Blood Brothers in Louisbourg (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

O
ne night the bluecoats' village was ablaze with celebration. It seemed no one wanted to sleep. The soldiers had been drinking, including the ones who used to pick up the others and lock them up. The streets were lit with torches. People were wandering about, laughing, singing and shouting. Their numbers had swollen. The harbour was thick with ships.

Two-feathers felt the energy in the air. He sensed that no one would care if he was in the village too. The drinking houses were full and so were the streets. Climbing onto one of the long houses where no one slept but where he always found barrels of stinky black mud, coils of rope, wooden beams, heavy round stones and many other things, he discovered the reason for the celebration. As he crawled inside a tiny window in the peak of the roof he was surprised to see dozens of men below. These men were not celebrating. They were sleeping. Shimmying down a corner of the wall he took a closer look. They must have been exhausted; they were sleeping in their clothes. A few steps closer and he understood. They were redcoats! No wonder the bluecoats were celebrating. They had captured their enemy.

Back outside, he jumped down to the street and passed through the shadows. There were other Mi'kmaq here but none was armed like him with knife, bow and arrows. Nor did they appear particularly able. Two-feathers decided the bluecoats' village was a bad influence on his people. It seemed to make them fat and lazy. They were especially affected by the poisonous drink.

Coming down one street were a couple of soldiers with their arms wrapped around a couple of Mi'kmaq women. All had been drinking. Two-feathers did not like the way the soldiers were touching the women. They were not respectful. The women didn't seem to mind, though, which made it worse.

He followed them until they disappeared into one of the houses. He couldn't help but think of his own mother – loving and faithful. She had nothing in common with these women, and yet he could not escape the fact that she had been here too, many years before. And somewhere in this place his father was sleeping. Or perhaps he too was celebrating tonight.

For the first time Two-feathers walked boldly down the centre of the street. He was angry. Something about the sight of him must have appeared threatening because even the drunken revellers who saw him were alarmed. One soldier made an attempt to stand in his way and demand that he hand over his weapons. Two-feathers pushed the man aside and continued on. But he returned to the shadows after that.

He climbed the leader's roof and brooded for a long time. He wished the bluecoats had never come here. Yet he realized that his mother had loved his father for a reason. He thought of the girl of the rainbow whom he liked so much. That helped him to understand his mother. She must have been enchanted by a bluecoat warrior just as he was enchanted by this girl. That made sense. The only thing it didn't explain was his father's actions. Why had he abandoned her?

He felt a desire to see the girl of the rainbow before the night was over, but the leader's house was the most difficult of all to enter. There were guards at the doors, the windows were higher and the walls more difficult to climb. He knew this was where she lived because he had seen her come and go. After several failed attempts at scaling the walls he took refuge in the shed. There he made himself comfortable and waited for morning.

She came out in the middle of the day. She moved quietly, humming softly to herself and swinging a water jug in her arms. She was wearing a dress of silver cloth that reflected the sun like the skin of a salmon, flashing bright colours with each movement. She had raised her hair above her neck and twisted it up in spirals. It reminded him of the baskets the women of his tribe wove in the winter. She did not come directly into the shed but watered the flowers outside, then spent time admiring them.

He sat up. If she came inside he would not hide from her. She had seen him before and hadn't been afraid. If she had been, she would have avoided the shed now. Perhaps she had come inside on other mornings when he hadn't been there. He wished he could speak with her. He would ask her about the cloth of her dress. Where in nature did such cloth come from? He would ask her about her own land. Perhaps she knew of his father? But he couldn't ask her these things when he didn't speak her language.

When her jug was empty she wandered to the door of the shed, fiddled with her dress and then entered. He stood up. She was surprised again but not frightened. She smiled, and he sensed that she was happy to find him there. Had she even come hoping to find him there? It seemed so. He pointed to a clump of burdocks on the hem of her dress. She frowned, reached down and pulled it off. He wanted to touch the cloth, so like water was it. She read the curiosity in his eyes and stretched out her arm so that he could feel the fabric, which he did. The material
felt
like water too. It was magic. He smiled. Standing close to her now he realized that she was not a spirit at all, she was just a young woman from another place, yet the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Her skin was as pale as snow, her hair as yellow as winter wheat, colours he had never seen on a person before and they were strange to him. Most of the bluecoats were dark-haired and their skin was tanned. Her eyes were bluish-green, like his, and in her eyes he saw something he recognized – the delicate, almost invisible yet unmistakable look of loss. She, like him, had lost something very valuable. He wondered if she was also searching.

He saw her gaze at his hair, so dark and thick compared to hers. Gingerly, she reached out and took a lock of it between her fingers and twisted it. She smiled so sweetly he felt he might melt into the ground. Then her eyes fell to the turquoise pendant around his neck. It was unlike the rest of his appearance and he could tell that she was curious to know where it had come from. She pointed to it and questioned him with her eyes. Two-feathers raised the pendant to his lips and kissed it, then put his hand over his heart. Could she guess it had come from his mother? Her joy suddenly faded and she appeared lost in her own thoughts. She stared at the floor, as if in a trance. Then she caught herself, smiled politely but sadly, pressed his hand quickly, curtsied, and left the stable. He followed her with his eyes through the cracks in the walls.

That night, the spirit of the muskrat appeared to Two-feathers in a dream. It had come to scold him. What kind of den was this he had constructed? Why had he made only one entrance? Where on earth was the escape hole? Why had he not created a series of tunnels? Why did he have only one den? What did he intend to do when his enemies came, or did he think he would have no enemies? Two-feathers apologized to the spirit for having been so careless and promised to make proper tunnels and dens right away. He explained that he had been consumed with searching for his father in the fortress but that he would concentrate now on behaving as a muskrat should. The spirit answered that it knew he had been looking not only for his father but for the girl of the rainbow as well. Where did he think he could keep such a girl anyway, in a den without escape routes? When his enemies came, how would he keep her safe? Two-feathers promised to make the tunnels right away.

When he woke, he made a closer examination of the swamp and all its channels. He watched the muskrats travel through their systems of tunnels and began to imagine creating a similar network of tunnels between the channels that would allow him to escape from anywhere in his corner of the swamp. It would be an enormous task but the muskrats were industrious creatures and they inspired him with their energy. For every two or three nights he spent digging tunnels now, he spent only one searching for his father.

But he could no longer spend a whole day in the shed waiting for the girl of the rainbow, and so he decided to sneak into her residence instead. The walls on that side were too difficult to scale but there were other walls with other windows he could reach, and he could run across the roof. He was certain he could get in; it would be just a matter of finding the room where she stayed and waiting for her there. As long as he kept invisible he could come and go and no one would ever know he was there. Or so he believed.

Chapter Thirteen

H
e seemed to fly into the fortress like a bat. I only caught glimpses of his silhouette under the faint light of the moon, but knowing now what he was, my imagination filled in the rest. When he flew up the wall I realized he was just climbing very quickly a route he had cut into the stone. I could imagine what my father would think of that. He would shoot him if he saw him. I was sure of it.

He never wasted a moment, never hesitated for a second, always knowing exactly where he was going. And he came silently, without any sound at all. It was my responsibility to report him. And I would definitely have been thrown into the dungeon for failing to do so. But I never did. In fact, I rejoiced in his presence. He seemed to ridicule everything the fortress stood for, making a mockery of it, and I found that refreshing and amusing. I imagined he was to Louisbourg what Voltaire was to France, or Socrates was to ancient Athens: a gadfly, a critic. He climbed the walls as if they were nothing. He came in armed with bow and arrows and eluded the guards, who didn't even know he was there. I had no idea why he had come and I didn't care. I just enjoyed seeing him, the few times that I did. I felt like I was a ghost watching a ghost.

—

For the first half of summer we won a string of victories at sea. My father was ecstatic. I was pleased too, but only because it meant that he was always away. That made my life easier. Then we began to make plans to attack the English at Annapolis Royal. I thought that was a terrible idea, especially because my father told me right away that I was coming along.

“And it won't help you to whine at the Governor, or Monsieur Anglaise, Jacques,” he said with a scolding tone. “I've already spoken with them and they have agreed that the experience will do you good.”

I couldn't believe that M. Anglaise would think that, and I wasted no time seeking a meeting with him. I had no trouble getting one – he was expecting me.

“My dear Jacques! Celestine's cheer has improved so much and her health has as well. She is always singing now. I am deeply indebted to you.”

“Thank you, sir. Is there any way I can avoid accompanying the attack on Annapolis Royal, sir? I am not a soldier, as you have pointed out so articulately yourself.”

He looked at me in a compassionate but uncomfortable way. “Alas, my dear friend, I have spoken to the Governor on your behalf. But your father had spoken to him first, and your father is a most determined man. Presently, he is riding a wave of success.”

“He has never read Boethius, sir. Our fortunes will change.”

“Only too true, Jacques. Only too true. Alas, there is only so much I can do for you in my present situation. We are of similar minds, you and I, truly we are. But my friend the Governor feels differently. Though he has, to my mind, received his position out of some unlucky design of fate, not particularly beneficial to his health I must say. It is a role he must nonetheless play to the best of his abilities. You see, Jacques, we are a country at war. As much as we might like to ignore this inconvenient fact, you and I, it will not go away.”

M. Anglaise looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening, then lowered his voice. “The Governor's military advisors, your father chief among them, believe it is now a case of attacking or being attacked, with the former holding all the advantage and the latter a catastrophe. As to your joining this expedition, your father absolutely insists upon it. He assured the Governor you would be gone and back within a month of departure. Success is guaranteed. Perhaps, if you give him what he wants this time he will be satisfied and leave you alone. Why not go along, Jacques, and make such a show of manliness as to impress your old man and put his heart at rest?”

I dropped my head.

“I am sorry, Jacques. I do hope you will take some comfort in knowing that these are but growing pains. You will surely make a great diplomat some day and dedicate the greater portion of your life to the prosperity of our beloved France, in the company of learned men and elegant ladies. A month in the woods at the end of summer is not the worst way for a young man to spend some time. The local flora is exquisite at this time of year, the air soft and mild. You could think of it as an adventure. Tell me, where would our greatest writers be without adventure?”

“But adventure for the purpose of killing, sir?”

“Ah, I don't think there will be much killing, Jacques. They took the tiny garrison on the mainland with little loss of life, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

M. Anglaise sighed compassionately. “I am not entirely unfamiliar with the weight a son must bear for the conscience of his father, Jacques. But if it is a weight God Almighty has seen fit for us to carry, perhaps it is not for us to question it so anxiously?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, then. Don't keep my lovely child waiting. I expect she has rosined her bow already.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

I climbed the stairs with a sense of doom. But perhaps M. Anglaise was right. Perhaps a month in the wilderness of the New World would not be the worst thing in the world, though I truly did not want to go, not least of all because I knew I might actually get killed.

—

I saw so little of my father during the first few months at the fortress I didn't know when he slept. He was taken up with wartime activities and the reconstruction of the fortress in the places where it was crumbling. The fortress itself was perfect, he insisted, it was just the elements that were not so agreeable. Wind, rain and salt were a vicious trio that caused much damage. Yes, I thought, but they didn't fire muskets and cannon or lay siege or steal sailing ships. Towards the end of summer the English turned the tables on us, capturing some of our own privateers that had captured theirs. They remained in the sea not far away, determined to cut off our supply line. Not to worry, said my father, we were about to strike them where it hurt – overland to Annapolis Royal, their stronghold in the south. We would pick up forces along the way, Acadians and Mi'kmaq, and hit the English with the fury of a hurricane.