by Frieda Watt
Marie smiled with relief.
“Then I shall leave the subject for now.” Father Weber rose from his chair and walked around the desk. He sighed heavily as though it was causing him a great deal of pain not to continue on the subject. “How are you feeling?”
He examined her head carefully, announcing it to be completely healed and then proceeded to her ribs. “They no longer feel tender?”
“No, they stopped hurting completely about a week ago.” The priest nodded approvingly to himself.
“Then we shall see what has become of your arm.” He slowly unwound the bandage, removing splints as he went.
It looked better than she had expected it to, but that wasn’t saying much. A thick, red scar about four inches long ran along both sides of the limb. The arm was also no longer completely straight. Under the ugly scar tissue, the bone poked up a little. Marie examined it critically, wiggling her fingers. It could have been much worse. She was well aware that injuries like this usually resulted in amputation. So she felt it was a miracle that hers was still attached and functional.
“I’m afraid that’s as good as it will get,” Father Weber observed. “I’m very pleased that I could save the arm, though, and that there doesn’t seem to be much muscle damage. How does it feel?”
Marie moved her wrist experimentally. “It feels fine.” She poked at the scar. “It doesn’t feel nice to touch, though. In fact, it feels numb.”
Father Weber smiled in an understanding way. “It will feel numb for a while, and the longer it has to heal, the better it will feel.” The priest passed her a number of objects, ranging from a light quill to a heavy flower pot and asked her to hold each one in her left hand. After she put each object down, he asked her how her arm felt. “Odd” was the answer that kept coming to her mind. She’d been using her right arm almost exclusively for so long that she’d almost forgotten the left could work.
When he was finally satisfied, Father Weber resumed his position behind the desk. “Well, Marie, I think I can call you cured. However, I want to make it very clear that you are not to be doing any heavy lifting, moving patients, or exerting great force. No setting femurs.”
Marie nodded meekly, running her thumb over the uneven scar.
“And,” Father Weber continued, “I want you working only on things that will not tax you physically: stitching, bandaging, washing—the boring jobs. If we can hold the enemy off long enough, then maybe you can teach the men just how powerful a woman can be, but until then, only easy jobs that place few physical demands on you.”
Marie happily agreed. “Am I going to become one of those mad old women who can feel the storm coming in their bones?”
Father Weber laughed. “Probably. But do me a favour and never let Sister Berenice know. She’s convinced she can control the weather, as well as everything that goes on in here.”
Marie stood to leave. “Is there anything else, Father?”
The little Prussian paused as if teetering on the edge of speech. “No, my dear. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”
***
The days blurred together as Marie’s life at the hospital fell into its routines. Every morning, Marie got up with the sun, dressed quickly, and went down to the main building to eat what few rations were available. Then she went to check on the patients.
She was one of only a few volunteers and the only one with as much training as the nuns. Even in peace time, the nuns of Louisbourg were a small, close-knit group, and most sisters in the convent ran or taught at the school. Marie secretly wondered if the sisters would be as pleased about her “marriage” if they knew who her husband was. Pierre was strapped almost every day for his inability to behave himself, and he’d caused more than one sister to go prematurely grey.
But now that the school was closed because of the war, all personnel were at the hospital, where the nuns became even closer to each other. But Marie wanted to contribute to the group as much as she could, so after her meeting with Father Weber, she made it clear that she wanted to participate fully. Sister Berenice had tried to put her on bed rest—that is, mopping the brows of patients with fever. Marie had no intention of spending a week fending off handsy soldiers who used their illness as an excuse for molestation. It was a job that one of the priests could do.
As a compromise, Sister Berenice paired Marie up with the newest member of the convent.
Sara Clarke was not a nun yet, but she had been living with the nuns for nine months, trying to decide if she wanted to embrace this lifestyle.
Sara’s parents had come to Louisbourg from Boston after the first siege in 1745 and stayed even after the fortress was handed back to France. They were the only British in the settlement—something they were constantly trying to explain. They had even converted to Catholicism and pledged allegiance to King Louis. They lived a block away, above her father’s apothecary shop.
Marie was confused by this situation. She had been under the impression that all British citizens had been put on boats within days of the signing of the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle. No one had a choice in the matter.
“My mother lost three children after we came to Louisbourg,” Sara said after Marie asked why she and her family were still at the fortress. “They’re buried in the cemetery here, and my mother refuses to leave them.”
Sara was at least ten years younger than Marie, but her large, pale blue eyes were always serious. The little hair that peeked out from under her cap was so blonde it was almost white. Overall, the girl was so pale that Marie was surprised she didn’t glow in the darkness like the moon.
“But why would the French let you stay?”
Sara shrugged as if the answer was obvious. “My father bribed them.”
Marie had to admit that was a valid point. While Claude was a favourite of the smugglers and pirates, he was not the only official who looked the other way if his palm was greased. Bribery was such a common problem that if an inquiry was ever performed, most of the criminal officers would have to arrest themselves.
“Are you safe here?” Marie asked, concerned. “It must be difficult. Especially now.” While a great deal of trade was done with New England in peace time, since 1745 most of the French viewed the British as bloodthirsty barbarians and refused to trade with the British colony to the south.
“It’s been terrible,” Sara conceded. “My three brothers all went back to Boston as soon as they could. Although as long as I don’t speak, no one can tell the difference.” She pushed her white-blonde hair back under her cap.
Marie glanced at her nervously. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Sara sniffed.
“No, but it’s still unfortunate,” Marie sighed. “I doubt you’re selling secrets to James Wolfe.”
Sara laughed humourlessly. “He doesn’t need my help.”
That much was true. As the British were preparing for the upcoming siege, it was becoming clear just how outnumbered Louisbourg was. The British had already taken over the lighthouse and the Island Battery. True to her word, Marie didn’t leave the confines of the hospital, but the reports that people were bringing in were frightening. They were surrounded and outnumbered. Once again, the British had bypassed the cannons stationed on the batteries overlooking the water and the handful of warships stationed in the harbour and settled on a land attack. The planners of Louisbourg had assumed most attacks would come from the sea. The crumbling ramparts and insufficient army wouldn’t be able to compete with the British. Meanwhile, the French soldiers were stationed behind the ramparts in miserable weather. Every day, a few soldiers would trickle in, most needing nursing after being exposed to the elements for too long. Once recovered at least in part, they were sent back to the front. There were too few soldiers to allow for long-term convalescence.
Initially, whenever a soldier came in, Marie would ask if he knew Pierre and where he was, but after hearing of the minor conflicts he had been a part of, she realized she couldn’t handle knowing the d
anger without the outcome.
Every night, she crawled into bed exhausted, terrified of what the morning would bring. She’d accepted that the French would never win this battle, but the fate of Pierre and Nic made her head spin with worry.
***
One week after her arrival at the hospital, on June 19th, the rumble of thunder woke her from a sound sleep. Rolling over, she pulled her quilt over her head, trying to drown out the sound. But then she realized that the sounds were coming too frequently for them to be thunderclaps, and there were no flashes of lightning in the sky.
Marie leaped out of bed and ran to the window. The sun was barely peeking over the stone walls of the fortress, its rays streaking the misty ground with pink. It would have been a beautiful sight if not for the unmistakable clouds of dust billowing from the ramparts. Marie shut her eyes in silent prayer. The roar of cannon fire and screaming of mortar shells were clear now that she was awake.
She scrambled away from the window and threw on her clothes. She twisted her hair on top of her head with the swiftness of years of experience and ran down the stairs and across the courtyard that separated the nuns’ accommodations from the rest of the hospital, skidding to a halt in front of the hospital administrator, Father Maneau.
“Don’t worry, you haven’t missed the siege,” he said sarcastically, looking over the rim of his glasses. He seemed unperturbed by the destruction going on elsewhere. He moved slowly down the corridor, checking in on wards as he passed, as if this was a regular morning.
Marie moved on.
The roar of artillery fire split the air, and the explosion of metal disintegrating its target reverberated through her bones. They had all been here before. They had all sat with bated breath, praying that the next bomb was not destined for them. The entire hospital was silent as the echoes of the past smashed into the present.
Marie felt her insides had turned to ice. Each shriek of artillery meant someone had become a casualty. She pressed her lips together, silently begging God to save them.
“It’s all in God’s hands now.” Marie opened her eyes to see Sister Berenice only a few steps away. Marie didn’t trust herself to speak but nodded numbly. The kindly nun didn’t seem to expect an answer but carried on briskly down the hallway, whispering the same words to the other staff congregated in the corridors.
The bombardment lasted a few hours. By noon, the reports were trickling in, along with the injured. Homes and businesses had been destroyed. A fire had started when a tavern had been hit with heated shot from a cannon. The fire was still burning, though the owner and people from the neighbourhood finally had it under control.
The hospital filled quickly with patients and also with their families, who were unwilling to leave their loved ones.
Marie found Sara already stationed in the crowded room near the main doors. Chaos always took over after a bombardment, but the priests at the entrance did their best to make sure minor injuries found their way to Sara and Marie.
Sara’s grandfather in Boston had been an apothecary with some rather unusual views. He had passed his beliefs on to his offspring, and Sara’s insistence on following them was beginning to irritate Marie.
“We’re wasting time,” she complained as Sara cleaned her hands again in freshly boiled water before moving on to the next patient.
“No, we’re not,” Sara persisted. “This will help keep us and the patients healthy.”
Marie shook her head and ground her teeth together. Sara was fanatical about keeping things clean. Before starting, she had insisted that a kettle containing water, garlic, and witch hazel be kept boiling at all times. Standing beside the fireplace, Marie thought she might faint from the combination of heat and overwhelming smell that had permeated the room. Every time a procedure was finished, Sara would wash the tools and her hands in the boiling water, a process that also ate up precious time.
“These people need medical attention before they bleed out,” Marie snapped. This was not entirely true, since most of their patients had only minor injuries, but Marie was impatient because the people kept pouring in. “I can’t help them if you’re constantly removing everything I need to do my job.”
“It prevents illness!” Sara repeated for the hundredth time and continued with her manic cleaning.
Marie grunted with frustration. There were so many people swarming around the hospital that every moment mattered. And Sara’s obsession with cleanliness wasn’t limited to herself and the tools. Every wound, no matter how small, had to be meticulously cleaned, something that caused more discomfort for those already in pain. After being shushed for the fourth time in as many minutes, Marie eventually gave up—though that didn’t stop her from having nasty thoughts about apothecaries from Boston.
The work was slow and ghastly. Fragments of stones blasted apart by enemy fire had imbedded themselves deeply into the soft tissue of one man’s body, and that type of wound was repeated in a great number of cases.
A young child, no more than six, sat cuddled in Sara’s lap, his small arms wrapped around her slender torso. A dozen shards of rock were embedded above his left knee. He’d been standing outside his house with his mother when a cannonball had collided with the side of the building. His mother was being tended to by a nun, as her injuries had resulted in a broken leg and a nasty head wound.
“All right,” said Marie, kneeling in front of the young boy and Sara. “I need you to be brave for me, okay?” Marie prodded gently at the wound. The little boy whimpered and buried his brown curls into Sara’s bosom. Sara stroked his hand and softly sang lullabies to him in English. Marie gripped the splinters and squeezed the chubby thigh as hard as she could. Then she pulled as gently and firmly as possible, ignoring the boy’s cries and extracting the half dozen stone pieces as quickly as possible.
“Oh, my brave boy, you did such a good job,” she crooned as Sara pressed down on the wound. Marie squeezed his hand reassuringly, and he gave her a weak smile. “I’m just going to bandage you up and then you’ll be as good as new.” The boy nodded and wiped his nose on his dirty shirt sleeve.
As discreetly as possible, Marie cleaned a needle and threaded it. With a significant look at Sara, she began to stitch the gaping skin together while Sara did her best to distract the boy. Finally finishing, Marie patted his good leg and kissed his cheek.
“You were very brave, young sir,” she smiled, saluting him.
The boy kicked his leg experimentally, then hobbled off to see his mother.
Marie looked around the room. There were a few soldiers supported by others staggering through the door. It was now early evening, and those who were injured were coming slowly to the hospital from the battle, supported by friends.
A burly militia man was placed on a blanket in front of the fire. One look told Marie all she needed to know. A tourniquet had been tied around the man’s thigh just above the seeping bullet hole. Marie prodded the skin around the wound, gently trying to judge how deep the ball was.
“That’s quite the wound there, soldier,” Marie said conversationally.
“Damn Redcoats,” the man muttered. He was incredibly pale under the mud splattered on his face. “Hurts something awful.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to get worse before it gets better,” she said honestly but sympathetically as she reached for the whisky bottle nearby.
“Can you find something for him to bite down on?” Sara asked his companion.
The man’s face went pale under his dark beard. “What’s this?” he spluttered. “There’s a British bitch here?”
“Yes,” said his companion, “and you’re in bad enough shape without a Brit coming to your rescue … Hey, where are the French girls?” Sara ignored the companion and reached out to the wounded man to settle him down. “Don’t touch me!” the patient snarled. Sara jumped back as if burned by a hot poker. Her face had grown, if possible, paler.
Marie froze for a fraction of a second. “Now really!” She spoke with as much a
uthority as she could. “You’re being ridiculous. Madame Clarke is a wonderful healer.”
“She’s a bloody British agent,” the wounded man said. “That’s what she is, and I’ll be damned if I let that bitch touch me.” People in the rest of the room were beginning to realize something was going on. Heads were turning.
Marie looked around for help. Father Maneau had heard the outburst and was working his way across the room, a look of panic on his face as he tried to prevent Sara’s nationality from inciting a riot.
Sara melted into the crowd as the pair of militia men continued their verbal attack. More priests appeared by Father Maneau’s side, so Marie fled after her companion.
She found Sara in a quiet corner of the kitchen, hastily wiping her eyes on her handkerchief, so Marie wouldn’t see her tears. The young women working in the kitchen were tactfully ignoring her.
“I’m sorry about that.” It seemed like an insignificant thing to say, but Marie didn’t know what else to do.
Sara shook her head. “It’s nothing. I was stupid for thinking this wouldn’t happen.” Her voice shook slightly. “No one ever thinks we belong here.”
“What do you mean?” Marie sat down beside her, not sure how to extend any comfort.
Sara sighed. “There were always those who hated us for being here after the British left. My father had us all swear an oath to King Louis, but it wasn’t enough. Since the war began, things have been much more difficult for my parents and me. Two weeks ago, the windows of my father’s shop were smashed, and some of the shopkeepers will no longer sell to my mother because they know she’s from Boston. It’s getting very difficult to buy any food at all, not that there’s a lot to be had anyway.”
“That’s terrible,” Marie said in amazement. She felt incredibly guilty about her earlier joke about Sara not selling secrets to General Wolfe.