders outnumbered the redcoats six to one. What kind of motivation was this, to come so far from their own land and risk their lives for such an isolated outpost, imposing as it was? I couldn't understand it.

Before long there was an exchange of musket fire. Small clouds of smoke rose from both sides, with neither hitting their target. I was standing at the very back of our group. Muskets, for all their noise and commotion, were actually terribly inaccurate. To really kill anyone, both sides would have to leave the safety of their positions, move into the open field, where they were completely exposed, and shoot. From my perspective this meant kill and get killed. Everybody loses.

It was a credit to my father that he remained true to the bitter end. There wasn't an ounce of cowardice in him. Under fire from the enemy, with high risk of death, he never flinched nor considered any option other than facing them directly. At the time, I failed to understand him. But I had
never
understood him. From the instant the decision was made to leave the safety of the bluff and step into the open field, he carried himself with conviction and courage. He called for me to accompany him, but he never looked back to see if I did. I stayed where I was. There was no way on earth I was going to put my flesh and bones in the way of an enemy aiming muskets at me, trying to kill me. I didn't want to die. I wanted to go home. I had never wanted to come to Louisbourg in the first place. I was too young to die.

But my father went. And the other soldiers went, and they formed a line. They bent down and prepared their muskets. You might have thought they were kneeling to polish their boots or pick stones or something. They loaded their weapons with powder and shot and took aim calmly and with practised obedience. Then, on command, they shot their muskets just as we had shot them so many times inside the fortress walls. Only this time the barrels were aimed at a wall of men. To my sheer amazement, three or four of the men standing in line opposite us fell to the ground. Almost instantly, three or four others came forward and took their places. Our side was reloading when the English fired for the first time. My father was the first one to go down. I thought he had just tripped, but he fell forward onto his face and did not pick himself up. I was so shocked I did not really believe it. I kept expecting him to get to his feet, brush the dirt from his uniform and continue issuing commands. But he never did. There were several more volleys of musket fire back and forth, but the English seemed to be reloading faster than we were and our soldiers started to drop too quickly. Still, I waited for my father to get up. But he didn't. He never moved. Suddenly, everyone ran back, passing by me and continuing towards the fortress. No one bothered with those who had been shot. If the wounded could make it to the bluff on their own they would have a chance, maybe, otherwise they were left to die. This was the practice of war.

Twilight was falling. My father had not moved. I never heard him cry out. I thought I heard a few soldiers moaning on the field, but it might have been the wind. It was a horrible sound. No one ventured onto the field to help them. Since it had been a while since the shooting had stopped, I left the safety of the bluff, left my musket behind and snuck onto the field. I crouched low and scurried over to where my father was. I hoped no one would see me. When I reached him I rolled him over. He moved his eyes. He was still alive! He had been shot in the chest. Blood poured from his mouth and he had been choking on it. He didn't speak. His eyes were wide open and they looked far away. His pupils were dilated. I couldn't tell if he was conscious or not. Did he know I was there? I stared into his eyes and the truth stared back at me: he was a stranger to me. I was a stranger to him. I had the most peculiar feeling then, staring at him, as if there had been a terrible mistake in the order of things – that he was never supposed to have been my father at all or me his son, that there had been a mix-up somewhere along the way. And then, he faded away. For a second I thought he looked into my eyes. His eyes twitched. He stopped breathing shortly afterward, but his eyes did not close. I knew that was it. He was gone.

I heard muskets firing. I thought they were too far away to get a decent shot at me. Then, I heard something else – fifes and drums – the music of English soldiery. In the midst of this nightmare the music sounded both beautiful and frightening. There was something strangely terrifying about music played on a battlefield. Suddenly a musket shot struck my boot, tore through the leather and pierced my skin. I felt a burning in my foot. I squeezed my father's lifeless hand and scurried like a rat back to the bluff, then on to the fortress. Darkness was falling.