The Displaced

by Frieda Watt

  “She died, didn’t she. I remember now.” Pierre squeezed Marie’s arm to comfort her and thought for a moment. “He must be a relative. There aren’t many Clarkes in this part of the world. Is she from Boston?”

  Marie nodded.

  “He must be her father.” Pierre paused for a moment and scratched his chest. “Anyway, this John Clarke was originally from Boston and should have gone back when Louisbourg was given back to us. But his wife wouldn’t leave Louisbourg, so they stayed. John really missed Boston, so to help ease his homesickness, his brother would come to visit. The brother took notes about how the French had changed the fortress and what hadn’t been repaired since ’49, among other things.”

  “John Clarke didn’t take him to see all this, did he?” Marie felt shocked and slightly betrayed. Sara had been so adamant about trying to disprove all of the preconceptions people had about her. Had Sara’s family helped the British after all?

  “I don’t think Clarke thought anything of it. At least not right away. But eventually, his brother expected John to continue sending updates to Boston. About a year ago, John went and confessed what had happened to Father Weber. I think he felt that as a fellow foreigner, Father Weber might be more sympathetic to him. John was terrified of being banished from the fortress or worse.”

  Marie snorted in disbelief. The officials wouldn’t have had enough time to try him, and if the public discovered he was a British agent, they would have killed him before any legal procedures could have started. “Being banished would have been the least of his problems.”

  “Exactly.” Pierre laughed. “Well, Father Weber isn’t one to miss an opportunity, so he basically blackmailed Clarke into becoming a spy for the French. Threatened to turn him over to the populace.”

  Marie looked shocked. “He didn’t?”

  Pierre laughed darkly. “He did. Apparently, Clarke jumped in with both feet. He wrote all sorts of letters to his brother, claiming to have knowledge of the inner workings of the garrison here. He even travelled to Boston and Halifax, meeting some of the handlers and agents for the British. He sold them outdated information, and eventually, after many nights over ale, the British started reciprocating. The British believe they have moles within the government and civil service of Quebec. Clarke passed that information on to Father Weber.”

  Marie nodded, impressed. “So there are names in here?” She reached for the little bundle and ran it through her fingers.

  “Names and reasons why the person has been named. Among other things.”

  “Are they correct?”

  Pierre shrugged. “That’s the mystery. Montcalm needs to know there are possible moles within the government and civil service. Apparently, James Murray, the British General, has deep pockets and is paying people in Quebec. But there’s a chance that the British never trusted Clarke and just fed him false information to distract us. But it’s too much of a risk not to at least look into it.”

  Marie held the package up for Pierre to see. “Did you read what’s in here?”

  Pierre nodded and wrapped his large hands around the bundle. “Yes, but you’re not going to. In case we’re captured.” He answered her quizzical look. “If the British think you’re helpless and ignorant, there’s a better chance that they’ll let you go.”

  “I am not helpless or ignorant,” Marie said crossly.

  “I know.” Pierre grinned and kissed the tip of her nose. “But they don’t need to know that.”

  With that happy thought, Marie placed the bundle back on the table beside their bed, trying not to think about the possibility of capture. She came closer to Pierre’s warm body. “Father Weber has classified information. Sara’s father is a spy. Is there anything I should know about you?”

  “I’m madly in love with a beautiful woman,” he laughed.

  “I meant something I didn’t already know.”

  ***

  The sun was low in the sky in the late afternoon of July 10, 1758 as Marie and Pierre began to pack their few belongings for the coming journey. Other than the clothes on their backs and the papers, there wasn’t much else. Having escaped from Quebec as a child with nothing, Marie had grown up feeling very little attachment to physical things. It didn’t bother her that she would be starting over with nothing from her previous life.

  The bombardment that day had been relatively light, but the British were certainly making up for it now. Bombs were falling like rain and the windows in the inn were shaking in their frames, but thankfully, no cannonballs fell on or near the structure.

  Pierre filled a second rucksack with the little food that was available. It was decided that Pierre wouldn’t carry any weapons on his person other than a pistol and dagger in his belt, in case they ran into British soldiers. Being escapees from Louisbourg would be a sticky enough situation, but if it became obvious that one of them was a French soldier who was away without leave, their case would be even more difficult. He had traded in his uniform for regular clothes the night before, but that wasn’t a complete help, since every able man was fighting the British in uniform or not.

  Marie was pinning her hair up as Pierre stepped out to the tavern below to see if there was more food and ale to be had. Finishing, she crossed the room and looked out the window. The fortress was bleak and crumbling in its present condition, far different from its prior majestic appearance, and yet it was still home. She felt a pang of sadness that she and the fortress would both be gone soon.

  There was a light rap at the door and Marie shook her head as she crossed the room. After Pierre’s concern for her, his greatest worry was going without food. And though food was, of course, in short supply throughout all of Île-Royale, Pierre was well aware of what a few livres could accomplish. Marie laughed, imagining how much must be crammed into his arms.

  “You’re a glutton, you know that,” she yelled at him.

  As soon as she unlatched the door, it slammed open, throwing her against the wall. She tried to scramble to her feet but felt herself pushed against the wall by the compact form of Claude-Jean des Babineaux. She tried to scream, but he pressed his muscular forearm into her windpipe, blocking her air supply. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, instinctively trying to protect the life inside.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Claude spit into her eyes. She gasped for breath and tried to kick his shins.

  “Think you can just run away, huh? You little bitch!” His fist smashed into the side of her head, causing stars to burst before her eyes. She was getting dizzy and desperately gulped for air. She tried to scream, but only a groan escaped her.

  “Where have you been?” he screamed again. “Answer me!” He jammed her body against the wall causing a spasm of pain to shoot up her spine.

  She gasped, clawing at his arm. “P-P-Pierre.”

  Claude laughed. “You always think you can run away …”

  “Let her go!”

  Claude’s grip on Marie slackened a fraction of an inch. He glanced behind him. Pierre stood at the end of the short hallway, his pistol trained on Claude. Claude grinned, a horrible manic look, and his dark eyes shone with a kind of irrational pleasure. For the first time, Pierre fully understood how unstable the man really was.

  Pierre took a slow step forward. “Let her go, Claude.” He locked eyes with Marie, who continued to claw at the arm at her throat. They were so close to freedom, but Claude truly wasn’t ever going to stop. “Claude!” Pierre shouted.

  “Ah! The habitant returns.” Claude’s lips curled away from his teeth, making him look like a cornered dog. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  Pierre froze. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. “What are you talking about?”

  Claude seemed to forget all about Marie and let go of her. Marie crumpled to the floor, coughing and grasping for breath. Pierre wanted to run to her but stayed focused on the man in front of him.

  “Deserters are shot,” Claude said calmly, completely unconcerned about the pistol aimed at him. “G
eneral Picard promised me I’d never have to deal with you again.”

  Pierre’s brain jammed. “It was you.” He saw Marie struggling to her knees, still trying to regain her breath.

  Claude moved forward. “For the amount of money I paid, you’d think they would have followed through.”

  “Leave her alone.” Pierre could feel the butt of the pistol slick in his hand. He tried to stay calm, but panic that he wouldn’t be able to get Marie to Quebec, away from the clutches of this madman, was beginning to overwhelm him.

  Claude laughed. “And what are you going to do to stop me? You’re a farmer, a coward, just like your father. He was never brave enough to face me …”

  The crack of the pistol reverberated through the small space.

  ***

  Claude’s body pinned Marie against the door. Pierre crouched down beside her and pulled her to her feet.

  “Are you all right?” He held her head between his hands, examining her, his fingers tracing the impact zone on the side of her head. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and looked at the body, blood blossoming from its chest.

  Claude’s dark eyes, glassy with the absence of life, glared up at him. Pierre stared down at the man. The last eight years, everything Marie had been forced to endure, the life that had been stolen from him, it was all the result of the body in front of him. He smashed his foot against the head, hearing bone crunch under his boot.

  Shouts and footsteps started thundering down below. While the bombardment was loud, it couldn’t cover the roar of gunfire in such a small space.

  “Come on!” Pierre kicked the corpse into the hallway, grabbed Marie’s hand, and pulled her back into the room. He threw the deadbolt across the door, grabbed the rucksack, and fled down the second staircase with Marie in tow.

  Gasping and coughing, Marie did what she could to keep up with him. Her throat burned. She felt dizzy. She knew she was slowing him down.

  They ran through the kitchen and out onto the street. Ferdinand was waiting outside the door. He took one look at both of them, then heard the shouts behind them. In an instant, he understood enough of the situation.

  “Go! I’ll send them another way,” his deep voice urged.

  There wasn’t time to thank him. Pierre wrapped his arm across Marie’s back and under her armpits, trying his best to move her along. Her skirts caught around her knees, slowing her progress more. Shouts came behind them as they ducked into an alley, coming out on the next street. Pierre led Marie through a maze of rubble-strewn alleys and passageways until, finally, he deemed it safe to stop.

  Marie leaned her arms against the wall, still trying to catch her breath. Pierre stood in front of her absolutely beside himself with the events that had just transpired.

  He was oblivious to her as he paced back and forth, trying to calm down. Finally catching her breath, Marie turned to face him. He couldn’t meet her eyes. She could feel herself shaking. It felt as if ice had settled into her bones. She looked down at her bodice to see it covered in blood spatter. She tried to wipe it away with trembling fingers.

  “Marie?” Pierre rushed toward her with concern. She was dimly aware of his grip on her shoulders before she fainted.

  ***

  As the world came back into view, she realized she was lying on the cold, dirt surface of the alleyway, her head resting on Pierre’s thigh. It took her a moment to remember why she was there. Then she shot up into a sitting position, staring wildly around the alley. “They’re going to hang you,” she gasped.

  Pierre leaned over her and pulled her toward him. “Only if they find me. We’ll be gone shortly.”

  The panic that was rising in her chest was threatening to choke her. She stared at him without comprehension. “They’re going to kill you,” she repeated.

  Pierre tried his best to soothe her. “No, they won’t. Not if we leave now.”

  Marie gazed at him, trying to understand. “You killed him.”

  He gripped her shoulders. “He did this!” Pierre was too worked up to be quiet. “The last eight years! Everything we’ve been through was because of him! He wasn’t going to let you go. I never really believed that. But he wouldn’t have. You would have spent the rest of your life looking over your shoulder!”

  Marie’s eyes filled with tears, and she buried her face in her hands. Pierre pulled her close as she broke down completely. Relief and fear waved over her in a confusing concoction. She gripped Pierre’s jacket in an attempt to stay connected to the present. It was over. Claude was dead. But she was still afraid.

  Pierre stroked her back gently. Slowly, her heart rate returned to normal and the tremors in her hands ceased. He couldn’t believe that he’d actually killed Claude. He leaned against the wall, trying not to be sick. He’d wanted to kill the man ever since he first laid eyes on Marie, beaten and broken in the Babineaux manor. But he’d never believed for a second that he would actually do it.

  “We need to go, beautiful,” Pierre whispered in Marie’s ear. “We need to leave before anyone finds us.”

  Marie looked at him fearfully. “They’ll be looking for you.”

  “No, they won’t,” he replied. But he didn’t look completely convinced. He helped her to her feet, dusting the dirt from his breeches.

  A mortar exploded at the end of the alleyway, and Marie covered her mouth to silence a scream as Pierre pushed them both against the wall, shielding her with his body. As the dust cleared, he grabbed her arm and dragged her away from the scene. Already, she could hear the voices of people coming to investigate.

  Pierre pushed his hat low in an effort to shade his face, his arm still protectively around Marie’s shoulders. No one looked their way. Everyone was too consumed in their own loss to notice.

  They came to the harbour, gloomy and destroyed, in the last light of the day. The charred, exposed ribs of broken hulls shone in the water like skeletons, scarlet in the dying rays of the sun. Fishing boats still floated in the harbour, deserted and forlorn. The massive forms of the few remaining French warships loomed above the dark water.

  The British had stationed themselves at the lighthouse across from the harbour. Perfectly positioned, they were able to launch an offensive that slowly destroyed the remains of the French warships stationed at Louisbourg. For whatever reason, the British were happy to allow a land assault that night, so no conflict engaged the sailors there. The cannons and mortars screamed through the air but the glassy surface of the harbour was undisturbed.

  “That’s all that’s left?” Marie asked quietly, staring at the forms of the massive ships.

  Pierre nodded grimly. “The Prudent and the Bienfaisant. Two of the few ships we have left. Everything else has been destroyed or captured.” Marie stared at the sparse collection of fishing boats bobbing uselessly at the docks. She could envision the four hundred British men-of-war ships waiting in the Atlantic just out of sight of the harbour walls. It suddenly struck her how doomed they all were. “I didn’t realize that was all that was left.”

  Pierre shook his head. “We aren’t long for this world. Once Louisbourg falls, the rest of New France is next.”

  Marie stared over the docks, trying to fix the image in her memory. She wouldn’t be coming back, and even if she could have, the place would no longer be here. She felt a sudden stab of pain at the thought of leaving what was so familiar. She hadn’t said goodbye to Elise or Annette. Whatever happened to them, she would probably never see them again. She glanced at Pierre and saw some of her grief reflected in his face. “Should we not stay in Quebec?”

  “Let’s worry about getting there first,” he said gruffly. “But no. I think France is the safest option.”

  The darkness gathered around them. Lanterns and torches marked the way of French sailors and soldiers who were preparing for the next day. Pierre led her away from the sounds and lights of the resistance, down some rocks to a deserted part of the water’s edge. Marie stumbled and fell several times in the growing darkness but ev
entually made it with only her hands skinned.

  Pierre had his doubts about their mode of transportation. It was a birchbark canoe floating quietly on the water. It seemed tiny compared to the canoes the Algonquins and voyageurs travelled in. But close up, Pierre could see that it was large enough for the two of them and probably for a third as well.

  “Where did this come from?” Marie asked.

  “Father Weber has two broken legs. He’s not dead.” Pierre threw the rucksacks into the bottom of the boat.

  “I thought the British had us surrounded.” Marie could feel the adrenalin beginning to pump through her veins.

  Pierre bent to whisper in her ear. “They are, but there’s a belief that there’s a break between camps farther up the cove. We’re going to try to sneak up through there. Besides, the mist is coming in an hour. No one will be able to see three feet in front of them.”

  Marie’s face blanched. Pierre gave her a meaningful look. If she chose to turn back, he would understand. She shook her head a fraction and climbed into the bow of the canoe. As she’d never been in one of these vessels before, the process wasn’t graceful. Water sloshed over the sides, soaking her skirts.

  Marie turned to her husband. “You’re sure about this?”

  Pierre shrugged. “Straight to Baie des Espagnols. Apparently, the harbour there is still functioning.”

  “Someone will take us to Quebec?”

  “Or at least off the island. We’re on our own now.” He gave her a swift, searching look, but she didn’t argue.

  Marie shivered and pulled her cloak around her, even though the night was warm. Pierre sighed, knowing all too well how she felt. He climbed into the stern of the canoe and pushed off into the mist. “Do you want to paddle?” Pierre whispered.

  “What do you think?” Marie hissed back, her nerves stretched too far to be polite. She had always thought of herself as self-reliant, but she was realizing she didn’t have the skills for this voyage.

  Pierre said nothing but silently steered them through the water.