The Displaced

by Frieda Watt

  Pierre had said that already, but now wasn’t the time to point that out. “But you’re not injured?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet, but so many of our men are already lying dead on the battlefield. Now there isn’t much to do except try to stop them from surrounding the fortress.”

  Marie placed the filthy towel back in the basin and stood between his knees. She rested her head on his damp hair. “How long are you home for?”

  He sighed and pulled her closer. “Just tonight. Someone finally had enough sense to pull out those who had been in the trenches for so long. Figured we needed a night indoors and a decent meal.”

  “What would you like first? whisky? bread?”

  Pierre leaned his head against her chest. “I need you,” he looked up, pleading. “The rest can wait.”

  ***

  Darkness had fallen by the time Pierre rolled off the bed to get some of the food the maids had left on the table by the fire. Marie lay on her stomach, watching him move around the room. The firelight dyed his skin a ruddy orange.

  Pierre came back toward the bed and set a bowl of soup and a plate of stale bread on the bedside table. Then he got back in under the covers and reached over to get the bread. “What about you? What have you been doing all this time?” he asked between mouthfuls of bread, his cheeks round with food.

  Marie smiled in amusement at him. “Nothing nearly as important as you. I’ve been darning socks.”

  “Socks are important,” Pierre said.

  “I’m going mad here,” she admitted reluctantly. “It wasn’t pleasant before, just hiding and waiting around, but now I’m here worrying about you all day. What if …”

  “You and your ‘what ifs.’” He stretched a long arm over to the bedside table and grabbed the bowl of soup.

  Marie gave him a look. “Thoughts just begin to race through my head.”

  Pierre leaned his broad back against the headboard. “Are you eating?” He was completely serious now.

  Marie sat beside him and fiddled with a strand of hair. “Not really. I can’t sleep, and I can’t eat. I told you, I’m going mad.”

  Pierre was quiet for a while. She could see his jaw furiously moving back and forth. “Maybe you shouldn’t be here anymore,” he whispered to himself.

  “I can’t leave,” Marie muttered, an edge in her voice. She wasn’t about to reopen this conversation.

  Pierre gazed across the room, his blue eyes looking at but not really seeing the window because he was so preoccupied. You can’t leave the fortress … ,” he said. Marie looked at him, impatient for him to continue. “You worked at the hospital before, correct?”

  “You know that.”

  “And you’re a ramancheur now? You’re actually healing people?” He wasn’t teasing.

  Marie nodded. “The nuns trained me. I’m quite the competent little healer now. You want me to go there?”

  Pierre shrugged. “If it gave you something to do and took your mind off things. I’m not Jacques, you know.”

  Marie bristled at the suggestion. “Of course, you’re not, but the hospital … you’ve wanted me to stay inside so no one sees me.”

  Pierre sighed and put his arm around her, pulling her closer.

  “You’ve had a lot of terrible things happen to you recently. It leaves its own scars, ones that aren’t visible.” Marie took one of Pierre’s hands in hers and traced the lines on the palm with her fingers. “I’m worried that if you stay here alone until the British break down the door … that those wounds will fester. It’s already affecting you.”

  “But what about Claude and Jacques? It’s so much more likely for someone to see me at the hospital and tell them where I am.”

  Pierre looked at her for a moment, thinking. “It’s up to you. I can’t protect you at the hospital, but I can’t protect you here either. Not anymore. Although I wish I could.”

  Marie was thinking hard. She wanted desperately to be back at the Hôpital du Roi, helping and healing, contributing to the defensive effort. But if Claude found her, she had little doubt that he would kill her this time.

  Marie bit her lip. “I’ll go if the hospital will take me.”

  “That’s my girl,” Pierre said, drawing her toward him and kissing her on the forehead. “But we need to figure out how to keep you hidden from those brutes.”

  “And I’m terrified at the thought of you and Nic and even Augustus fighting against the British. You won’t all come back.”

  Pierre nodded. They were too outnumbered and poorly equipped for any type of victory. “None of us are safe now. If the British win, it will be awful.”

  Marie looked at him intently. She knew he had more information than he was revealing. “Last time, we were given the honours of war,” she said slowly. “Though we were defeated, the British allowed our army to march out of the city, flags flying, drums beating, and bayonets fixed. It was symbolic, but it was important. At least it showed that the enemy acknowledged our army’s valour.”

  “It won’t be the same this time,” Pierre said. He got out of bed and started pacing around the room, clenching his fists in frustration. “The French have done too much in this war for the British to be merciful this time.”

  “Merciful?” Marie shuddered. Back in 1745, the conquering army had been largely peaceful and had simply gone about the business of establishing a new government, but there had been stories. Rape, beatings, and looting had happened in the early days. The British commanders did what they could to prevent the violence, but the city was large and the situation chaotic. It hadn’t helped that the French soldiers were furious in surrender and had done what they could to riot and stir up trouble.

  Pierre shook his damp hair out of his eyes. For the first time, Marie saw a look of fear in his eyes. “France started this war. Whatever happens to us is our own fault.”

  “Why are you so cynical?” Marie reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him back onto the bed. She could feel his agitation, so she started to rub his broad shoulders.

  “Did you hear about what happened at Fort Oswego and Fort William Henry?”

  Marie shook her head. “No. That never made it back here.”

  Pierre sighed. “I was at Fort William Henry. We attacked, they surrendered, and everything was straightforward at first.” Marie continued to knead Pierre’s muscles, but that didn’t help take the despair out of his voice. “On the mainland and everywhere else actually, except here in Louisbourg, the Native allies fight alongside us. I mean they fight with us here too, but there are a lot more of them on the mainland.

  “When the fort fell to us, Montcalm agreed to a peaceful resolution. The British soldiers and everyone else were supposed to leave the place in peace. That should have been simple, but something went wrong. There can sometimes be a language barrier between us and the Huron. I don’t know if Montcalm or any of the other officers knew what the Huron were planning—if they were planning anything. I don’t even know. Actually, I don’t think they were, and it wasn’t the entire group. I asked my Huron friend Moxus afterwards, and he said he didn’t know it was going to happen.”

  Pierre lay down on the bed, resting his head on Marie’s thigh.

  “After the soldiers left, a group of Hurons went in and massacred the sick and injured left behind. I got there partway through the attack, and the French officers in the fort there did nothing to stop them. As the people of the fort left, the Huron killed more. Men, women, and children were scalped where they stood. Others were harassed, stripped naked, their only worldly possessions stolen from them. Montcalm tried to stop it, but a lot of the other officers didn’t care. Just turned a blind eye. Some even helped. They say 1,500 people were killed.”

  Marie felt sick. “What happened at Oswego?”

  “Montcalm refused to grant them the honours of war, which on its own is quite an insult. Some of the British tried to escape, but most of the escapees were hacked to death with tomahawks by drunken Hurons and French soldiers.
”

  Marie stared at Pierre, horror-struck. Seeing the look on her face, he sat up quickly and rubbed her back until she felt in control of herself again.

  “We won’t be given honours of war,” he continued quietly. “Most of them out there are looking for revenge. Maybe we’ll be shipped off like the Acadians. Hopefully, that will be the worst of it—though I doubt it.”

  Marie looked at Pierre, her eyes wide with panic. She didn’t see the fate of the Acadians as positive. They’d been stripped of their land, their possessions, and sent into exile and not to places of their choice. Families had been split apart. They would never get back home, never have their lives back.

  “What can we do?” Marie asked after a long silence.

  “There’s nothing we can do, love.” Pierre rolled over and pulled her down beside him. “Hope against all odds that we win and if not, that we can just get on the boats as quickly as possible and get out of here.”

  Marie rested her head on his chest, noticing, again, the “D” branded onto his skin. “Would you leave now? desert them?”

  Pierre was silent for so long that she thought he hadn’t heard the question. She repeated it. “I heard you. I’m just thinking. There’s nowhere for us to go. If we didn’t desert to the British our only other hope would be to make it across the island and find someone with a boat. I did that journey once. It was suicide at the time. We made it only by sheer, dumb luck.”

  Marie felt as if an iron fist had gripped her chest. Pierre stared down at her as if he knew what she was thinking. “There’s no use fretting now.” She buried her face in his chest and curled her body around him.

  He gently stroked her bare back as they listened to the rain.

  ***

  The next morning broke clear and calm, but the atmosphere within the fortress was bleak. The garrison had taken to running small raids among the British camps, but there was little else they could do. The British were too far away to launch a major offensive with the men and supplies they had. Harassment and waiting was all they were capable of. Life had stopped; survival had taken over.

  Even with few patients, the hospital was filled with activity. Pierre looked around for someone who could be in charge, but eventually settled for anyone who didn’t seem to be a patient. An elderly nun with her arms full of linens smiled when he introduced himself.

  “I’m Sister Agatha, dear. You say that your wife would like to serve here with us?”

  Pierre nodded. She was so short, he felt he almost needed to bend over in two to talk to her. “Yes, Marie Lévesque. She worked here for some years—until a year ago.”

  Sister Agatha’s face lit up. “Oh, Marie. Of course, I remember her.” She smiled and patted Pierre’s shoulder, which was the highest point she could reach. “Well, we can always use more help, dear, and she was a great deal of help. Follow me, I’ll introduce you to one of the brethren.”

  Pierre followed Sister Agatha down a busy, whitewashed hallway, with doors leading off to other rooms.

  “We’re trying to get ready for when the order of battle begins,” she explained unnecessarily. He nodded politely. He glanced into rooms and hallways that broke off from the hall he was in and noticed the neat row of beds. Pallets were being organized for even more patients, should the need arise.

  Sister Agatha stopped at a plain wooden door and knocked sharply. A muffled voice called her in, and she went in, leaving Pierre standing alone in the hallway. He could hear excited murmuring coming through the door. When she reappeared, she ushered him into the office and left to deliver the linens still clutched to her chest.

  Pierre walked in and was surprised to find himself face to face with Father Weber.

  “I didn’t know you were acquainted with this hospital, Father,” he said, trying to cover up the uncertainty that had suddenly invaded his consciousness. He was still grateful to Father Weber for everything he’d done to save Marie’s life, but the priest had refused to marry them without the permission of Pierre’s commanders. Pierre didn’t completely trust him. Father Weber shared Pierre’s surprise. “I’m not usually here, but being a member of Les Frères de Saint-Jean-de-Dieu, and the events being what they are, I have found myself reassigned.”

  Pierre nodded. He felt rather uneasy.

  “When Sister Agatha told me a soldier’s wife was willing to offer assistance, I must admit I didn’t think of you immediately. I wasn’t aware that you had recently married. May I offer you my congratulations?”

  Pierre gave him a sour look. “I guess not,” the priest appraised him over the tips of his fingers. “Please sit. What can I do for you, Thibault?” The little priest was so short that his feet swung freely under his desk.

  Pierre shifted uncomfortably. “Marie would like to assist here at the hospital if you are willing. She needs a safe place to spend the siege as both my father and I will be part of the battle.”

  Father Weber nodded. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his flat stomach. “You realize that none of us are ‘safe’ anymore.”

  Pierre nodded. “She helped here until eighteen months ago.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “However, with her broken arm, she still isn’t able to do a great deal.”

  Father Weber inclined his head. “I am also aware of her injuries. As I recall I had something to do with attending to them. However, within a fortnight, she should be able to use the arm, whatever use that may remain. We would benefit very much from her help. I assure you, you may count on the discretion of everyone here.”

  Pierre nodded. “I appreciate it. Would she be able to stay here with the nuns?”

  Father Weber paused for a moment. “Will you be staying with her?” There was a slight sneer in his voice.

  “No.” A soft pink rose above his high cheekbones. “I will be at the battle.”

  “Of course,” Father Weber inclined his head toward the soldier, his wiry white hair appearing to be even wilder than ever. Since you told Sister Agatha that she is your wife, am I correct in assuming that the two of you are now living together at your father’s house?”

  “I’m not here to confess, Father.”

  “No.” A pause again. “However, the welfare of all souls in this city are my concern.”

  Pierre glared at the tiny man. “If you’ll recall, Father,” anger creeping into his voice, “I did ask you to find it in your heart to marry us. However, you refused. I’m not about to take judgement from someone who is more afraid of the wrath of man than the wrath of God.”

  The priest bristled and pulled himself up to his full diminutive height behind the desk. “We will happily accept your wife, Monsieur Thibault.” He put a nasty emphasis on the title. “Bring her tonight if she is willing to come.”

  Pierre pushed himself roughly away from the desk. “Thank you, Father,” he mumbled and left without a backward glance.

  ***

  “I didn’t want to leave immediately,” Marie lay naked beside Pierre. Her heart was gradually returning to its regular rhythm. She twisted one of his chest hairs around her finger, still damp from the recent exertion.

  Pierre chuckled low in his throat. “I know you didn’t, but I, unfortunately, ran into Father Weber, and since he knows the truth behind our arrangement, I think he wants to save you from the evils of my bed.”

  Marie laughed and snuggled closer into his arms. Their time was limited. A little less than a fortnight was all they had been given, all they might ever get. Once she left, who knew when they would see each other again? She ran her fingers gently across Pierre’s cheekbones, trying to memorize how it felt to caress him.

  “I will find you at the end of all this,” Pierre promised.

  Marie nodded but didn’t trust herself to speak. The odds were slim that they would both walk away from the battle unscathed. The hospital was the best option for her, but now that the reality of permanent separation was in front of her, she was filled with dread.

  “In
this life or the next?” she asked. She was angry that, once again, they had to separate, and it also wasn’t fair to fill their last moments together with thoughts of that cruel reality.

  “Whichever comes first,” he said, smoothing away the hair from her face. The scars on her chest gleamed silver in the candlelight.

  “How did all of that start anyway?” he asked hesitantly as his fingers traced the lines. He had never asked about the abuse because he hadn’t wanted to force a conversation that she wasn’t ready for, but there were no secrets between them now, and he wanted to know.

  “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Pierre added hastily.

  “I don’t, but I guess you deserve some sort of explanation.” She rearranged herself so she was more comfortable. Pierre rested his head on her stomach. She combed his hair absentmindedly with her fingers.

  “After the siege of 1745, he went to France with the rest of us. Annette wanted to live in the country, which I never understood, but your father was there, so I guess that explains it.”

  Pierre nodded.

  “Claude spent all his time at Versailles, trying to champion the citizens of Louisbourg. He had wanted Louis to try to get the city back during the war, but, of course, that never happened.” She sighed. “Something happened during that time. I don’t know what it was, but it made Claude even more moody and volatile than he already was.

  “He didn’t come home until we were preparing to come back here. And once he was back at our place in the country, he locked himself in his study and didn’t come out until we boarded the ship for Louisbourg. He was in the worst temper the entire trip back. He wouldn’t talk to anyone, not even Annette. At first, I thought he was angry with her for not coming with him, but it was deeper than that. Everything bothered him: the noises, the smells; it was always too hot or too cold. And as soon as we arrived back here, he threw himself into his work. I don’t know if those he worked with ever noticed a change in him because he could still be charming. But overall, he was almost always horrible. He drank almost all the time, and when he drank, it made everything worse: the moodiness, the irritability, the silence.