by Frieda Watt
Though it was well past dark, the streets were full of people. Soldiers were moving supplies slowly through the dark streets, their progress impeded by the rubble that choked the roads. People walked among the ruins of their homes and businesses, trying to salvage what they could from the wreckage. There was a feeling of detachment. No one spoke to anyone else. Everyone moved as if covered in their own cocoon of protection. Pierre held Marie tight, although no one stopped to notice them. The feeling of desperation was palpable as they dashed through the streets.
“Where are we going?”
“My father’s house.”
“Oh … why … ,” Marie started to ask, but just then a mortar exploded one street over, causing them both to duck as stone and mortar billowed high into the air. There was no point in trying to carry on a conversation.
The Thibault residence slowly materialized out of the inky darkness. The door was unlocked, and Pierre walked in without a second thought. The place was as silent as a crypt. Marie dug her fingers into Pierre’s arm harder than she meant to. The silence of the place frightened her, especially after so many weeks of noise and chaos at the hospital.
“Hello?” Pierre called. No answer. He groped along one of the hallways, searching blindly for some source of light. Before long, he ran into a table, knocking over the candlestick that was standing on it. Groping in the darkness he found the flint box and struck a spark. A small circle of amber light cast long shadows along the wall. “Hello?” Pierre called out again. There was still no answer. He turned to find Marie in the dim light.
“Have they all left?” Marie asked incredulously. It seemed remarkable that the house could be empty of all life. It was one of the few buildings in Louisbourg that had sustained no damage. It was obviously in an advantageous location.
Pierre nodded absently. “I thought they might. There’s no one here to look after, no point keeping up appearances with the house. Might as well go where they want to.”
Marie found the emptiness frightening. Silence fell between them.
“Pierre?” Marie said after a few moments, but he wasn’t listening to her. Absorbed in his own thoughts, he stared blankly around the small circle the candle illuminated.
“Pierre … are you all right?”
Pierre shook his head. “I’m not sure about all of this,” he sighed.
“All of what?”
“Leaving,” he said heavily.
“We don’t have to go to Quebec,” Marie said quietly. “Whatever deal you made with Father Weber, surely you can get out of it. We can stay here and wait for Drucour to capitulate.”
“But Quebec was the price of our marriage, Marie. Besides, do you really want to stay here? Even if we survived and were deported to France, I’d still be a cadet. Cadet here, cadet there. It doesn’t make any difference. And being married to a cadet is no life for you.”
Marie didn’t say anything. She did want to get off this miserable island and all that had happened here—though she knew she’d be leaving without saying goodbye to the people she loved.
Pierre turned to face his wife. “There was a time when I thought I knew the answers to everything, but not anymore. If we stay, there’s death and the chance that Claude will find you; if we go, we could still be killed or worse.”
Marie walked over to Pierre and gave him a tender embrace. They stood there for a few minutes, feeling the weight of their decision resting heavily on them. “We may never know what the right answer is,” Pierre said, “but the choice has been made. It’s too late to go back.”
“When did Father Weber first ask you to do this?” Marie leaned her forehead against his chest. She could feel him stiffen under her touch.
“When I first asked him if he would marry us. Apparently, he had hoped to get the documents off the island before the British arrived. He wasn’t successful and was getting anxious. He was hoping I would be desperate enough to make the trip.”
Marie nodded but didn’t say anything. It didn’t make her feel much better that others had turned down this trip for being too dangerous.
“I’d be less concerned if there wasn’t the child,” Pierre said, drawing Marie in closer. “I have no doubt of your ability to run around the wilderness dodging Redcoats … but with the child …”
Marie sighed. She hadn’t told him about the morning sickness yet. It was probably best to let him discover that on his own. “I’ll be all right,” she said finally.
“I won’t be able to live with myself if anything happens to you or the baby.”
Marie snorted. “You think you’re the only one who’ll be suffering if I run into problems?”
Pierre let Marie go and sighed, deflated. “No, of course not.”
Marie changed the subject. “When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow at dusk.”
“Why not tonight? I thought we needed to leave as soon as possible.”
Looking embarrassed in the dim light, Pierre rubbed his nose. “I wanted one more night with you before …” His voice trailed off.
Marie wrapped her arms around him. She could feel the bandages she’d placed on the wound in his right side. “It won’t be the last time,” she promised. He kissed the top of her head.
Pierre then stood back from Marie and said, “I need to find my father’s compass and map before we do anything else.”
“You think we’ll be able to find anything in there?!”
“Well, I at least have to make an effort. I know the road to Port Dauphin, where we should be able to find a boat to take us off the island. But we have to stay off the main road. I can’t promise I know my way through the woods.” Pierre took the candle and pushed open the study door. It was just as bad as Marie remembered it—worse if possible.
Pierre cleared a spot on a small table and put the candle down on it. Then he walked over to his father’s desk and slowly began to sift through the teetering piles of paper there.
Marie busied herself inspecting one of the bookcases. “How did your father ever get anything accomplished?” she asked.
Pierre shrugged, unconcerned. “The entire house would have looked like this if not for Madame Cloutier. He forbade her from ever entering this space. I think she spent at least an hour a day attacking his bedroom.”
Most of the papers in the bookcase were bundled together with string, and Marie took each bundle out, one by one, to figure out whether it might contain a map. She was also keeping an eye out for a compass, which could have fallen in behind the papers. As she was starting in on the second shelf, something caught her eye.
“Pierre?” she called, lifting a particularly heavy bundle off the shelf.
“Hmm?” He was entirely immersed in ruffling through the papers on the desk.
“You should look at this. It’s addressed to you.”
Pierre looked up, puzzled, and took the bundle from her. Then he sat down behind the desk in his father’s chair and started opening the package. As Marie gazed at him for a moment, she was struck by the remarkable resemblance between him and Augustus. She turned back to the bookshelf and resumed her search.
Suddenly, Pierre yelped in disbelief.
“What on earth is the matter?” she asked, rather annoyed. He’d scared her half to death.
Pierre didn’t seem to hear her; his attention being completely focused on the stack of papers in front of him. Marie walked around the desk and peered over his shoulder.
Pierre looked up, startled, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “It’s from my father.”
Marie very much wanted to say something smart, but the look on his face made her think better of it. “What does it say?”
Pierre didn’t say anything for a while. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost. He just continued to stare at the papers in his hands. Marie was beginning to worry he was having some sort of fit.
“Pierre,” she tentatively put a hand on his shoulder.
“He sold all his ships,” he said, handing her the first few pages.
“The ones that went from France to the West Indies and from the colonies to France. Sold them to someone in France. He left me all the money.” Pierre bit his lip, unsure of how to proceed.
It took a moment for his words to sink into Marie’s consciousness. “The ships are gone? But how is he going to make a living?” Years ago, in France, Augustus had lived off his savings, but that wasn’t something he could do for the rest of his life.
“He doesn’t have to,” Pierre said quietly. “He’s dead.” Pierre purposely avoided her eye and gazed over at the window, which, of course, revealed nothing but darkness.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Marie put the papers she was sorting on top of a pile she’d created, moving closer to him.
Pierre shrugged his broad shoulders. “I’ve been too angry with him to care.” Suddenly, he was trembling, the papers clutched in his hand shaking as he fought to control his emotions. Marie wrapped her arms around him, not sure how she felt.
“I’m sorry, Pierre,” she whispered. His knuckles were white, clenched into fists on top of the desk. She could feel his muscles contracting under her touch.
Pierre sniffed and took a deep, shuddering breath. “I never thought … I … ,” he mumbled incoherently. Marie felt her heart break for him. Pierre had spent most of his life trying to gain his father’s approval—working so hard to be ready to take over the shipping business, going all the way to Quebec and becoming successful there without ever gaining any affirmation from Augustus. Pierre had finally given up and distanced himself from the man, becoming more and more angry and bitter. Marie couldn’t blame Pierre for his stunned reaction.
“He did care,” Marie murmured softly into her husband’s blond hair.
Neither of them said anything for a long time. Pierre kept staring at the window, consumed by his own thoughts. Marie was at a complete loss for what to say, so she simply held him until he was ready to talk.
“He had a strong sense that he wasn’t going to survive the siege,” Pierre whispered at last. “Most of the militia aren’t going to live through this. I don’t know if it’s age or lack of expertise, but they are being mowed down like grain. Every time a cannon goes off, the militia goes too.”
“I’m sorry,” said Marie, realizing that any response in these circumstances would be inadequate.
“I saw him right before he died. They came and got me, took me to where the dying were kept.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “A musket ball to the stomach. It took a long time, but I didn’t get there until the end.”
“Did he say anything?” she asked gently, continuing to stroke his hair.
“Sorry.” His blue eyes were bright. “That was it. That one word.” He paused as if wrestling with a great internal burden. “I didn’t forgive him. Not then.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Marie said gently. “You can’t always forgive immediately.”
He leaned his muscular frame against her body. He looked up at her, smiling sadly as he stroked her face. “You’re all I have left. You and our child.” He touched her stomach underneath her many skirts. “All that will remain after I’m gone. I don’t … I can’t lose you too.”
Marie stood beside him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love you,” she whispered into his ear.
“I know.” He leaned his head against her stomach. “What about the baby?”
“We belong with you. I don’t know which choice is better, but I’m not leaving you.”
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled himself to his feet.
“Are we staying here tonight?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, we’ll get some things and then leave. I have far too much guilt to stay here.”
***
The inn was small but clean, or at least cleaner than Marie was used to in such establishments. Pierre knew the couple that ran it. He’d served with their son on the mainland. The inn was quite full and the tavern more so, but when Pierre mentioned that it was his wedding night, the owners practically danced off to find them a space.
“We already had our wedding night,” Marie said crossly. “They’re probably going to give us their bed now.”
Pierre grinned. “We have a long trip ahead of us. It’ll be a long time before we get to sleep in a bed again.”
Marie rolled her eyes. “Is sex all you think about?”
He winked.
It turned out that the owners didn’t forfeit their bed, though they did apologize profusely for the state of the room given. Marie didn’t see a problem with it. It was clean, and the mattress seemed free of fleas and other pests. The only possible issue was that there was a second door leading to the servants’ rooms downstairs, but she insisted that it be kept locked.
The plan was to leave the following evening at dusk—under cover of darkness—and the reassembling British army would make it easier to slip through the enemy lines. Both Pierre and Father Weber felt that this was the best time for their departure. Knowing nothing of war tactics, Marie simply agreed to follow the instructions. The very few belongings that they had sat packed in a rucksack by the door. Their important papers, from Father Weber along with the money Augustus had left Pierre—in paper and gold—were wrapped and hidden in Pierre’s coat.
Pierre stripped down to his shirt and crawled onto the bed, flopping onto his stomach.
He motioned for Marie to join him. Mindful of his injured side, she slipped in beside him, curling into his body’s heat. He wrapped his long arms around her, drawing her closer.
“I’ve missed you,” she murmured into his chest.
“That’s why I wanted to leave tomorrow.” He smoothed the hair away from her face and shoulders. “I feel like we’ll never have enough time.”
Marie traced the arch of his eyebrows with her fingertips.
“If we’re separated,” he began, but Marie cut him off.
“Please don’t talk like that,” she begged.
He rolled over and sat up. “But it’s a possibility. If we’re separated, I want you to take the money from my father and get to Quebec. It will be enough for you and the child. You’ll be taken care of. Your Uncle Joseph, Renault, and my Uncle Tomas can all help you.”
Marie pulled herself onto his lap and buried her face in the folds of his shirt. She suddenly felt very cold.
“I promise,” Pierre continued, “that if I’m alive, I will find you.”
Marie fidgeted with the end of the quilt. “Doesn’t it feel as if God doesn’t want us to be together?”
Pierre bent his head and kissed her long and slow. Finally releasing her, he held her at arm’s length, watching her. “I don’t really care, to be honest. But no, I think God keeps putting us back in each other’s paths for a reason.”
***
The sun was high in the sky when they awoke the next morning. As soon as Marie got out of bed, she spent over an hour retching. Pierre, who had never seen morning sickness before, was beside himself with worry.
“Are you sure this is normal?” he asked her over and over again, hovering close by. “Are you sure you don’t need a physician? Maybe you should stay here if this is how your body is handling this.”
“Let me stay here. That’s a great idea. Why don’t I stay at the hospital and wait for Claude to break down the door. I’d rather deal with the British than that sadist.”
Pierre scowled but continued to hover annoyingly as Marie continued to be sick.
She found his concern somewhat endearing but mostly infuriating, and by the time she was feeling better, she wanted very badly to hit him.
“Pierre, I promise this is normal,” she repeated for the hundredth time, rinsing her mouth with water.
“Are you sure? I’ve never seen this before.”
“How many pregnant women have you been around?” she asked, exasperated.
He shrugged, proving her right, but that didn’t stop him from grunting in disapproval. “I’m worried about you enough as it is. Childbirth isn’t
exactly safe.”
Marie stretched out in bed, her stomach slowly settling. Pierre collapsed beside her, gently tracing circles on her belly. There would be nothing to see for weeks, but the baby was already wreaking havoc with Marie’s constitution. Pierre’s large hand on her stomach helped calm her.
“Are you terribly upset about the baby?” Marie asked after a time.
Pierre smiled. “No. I’m thrilled.” He kissed her lightly. “I gave up a long time ago of any thought of being a father. When I joined the army, all thoughts of a regular life disappeared. I gave up.” He stared at his wife with such tenderness that she felt her breath catch in her throat. “But I’m terrified of something happening to you or the child. There’s nothing I can do to protect you or him, and it scares me.”
Marie kissed him, a little breathless when he let her go. “What makes you think it’s a boy?”
He chuckled. “You think I know anything about this?”
Marie pulled herself closer to him and laid her head on his chest. “I’ll be all right.” She could see his jaw flex and knew he didn’t believe her.
He sighed. “I know you aren’t happy about this but …”
Marie interrupted him. “I’m feeling better about it now. The shock’s over, even if I’m still petrified about the future.”
“You’re not the only one,” Pierre conceded. “Sometimes I think getting off the island will be the easy part.”
After a moment, Marie remembered the question she hadn’t had the chance to ask the night before. “Do you know how Father Weber became a spy?”
Pierre laughed, brushing her hair away from his nose. “He’s not a spy.”
Marie looked confused.
“He gets other people to spy for him. Specifically, a man named John Clarke.”
Marie rolled to face him. “Is he related to Sara?”
“Who’s Sara?” he asked.
“She’s the English girl I worked with at the hospital,” she reminded him. “She was there the night you came in for stitches. She …” Marie couldn’t finish the sentence.