The Displaced

by Frieda Watt

  Pierre shook his head. “I’m surprised they’ve lasted as long as they have.”

  There was a pause, each lost in his own thoughts of Louisbourg. Renault was the first to break the silence.

  “Best show you around.” He clapped a hand on Pierre’s shoulder—with some difficulty, since he had to stretch to reach it. “This is my office. The clerks Fortin and Gagné work over there, in their own room.” He pointed to the small room off the main area. “You don’t need to worry about them. Hocquart, the Intendant, and I use them for drafting laws. Nice gents, but they keep to themselves.”

  The full office was larger than Pierre had supposed. Behind the main room was a modest study filled floor to ceiling with books of all types. This was Renault’s private space, where he went to work and think without interruption. Most of the books had apparently come with Renault from the motherland, and Pierre had never seen so many books in his life. Renault chuckled as the young man stared openly.

  “It’s quite the collection, yes,” he mused. “I often lend them out to those interested. It is possibly the largest collection in the colony.” He allowed Pierre a few minutes to properly appreciate the collection before pulling him away to other things.

  Pierre wasn’t to work with the clerks. He was given a small desk in the corner of Renault’s large office so he could listen to all that went on. Pierre had his own bedroom, tucked behind the clerk’s room and across from the study, which was far more than he had expected. He knew most apprentices slept on the floors of their work spaces. He felt slightly more at ease knowing he had his own place to sleep just beyond the office. Renault gave Pierre some time to clean up more before introducing him to the two clerks. Both men weren’t very interested in him, but they were cordial.

  The Procurator General brought him back over to the large oak desk in the front room of the office. “Being an assistant is not the most exciting job,” he conceded, “but the more you learn, the more you’ll be able to do. In half an hour, I have a meeting with Hocquart, and you will accompany me there. I wish only for you to observe and take notes.”

  A short time later, laden with paper, quills, and ink, Pierre stepped up into Renault’s carriage for the trip to the Intendant’s office.

  The Upper Town sat on top of the cliff overlooking the Plains of Abraham and the Saint-Laurent, separated from the docks and warehouses by the soaring cliffs. Renault told Pierre that Quebec didn’t feel much like a city to him; it was more like one of the small country towns that dotted the European continent. Pierre had to take Renault’s word for it, since he’d never been to France.

  The government offices were near the military offices that had been built up along the fortifications of the city. Upon entering the imposing stone building, Pierre was once again struck by the opulence around him. Perhaps life was more comfortable here in the capital because it was surrounded and therefore protected by the rest of the colony. While the offices of Louisbourg were decorated, they were filled only with the essentials, but here, great attention was paid to decorative detail. Pierre had never seen so many vases filled with cut flowers in his life.

  Pierre was introduced to the Intendant, the most powerful man in New France. Gilles Hocquart was of average height and chubby, with one of those powdered wigs that Pierre thought were ridiculous. He betrayed none of his thoughts, of course, and settled himself in a corner, hastily scribbling away as the two men discussed business. Pierre felt rather awkward when they discussed him and the unknown fate of Louisbourg as if he wasn’t present, but their conversation wasn’t one he was invited to join.

  Afterwards, when they had returned to Renault’s office, the Procurator General sat down with Pierre and asked about his experiences during the siege of the fortress. Renault was sympathetic to how difficult it was for Pierre to articulate his experiences during the ordeal, and he listened carefully as his assistant explained the mutiny as well as the food and artillery shortages.

  Renault wanted to know every detail, always prodding further and further below the surface. It was the first time Pierre had spoken of the people he had left behind. He became exhausted as he brought them back to the forefront of his mind. He explained how Nic had been treated as a slave and how he had been deprived of food and sleep just to entertain the soldiers. He remembered how the bombs had fallen and how the military had begged the population to collect any ammunition found in the walls and in craters in the ground so they could be shot back at the enemy.

  Pierre was about to speak of Marie but found he didn’t have the voice for it—partly because he felt guilty. As soon as he’d escaped the island and found himself in the relative safety of the boat heading for Quebec, he regretted not having saved her from British hands.

  “Did the whole garrison fight?” Renault asked, bringing Pierre back to the mutiny. Renault had been a part of the decision to not send reinforcements to Louisbourg. It was one that he admitted to wrestling with for some time, and he was not completely comfortable with the final decision.

  “They all did—as did the militia.”

  That seemed to satisfy Renault, but he was still furious about the behaviour of the soldiers. “Those kinds of actions are the greatest threat to the colony,” he huffed. “I hope the leaders were dealt with appropriately.”

  Pierre nodded. He had watched the executions along with everyone else.

  “As soon as I hear anything about the fate of the fortress, I will let you know,” Renault promised. “But now to dinner. I shan’t deprive my dear wife of the opportunity to fatten you up.”

  Jean had not exaggerated about Vivienne Renault’s cooking ability. Renault could easily have afforded a cook, but his wife wouldn’t hear of it. Cooking was one of Vivienne’s great loves. She spent most of her time puttering around the kitchen, preparing the elaborate dishes she served to her guests. Anyone who had sat at her table was always amazed by what they were treated to. No sooner had Pierre taken his place around the dinner table than a heaping plate of chicken and vegetables was placed in front of him by one of the Renaults’ servants. As soon as he was finished, Vivienne insisted he take seconds, though no one else was finished.

  “Did they not feed you in Louisbourg?” she asked, aghast, as she watched him continue to eat. Although she possessed all the grace and poise of a well-born woman, Vivienne was passionate and sometimes prone to outbursts like this.

  Feeling rather sheepish, Pierre put down his knife and fork. “Ah, no, Ma’am, there wasn’t very much food once the war started. The British navy prevented most of the supply ships from reaching us.”

  Vivienne’s red lips opened in horror. “Did you know about this?” she hissed at her husband.

  Renault nodded warily. “Of course, dear. But there is little anyone can do. As the boy said, a complete British blockade is in effect.”

  Vivienne didn’t look as if she accepted that answer, but she held her tongue. All the same, Pierre had a suspicion that Renault had not heard the last of her thoughts on the subject. The Renaults’ four daughters said little as they watched their guest eat, but, Pierre thought, Daniel had been right when he’d said they were beautiful. They all had dark hair and pale skin like their father, but they’d inherited fine features from their mother and had learned to imitate her poise.

  Alone in his room that night, after cleaning the office space and setting everything up for the next day, Pierre opened one of the books Renault kept in his library. He hadn’t understood most of the details that Hocquart and Renault had discussed at the government offices, but he was determined to learn.

  His room wasn’t large. In fact, it was hardly big enough for the bed and desk that occupied it, and the bed ended up being Pierre’s chair. His reading method was to put his book on the desk and sit on the edge of the bed with his knees tucked under the table. The single candle burned several inches before he finally retired for the night.

  ***

  After a week, Pierre found he had settled into a simple routine. He was t
he first one to wake up every morning to open the curtains to let in the sunlight and to organize the notes and files that everyone needed for the day before any of them arrived. Once Renault did present himself, Pierre took notes for the various meetings he had and accompanied him on his travels.

  The prison in Quebec was one of their frequent destinations. Renault didn’t usually deal with the everyday cases, but someone, be it a judge or an official dealing with a crime, would sometimes ask for advice that involved his interviewing a prisoner. Every so often, a well-connected convict insisted on a conference, but when Renault complied with those requests, he complained bitterly all the way there and back.

  The prison was a large stone building with thick walls and barred windows attached to the military buildings. There were no separate accommodations for military and civilians. Pierre wasn’t sure if he had ever seen a place as depressing as this and was always grateful when they left. Each dark cell, bare except for a thin layer of hay, must be a terrible place to be even if the person accused deserved their dreadful quarters. No one stayed in that place very long, as justice was handed down as swiftly as possible. Most people preferred corporal punishment to being imprisoned, and the judges were happy to comply.

  The courthouse was another of their frequent stops. Renault often complained about the well-known fact that the judges sometimes knew less about the law than the accused. So if Renault’s only job had been to make sure that justice was actually being served around the colony, he would have been busy enough. However, he also sat on the Superior Council. Pierre was surprised when he was invited to attend one of their meetings only four days after his arrival. Sixteen men served on the Council, including the Governor, the Intendant, the Bishop, and the leader of the militia. Again, Pierre sat in a corner furiously scribbling notes. The men were more than interested in hearing about Louisbourg, but Pierre was spared from recounting his stories again by Renault, who passed along the information Pierre had already given him.

  On the first Sunday in September, a blustering and rainy day, Pierre accompanied the Renaults to Notre-Dame de Québec in the centre of the Upper Town. The church was larger than any that Pierre had ever seen, and it had large windows and an intricate, majestic altar.

  Pierre sat at the front with the Renaults and the rest of the important figures and their families, well aware that his large frame was being discussed by those behind him. The refugee from Louisbourg was an interesting new topic for gossip.

  Before the morose priest began the mass, he cleared his throat to make an announcement. Pierre wasn’t paying much attention, being focused, instead, on the building’s elaborate windows, when he heard the word “Louisbourg.” His heart stopped. Louisbourg had capitulated, the inhabitants deported to France, and the garrison to prisons in Boston and the rest of New England.

  Murmurs rippled throughout the congregation, but Pierre didn’t hear them. His ears were ringing. He felt his hands begin to tremble, so he gripped the top of the pew in front of him, but that didn’t help. Overcome, he stood up, ran down the aisle, and burst out the front doors into the early autumn rain. He collapsed on the steps, taking deep gulps of fresh air. Louisbourg had fallen almost two months before, but the news had reached Quebec only now. News travelled painfully slowly between the two cities, and that was one of the colony’s greatest vulnerabilities. So Louisbourg was gone, quite likely along with everyone he knew in it.

  He heard the heavy church door swing open and sensed Renault settling down beside him.

  “Sorry,” Pierre mumbled, trying to wipe his eyes surreptitiously.

  Renault shook his head. “My dear boy, what on earth for?”

  “Making a scene.”

  Renault scoffed. “That would be distressing news for anyone.”

  Augustus would have been admonishing him, but now that was all irrelevant, as his father was on his way to France.

  Renault and Pierre sat in silence, watching the rain fall, the heavy droplets slowly soaking through their outer layers of clothing. Of course, Pierre had known this was coming. Louisbourg could not have survived indefinitely against the British. But the shock felt unbearable. And then there was Marie. Where was she right now, at this moment? In material terms, Claude would be able to provide her with a good life in France, unlike some of the poor who were now completely destitute, but Pierre’s heart hurt, knowing she was so far away.

  “Do you know where the survivors will go?”

  “France is a big country,” Renault sighed. “I have no idea, but your father will send word eventually; it’s only a matter of time.”

  “The river will be frozen by the time they reach France. I won’t hear anything until spring.”

  A reassuring hand was placed on his shoulder. “I know. But spring will be here soon enough.”

  Chapter 5

  THE DAYS CONTINUED MUCH THE SAME, with little break in routine. Pierre was forbidden to work on holy days as was the rest of the colony, but other than that, he worked every day except Sunday. He divided his evenings and Sundays between Renault’s home and his Uncle Tomas’s, though after he’d been in the capital for two months, he was surprised to have Renault invite him to join the family for dinner every night. Pierre had heard the stories of the abuse and neglect that apprentices suffered during their training, but life with Renault was far different. Pierre felt as if he was the prodigal son being welcomed back after a long absence.

  During some of his off hours, Pierre continued to work his way through Renault’s library, memorizing all the rules and regulations that he could. He hadn’t told Renault he was doing this, but after a few months, Renault started asking him his opinion about certain points of law. When Pierre was able to answer with more than wild guesses, Renault made a point of asking him more often, usually when he was least expecting it. This kept him on his toes, but he rarely answered incorrectly, and the pile of books in his room kept steadily growing.

  Renault’s four daughters were in various stages of adolescence. The eldest, Martine, was sixteen, only a year younger than Pierre. It took him about a month to realize that none of them would be against him showing interest in any of them. More alarming was his master’s apparent approval of the situation.

  He confided in his cousins about this strange turn of events, but Jean laughed and Daniel teased him for being worried.

  “I would love it if even one of them showed me some attention,” Daniel smiled.

  Pierre let the subject go.

  While things were going well during the day, he slept badly at night. Usually, he poured over his books as long as possible, putting off the hour of sleep. That didn’t help, though. Every night, the bombs fell on Louisbourg, the fortress crumbled around him, and Marie was always there calling his name, begging for help. He’d always wake up in a cold sweat, grateful that he slept alone in the office, where no one could hear his cries. He had dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, but his work kept him so busy during the day that Louisbourg only haunted him in the quiet hours of the night. Renault had recommended a glass of brandy before bed, but that didn’t help either.

  Winter came, and it was colder and more brutal than any he had ever experienced. The Saint-Laurent froze over, the ice thick enough that a man could skate on it. People flocked to the frozen surface with their bone skates strapped to their boots. Skating on the river was the preferred place for such activity. Many younger people took to skating through the icy streets of the city. But this was frowned upon because people were sometimes cut off or knocked over by those going at breakneck speed.

  Despite the cold and the several feet of snow that covered the countryside, life went on. Most inhabitants of the colony were stuck wherever they had been when the first of the winter storms blew. The King’s Highway between the capital and Montreal was passable, but few were brave enough to undertake that journey. Fishermen built temporary huts along the edge of the frozen river, fishing through small holes cut in the ice. Hunters and trappers still ventu
red beyond the walls of the city, in attempts to get high prices for fresh meat, their feet shod with large snowshoes of the type that Native people wore. At least some must have been successful because Vivienne continued to serve fresh rabbit throughout the winter months.

  As April of 1746 approached, the river began to groan and creak. More than once, the sounds made Pierre wake up in the middle of night, certain that the city was under attack. When the ice finally shattered completely and great boulders of ice flowed down the river, the city began waiting anxiously for the first ships from France.

  Pierre wondered if any would actually come. With Louisbourg now in the hands of the British, would it be possible for French ships to make the long trip west into the Valley of the Saint-Laurent. He was fearful and on edge most of the time. Renault noticed but didn’t say a word. There was nothing he could do, though he was worried about what would happen if no news came for Pierre. He’d heard enough from his protégé to know that the relationship between him and his father wasn’t the strongest. However, he couldn’t imagine any father dropping all communication and abandoning his son to an unknown fate.

  Snow still covered the ground in most places except the streets. The warmer temperatures and rain had turned those into rivers of mud and winter muck—debris that had been hidden all winter by snow. Pieces of leather lost from bridles and reins, bits of broken snowshoes, single gloves without their mates, and human waste ran through the streets. Quebec was definitely not at its best, and the dirt-blackened snow that lined the streets didn’t add to the city’s charm either.

  Late one afternoon in April, Pierre was sidestepping the puddles and rivers in the streets, heading back to the office. He’d spent the whole day at the courthouse without Renault. He’d been promoted to dealing with Judge Caron on his own. This could have been interesting, but the Judge was far too old to be still dispensing justice. He could barely remember what he’d eaten for breakfast let alone the laws of New France. Fortunately, some notary was usually around to make sure things didn’t get too out of control. Renault was trying to have the man peacefully retired, but so far, Caron had been resistant. Once a week, Pierre went to try to talk some sense into him, but today’s meeting had gone as well as they usually had. Caron had thrown a shoe at him and accused him of being a British spy.