Blood Brothers in Louisbourg (5 page)

Chapter Eight

T
he swamp was treeless but covered with patches of thick grass. And there were small grassy mounds and isolated bushes here and there. It looked mostly flat from a distance but concealed many channels that washed away mud and swept it into the sea. Most of the channels were shallow but a few were deep enough to hide a man. Two-feathers dug into the muddy wall of one and created a small cave that he supported with driftwood from the beach and lined with spruce boughs. He collected his materials and made fires at night. He burned the fires beneath a layered spruce-bough canopy that hid the flames and thinned out the smoke. He slept part of the day and part of the night in the cave, keeping warm and dry while wind and rain beat down outside. He prayed to animal spirits to guide him. In the day he became like the muskrat, working with great industry around the water and mud. At night he became like the owl, travelling without weight or sound over the wall and into the shadows of the bluecoats' village.

Two-feathers discovered the village to be just as legend had said: towering, ever-spreading, filled to burst with people, weapons and noise. He saw every manner of person there: man, woman and child; white-skinned and Native; well-postured and slouched. Most were slouched. But he was particularly interested in the bluecoats themselves, the warriors who patrolled the grounds and carried fire weapons. His father would be one of them.

—

He climbed the wall at night and watched from the shadows and learned that the bluecoats kept a constant vigil at two gates. They regularly patrolled the grounds. He watched the soldiers walk in pairs, lost in conversation and paying little attention to what was going on around them. This made it easy to follow them at a close distance in the dark, sit nearby whenever they stopped to rest, and they would never know he was there. They didn't make noise with their weapons at night but made quite a racket with their talking and laughter.

They fired their weapons in the day. Occasionally he was wakened by the booming of the large ones, which did indeed throw stones nearly the weight of a man out to sea. Two-feathers had inspected these mysterious weapons at night, with their long, stone trunks lying immovable like fallen trees, and their round stones filled with weight as if by magic. He lifted a few of the stones and was amazed that they could weigh so much. The firing of these weapons created a sound like the roar of thunder. It made the birds rush into the air.

The weapons they carried in their arms made a sharp, cracking noise that cut the air like trees splitting in half. Two-feathers watched them fire the weapons but they never seemed to fire at anything but air so he could not judge their effectiveness or accuracy. But they certainly made lots of noise. How unlike bows and arrows, or knives, that killed silently. Perhaps the noise was meant to scare their enemies as much as kill them. He watched them practise a few times in the twilight, while he remained hidden in the shadows. The leaders barked orders at the bluecoats with a sound that did not strike him as respectful. As he watched the stiff soldiers stand still and create noise and smoke with their weapons he drifted back in his mind to standing in the woods as a boy, shivering in the cold while an older warrior taught him to shoot his bow; with a gentle but firm voice, he told Two-feathers how to calm his mind so as not to feel the cold. And he remembered the trust he felt then and the deep respect he gained for his teacher, because what he taught him was true. After that lesson, everything else he learned about being a warrior he learned calmly through his mind first. Here now, there was something mindless in this shooting at the air. He could not recognize trust between the bluecoats and their leaders. Nor could he recognize respect.

Two-feathers knew it was going to be difficult to identify his father without knowing what he looked like. So many bluecoats looked the same – pale faces, bristled cheeks, sunken eyes and bored expressions. He did not want to believe that his father looked like this. He knew that there were bluecoats who stayed indoors most of the time. They were more brightly dressed, stood up straighter and wore expressions of greater purpose. His father might be one of them. But how could he get close enough to see? He would have to find a way to enter their buildings at night without getting caught.

Climbing the fortress walls was not difficult once he got used to the grip of the stone. It was a soft stone that broke easily when struck with a harder one. In this way he was able to cut wedges for his hands for climbing. In just a few days he cut climbing routes up several sections of the wall and practised running up and down like a squirrel. From the top he learned the timing of the nightly patrols and was able to enter the village whenever he pleased with little risk of getting caught.

He didn't
have
to enter the fortress secretly; he was not an enemy. He could have approached the main gate just like anyone else and asked for permission. But he preferred not to. He preferred to remain invisible and keep his business to himself.

Climbing the walls of the buildings inside was a little harder because they were constructed of wood and he had to shimmy up them as up a tree without branches. Getting inside was even harder. They had glass windows, which were kept shut, and he could not pry them open without breaking them, which would surely wake the people sleeping inside. Neither could he see clearly enough through the windows to identify a sleeping face. Still, as late spring rolled into early summer he became expert at entering the fortress at night, climbing the walls of buildings and peering in through their windows like a ghost. In fact, many inhabitants that summer had frightening dreams of a ghost watching them while they slept.

The bluecoats were creatures of habit and liked to follow a routine. But they were unpredictable too. They could change their routine quickly and without warning. Two-feathers learned this the hard way.

He had entered the fortress after dark and passed through the town and down to the waterfront to gaze upon the giant boats in the harbour. As he stared in awe at their astonishing size he began to form a plan for swimming out and climbing onto them. There were warriors on them. Perhaps his father was one of them. Returning through the village at the end of night he was surprised by a gathering of soldiers in the courtyard of their leader just before the rising of the sun. While he could have shown himself and simply asked to be let out of the fortress (after all there were other Mi'kmaq there), he decided to remain unseen. At the last minute he ducked into a small shed at one end of the courtyard. There he crouched down, calming two startled sheep with soft words. Unfortunately, the soldiers stayed in the courtyard long after the sun came up, and the sun shone bright and clear on a rare, cloudless day. Two-feathers made himself as comfortable as possible in the straw at the back of the shed and waited.

By mid morning, after much firing of their weapons, the soldiers left the walled courtyard and a peaceful stillness descended upon it. An elderly lady came out and freed the sheep but did not see Two-feathers hidden in the straw. As the sun beat down on the shed and warmed it up, he grew sleepy. Birds sang out and bees buzzed around the flowers in the small garden next to the shed as he drifted off to sleep.

It was the middle of the afternoon when he woke to the sound of light footsteps outside. Someone had come to water the flowers and was singing a beautiful song. Her soft, youthful voice seemed to float upon the air and it reminded him of his mother. Two-feathers sat up, filled with curiosity. Leaning over to peek through the cracks he caught sight of her and was astonished. He had never seen such a person. She was dressed in cloth as smooth and shiny as water but coloured like the rainbow. Her hair was golden, like summer wheat, her skin white like sun-bleached driftwood. She carried a look of such thoughtfulness he wondered if maybe she was a spirit of some kind. She was taking such pleasure in the flowers, birds and bees around her. Two-feathers was mesmerized.

He stared until he was stiff in the neck. Eventually, she left. When darkness fell he was freed. He had spent the entire day hidden in the straw of the stable. He was hungry now and couldn't wait to return to the swamp and roast some meat. But as he climbed down the outer wall and returned to his muskrat den he carried the young woman in his mind. He couldn't stop thinking about her.

Chapter Nine

T
he problem of how to avoid soldiering and spend my days in the Governor's residence instead was heavy on my mind the moment I woke. It was the key to my survival at Louisbourg. I quickly wrote to my mother, dressed in my uniform, pulled those punishing boots onto my feet and limped out the door. A soldier's day started early, and I risked getting thrown into the dungeon if I were late.

My father expected a lot of me, considering I had never had military training before. The regular soldiers snickered at me, they who had no idea what a pathetic-looking bunch
they
were. They all sat with poor posture and couldn't stand to attention properly no matter how hard they tried. Neither did they march particularly well because most of them were usually sick from drinking the night before. Such were the men who laughed at me because I couldn't get comfortable in the uniform and carried my musket like a shovel. But some of them were kind and offered me encouraging words and told me how to treat my blisters, how to stand for a long time without getting so tired and, most importantly, how to hide food in my clothing for the long stretches between meals.

From early morning to mid afternoon we marched in and out of the fortress, inspected cannon, shot our muskets and carried supplies in and out of the warehouses. When I peeled the boots from my feet during a break I found my socks were soiled with blood. My ears were ringing with musket shot and vulgar jokes. If I hadn't had an appointment to teach Celestine I might really have shot myself and put an early end to a most unpromising military career.

I limped into the Governor's residence in uniform. A servant informed me that M. Anglaise was expecting me. He was wearing a severe expression on his face. “Jacques. I have spoken with the Governor and he has given some thought to your request. I am sorry that I must ask you to reconsider it. The Governor feels that, at fifteen years of age, it is impossible for you, even as learned as you are, to appreciate the effect it would have upon your father were the Governor to command him to release you from your military duties. He feels further that, being your father's only legitimate son, you have a moral duty to recognize his rights as father. While the Governor does sympathize with you and does believe that the man who carries Voltaire and Montaigne in his head will always be more of a man than the one who carries a musket and sword, all the same, it would be a blow to your father from which he fears he would not recover. Such is the fragile nature of men of military disposition. However, he has spoken with your father and explained to him that I do require your services here as well, both as musical instructor to my daughter and to assist me occasionally with my correspondence. This would necessitate that you serve limited military duties primarily at night in the role of sentinel, a position much less egregious, I'm sure. Does this arrangement agree with you?”

“Yes, sir. Very much so. I am deeply grateful for your intervention.”

“You are welcome. I do wish I could do more. Alas, by the discretion of our King, we are a nation at war.”

I bowed to M. Anglaise and went upstairs. Celestine was sitting in the centre of the room with the violoncello on her lap, cradling it as if it were a pet. She was smiling and looking happier than the day before. Now I could see that she was actually very pretty. She was wearing a different dress, shoes, ribbons and jewellery. She certainly had a flare for fashion. What a waste it was when there was no one to see it but her father, the maids and me.

“My father says I have improved already,” she said happily. “Is that possible?”

I nodded my head. “The moment you hold the bow and instrument properly your tone improves.”

“I love it. I have been practicing. May I show you?”

“Please.”

She gripped the bow with a delicate hand and drew it earnestly across the strings. The violoncello failed to sing as well as it was able, but the tone was warmer than before.

“You
are
improving.”

She grinned shyly. “Thank you, Jacques. I am so excited about it. I am so glad you have come to Louisbourg. I'm sure you didn't want to.”

I smiled awkwardly. Proper etiquette required me to say that I was happy to be here anyway, but I couldn't seem to form the words in my mouth.

“Am I holding the instrument properly?”

“Yes.”

“Is my bow crooked?”

“No.”

“Am I playing too loudly?”

“No. Not at all.”

My mind drifted to images of my own violoncello. I wondered if it had sunk right to the bottom or floated just beneath the surface. It was made of wood, so like a ship it should have floated. Yet I had seen it disappear under the water. Was it lying on the floor of the ocean now and were little fish swimming in and out of it, making nests in it; or had it drifted onto a beach on a tropical island far away, now lying half buried in the sand, dried and cracking under the hot sun? The violence of my father's action was burned into my memory forever. It had been such a desperate attempt on his part to change me. He really believed he could turn me into a soldier. He was so wrong. Celestine stopped playing and stared at me with a puzzled look.

“Jacques. You seem so far away. Are you thinking about something?”

“Oh. No, I am listening. I am listening with both ears.”

“You looked so distracted. What were you thinking, if you don't mind me asking?”

I did mind her asking. On the other hand, she was sweet and friendly, and the more relaxed she became with me the more I enjoyed her company.

“Umm … my own violoncello I guess. I lost it. But your tone is really improving. You should try a legato étude now.”

“Will you play for me? I love it when you play.”

“I'd love to.”

“I think I learn the most by watching you play.”

“I will play you a new piece by George Handel. You will like it.”

“But … isn't that English music?”

“Well, Handel is from Germany. But I suppose he
is
living in England at the moment.”

“I hate that we are at war. I don't know why men make wars. Please play, Jacques, so we can forget about everything else.”

—

When I went to bed that night my head was filled with conflicting thoughts. I couldn't stop thinking about my own violoncello and wondering where it was, which was silly. It had been destroyed and I would never see it again. That was all. Celestine's was wonderful to play. It had the richest tone, a lighter, more bell-like quality of sound than mine had. It bothered me that the more I played hers the less I could remember my own, and I felt like a traitor in a way, which was also silly. It was just an instrument, not a person.

Then I thought of my father, though I tried not to. Something M. Anglaise had said was nagging me. He had called me the only “legitimate” son of my father, and it seemed to me that he had emphasized the word legitimate. But I wasn't sure. Since I was the
only
son of my father, why would he bother to use the word legitimate anyway? If it had been any other person speaking I might not have noticed, but M. Anglaise was very particular with his choice of words. I wished I could have asked him to explain what he meant, but I couldn't. Returning to pleasanter thoughts of Celestine and her violoncello, I wrapped up in my itchy blanket and drifted off to sleep.