Distant Fires

by D. A. Woodward

  Seeing the unsettled look on the face of her friend, Mother D’Agoust softened, rose from her chair, and touched Louise shoulders where she sat. “Give her to us, my dear. It is God’s will …”

  ....................

  She had given the words much thought. Perhaps she had been viewing the situation from a selfish standpoint. Of course, she should give her over to the guidance of her friend.

  Louise heard the child’s rhythmic breathing as she lay in deep slumber at the far end of the room. On impulse, she lifted her lamp, and tiptoed to a spot where she could see her.

  Shanata’s little form, no longer waif-thin, lie on the cot, and face up. Beneath the lacy nightcap, her shiny dark hair framed her pretty face, like an exotic little doll.

  Such a lovely child, thought Louise, as she bent to tuck her covers, wondering, as she did, what lay in store for her. She hoped that her decision to take her to the nunnery was the right one. She knew that she would miss her terribly, but Mother D’Agoust’s argument was most convincing. She had heard the many stories about the savages; some so horrible that she could scarcely bring herself to recount them.

  How could this precious child have sprung from such a race? Since their introduction, Shanata had shown a reserve and sensibility far beyond her years. Could it be that her truer nature was masked by her tender age, or were they merely tales, whether exaggerated or untrue?

  Louise noticed an object on the child’s neck, where it parted from beneath the collar of her nightdress. She did not wish to disturb Shanata, but her curiosity was piqued. Slipping her fingers to the front, she carefully drew out a small wooden carving of...a deer, tied onto a piece of coarse hemp and deerskin lace. She had never undressed the child; that was left to her maid, so she was unaware that Shanata carried a reminder of her past life. It was a nicely carved object. Louise decided it must be significant to her family.

  She was about to slip it back in, when Shanata came awake, and in an instant, the soft, dreamy aspect of her gaze froze into a glare of violation, so frightening that Louise stiffened as though witnessing the devil himself. She bolted upright, flailing her hands at her fictional assailant, then, with a leap off the cot, fled to the far wall, where she remained, huddled in the corner.

  Louise was mortified by the display, but tried her best to calm her.

  “You, no fear”, Louise she managed to blurt out, groping for the words Nicholas had taught her, “I not take...I look. Who this?” She asked, pointing to the object.

  The child did not answer, but calmed a little, tucking the necklace down her nightdress, yet it was some time before she could be coaxed to her bed, where she immediately pulled the blankets to her chest.

  Only when Louise sighed, and left her bedside, did Shanata even begin to relax.

  What did it mean? Was this merely a hint of the instability Mother D’Agoust had spoke of? Could the child be destined to remain what she was born, never to fully integrate into their society? Was it a matter of a silly little object, or far deeper than that?

  For a long time, Louise lay awake, wondering at what Mother D’Agoust had said, and how a little necklace could evoke such an alarming response.

  .........

  With the effects of both houses in order, Louise watched as an officer of the court proceeded to the public square, staff in hand, to announce, in a loud voice, that the sale would commence at 2:00 p.m., and that all articles would be given to the highest bidder, for cash.

  For miles around they flocked, perusing the many accumulated items: tapestries from Flanders, silver spoons, forks, knives, dishes, cruets, salt cellars, sofa, spinning wheel, bed, chairs, writing desk, tea tables, and damask in green and crimson. Such items, rare in the colony, were hastily purchased, as were Armand’s particular effects: his tapestry screen, serge flags, candlesticks, bellows, armoire, fire tongs, kettles, and decanters. Louise had covertly kept many of Armand’s personal items for herself, his linen, satin bedspread, and most of all, his pillow slips, a touching hint of his masculine scent amidst the folds.

  The following day, with her affairs in order, Louise reluctantly, took Shanata by the hand, and led her to the fateful meeting with Mother D’Agoust.

  Since the misunderstanding over the necklace, the child seemed slightly distant, but nonetheless compliant and pleasant to be with.

  Louise slept little the previous night, much of the time spent, convincing herself that it was all for the best. After all, how could not she bring her into refined society, and expect to be accepted, and nor could she stand to have her treated as a servant? Here, at least, the child would be made a servant of God. But what did that mean? In a way, she felt guilty giving another, dear to her heart, to God. Who was God? Where had he been when Armand reached for a saviour from his watery grave? All of her tears and petitions had gone unheeded. ‘He’ was a fiction, and despite her affection for Mother D’D’Agoust, why should she bind another to this fiction?

  Sheets of rain were falling as they walked up the stone steps leading to the church, and stood, shaking the wet off of their cloaks, in the vestibule.

  She had not told the child that this was to be her home, as she did not wish to alarm her, and she would not understand that it was in her best interests.

  Instead, as described to her, Shanata thought that they were going to visit a Headwoman who resided in a long house where the Great Spirit lived.

  Now that she had arrived, she saw that it was not as she had imagined. In this house the rooms were too big, cold, dark ... Even the cloud lady’s house, did not feel as threatening ...

  But the next image was even more frightening.

  A woman, carrying a candle, passed through a chamber into the hallway. Shanata saw that she wore the same clothing as the people who looked after her before Nicholas came to take her away. They were covered women.

  Had she done something to displease the cloud lady, she thought, as tears welled up in her eyes? Why had she brought her to stay with the covered women?

  Fear engulfed her little heart, stopping her dead in her tracks. Louise, forced to jerk back at the sudden halt, looked to her small charge with some impatience, and was met with an expression both adamant and resolved.

  “You...not go?” She uttered, as a question, groping for a suitable phrase using her scant knowledge of Iroquois. “You not like...big house?”

  The child shook her head, then gestured to an approaching nun. “Shanata not like,” she said simply, in French. “Must go, not like...”

  Louise wondered vaguely if the child had suffered rather more than Nicholas had been aware, in the hands of the grey sisters, but her frustration over the past days and her willingness to finally attend to the unpleasant task of placing her, turned her sympathy to anger.

  “Shanata go with Cloud Lady,” the girl said, frostily. “This not good house.” She stuck out her jaw in defiance. “Covered women not good...Cloud lady good.

  Louise found herself on the verge of raising her voice to the child. “You must go, Shanata!”

  Suddenly, Shanata softened a bit, and looking up at Louise with soulful dark eyes, she pleaded, in French, “Shanata must not go. Cloud lady will rain, feel much pain, if Shanata go.”

  Louise was shocked by these words coming from so young a child, and further shocked by the truth they so plainly resonated.

  How could she know they were the truth, that the existence of someone to care for had kept her sanity over the past weeks, that nurturing was the one instinct she had not been made bereft of, and that to part with this child now might be the most damaging act she could ever make?

  She thought of the difficulties involved in raising the child in polite society.

  Could she live with possible ostratization and ridicule? Could the child be civilized, or would she revert to amoral ways, as Mother D’Agoust suggested? Was she brave or foolish enough to presume to introduce the child to that society, as her guardian, or deliberately keep her sequestered in the background, as a mem
ber of household staff? Just how far would she be willing to go, for this young savage...

  She waved the sister from attending her, then crouched to the child’s height.

  “You speak truth, Shanata,” she whispered, smiling through her tears. “Tell me,” she asked simply, “Would you leave big house…go far away with the cloud lady?

  The child just stared at her. Perhaps she had not understood. Louise watched as the expression of disappointment gradually shifted to one of relief. She fell into Louise’s arms and for the first time, released herself to a long-imprisoned flood of tears.

  Chapter 11

  Little remained of the heavy snowfall that hindered passage along the portage route for the troops as they headed south in late spring. Once their mission was accomplished, prisoners in tow, and they were journeying back to Fort Frontenac, an ease in conditions found them pushing hard to reach home. In contrast to the initial trek, dogged by fluctuating temperatures that often turned snow to hazardously icy footing along slippery trails, the way north these past eight days had - despite the now accustomed damp seeping into joints already aching from the portage of canoes and supplies - been far less punishing, and might have put them further ahead, but for the personal agenda of their Captain, Nicholas de Belaise, in his need to forestall and seek reprieve from his weighty conscience.

  Having borne his share of discomfort over the gruelling trek with equanimity and strength, he was as eager as the next man for a good hot meal and a bed to call his own; added to which, a swollen ankle was beginning to cause some misery, but these ills were infinitely preferable to what awaited him on resumption of his former life.

  Hunched elbow to elbow, beneath the overhang of a canvas lean-to, barely blocking the sudden gust of wind stoking the fire’s warmth still further from his side, Nicholas felt the chill seep into his bones through the thin blanket, felt the intermittent wafts of greasy sweat, alcohol and wood smoke assail his nostrils, and for the present, knew a sense of peace.

  Removing the outer layer of his deerskin legging, he chortled at a comment made by one of his soldiers, as he wrapped a sodden rag around his sore ankle, and, in contrast to good breeding, sunk his teeth into a piece of dried venison, gnashing it with the panache of a ravenous predator.

  Gone was the flagging morale, the pall of constraint and unhappiness, shrouding him in self-doubt and disappointment? Despite the rigours of the elements, here, his sense of camaraderie and self-worth were reborn, and as if to punctuate the thought, he took a swill of the tankard, swallowing hard, and with infinite satisfaction, released a satisfying belch, and passed the grog to the next fellow with a smile. A silent acknowledgement passed between them; like-mindedness, transcending rank and differences of privilege related to birth. Through the years, his moral fortitude, and the ability to mix freely with men on a less exalted ground, lent him many supporters, some of whom wished to see him installed as political successor to his late father, Felippe Duc de Belaise, Governor of the colony years before.

  But such was not to be. Long past any familial link with the colony, he had simply chosen to stay on, expressing neither political aspiration nor the raging military ambition of his counterparts, satisfied instead to keep a low profile as Captain of the garrison in Montreal, in a role that most suited his temperament and sense of adventure. Surrounded by what he loved best, he was pleased to be of service to a growing land, obstructing external forces that threatened to assail or divide it, he was, in this environment, a man among men; common, in sense of purpose and commitment, separate, only by degree.

  Renault, an obstreperous soldier known for his outspoken antics, tottered over to the Captain, nearly careening with an officer, in his wobbly gait.

  “To our leader, Captain,” he slurred, in toast. “May he guide us into many more travails... Err…trails, “a laugh went up, “...And may he send us off with as good a drink, the next time!”

  He swung the tankard enthusiastically and splashed some of the contents onto his boot, which he bent to lick, and in doing so tumbled forward, collapsing on another soldier, to the hilarity of the crowd.

  Cheering wildly through their drunken haze, Nicholas acknowledged the light-hearted scene, and with a hearty laugh, looked round at the smiling faces. All, but one, a rugged, dark-haired soldier, familiar only by sight, stared fixedly into the fire, his indifference so marked that Nicholas wondered if the fellow were unwell. He remembered him as a soldier transferred to his battalion from Quebec in the past year, but as this was his first assignment in some time, he had rarely seen or got to know the newer soldiers on a first name basis. It was only now, the strangeness of his behaviour so striking, that Nicholas became conscious of a contrast in the soldier throughout the mission. He seemed aloof, very much a loner.

  Belying their tired and drunken state, the revelry continued, rising to a drunken chorus of songs about the Courier de Bois, and continuing with tales of Indian encounters, both real and imagined.

  “Who is that man, in the dark toque” he whispered into the ear of his sergeant, alluding to the woollen, tasselled hat, pulled over the dark curls that framed the ruggedly handsome face and serious expression.

  “Benoit, Private Benois, sir”, Valcour replied, quickly. “He’s the one who did so well in that incident up in Trois Rivieres. Strong boy, but not too much up here,” he tapped his temple, “still, I wouldn’t want to grapple with him if I didn’t have to ... Nearly killed a drunken Indian in a fist fight once. He’s quiet, but he’s the kind you sure want to have on your side.”

  The name and the incident struck a chord. That was several months back and much talked about at the time. And he recalled the mention of his cocksure attitude, his muscular physique, and sullen look that secretly set men against him, and women into rapture. He looked at Nicholas, or was it his imagination? Yes, a cold stare, and Nicholas self-consciously turned away, clasping the blanket more tightly across his chest. He would look into his background. And much as he wished to waylay this inevitability, they were within roughly 2 days journey of Fort Frontenac along the St. Lawrence, and soon after, Montreal, and the conflicting sense of responsibility that had become anathema to him.

  It had been the effort to avoid these problems that led him to undertake this mission, resulting in the successful capture of three French traders, allegedly responsible for a series of thefts and misdealing with Montreal merchants, and the subsequent murders of two soldiers.

  After a number of leads took them into the interior, bordering on English preserves, they headed north and chanced upon a small French outpost, where the hapless traders had been recently incarcerated, following a further attempt at robbing their stores of furs.

  Though ‘Frontier Justice’, was often employed in remote locations, resulting in a quick disposal of suspects, by noose, the case had been different. Those apprehended had confessed to their part in the seizure of a sizeable cache of stolen furs, dumped at an undisclosed location near Montreal, and thus spared this drastic action until further investigation and recovery of goods.

  The capture had been fortuitously simple, and with the prisoners under guard, Nicholas could now savour the last few days of his freedom, until he, himself, was returned to incarceration. He had always felt better surrounded by wilderness, than amidst the lavish walls of a large abode, or in his administrative chambers at the garrison. The past months had been difficult, depriving him of contact with what he held most dear, replaced by a feeling of impotence and redundancy that shackled him more strongly than the bounds of his captives.

  This debacle in his private life ached like a cankerous legion in his heart and mind, destroying what little hopes he had of inner happiness. Before it, he had found little to complain. Here in this adopted land, his dreams had been realised, through friendships and the willingness to strengthen the colony, and he had never regret his choice to remain. There were the usual political problems, consistent with a triumvirate system of government: frictions, arising from the separate inte
rests of church, justice and state, but on the whole, the three heads, Bishop, Intendant, and Governor, managed to keep the country running quite smoothly.

  Notwithstanding the ongoing economic and cultural rivalries between New France and the Iroquois/English alliance, along with the unrelenting harshness of the climate, he had no desire to return to the soft life; his estate in France, long inhabited by his mother, was there for the taking, but the mindless predictability and worthless ambition granted an ancestral seat, for a life at court, held no allure. He missed nothing of his former land, and having returned but once in the ensuing years to assume his father’s title, he found, to his sobering expectation, many estates falling to ruin. Thereto, the effort of his counterparts, to seek a life at court and win the favour of their sovereign, were an objective he found abhorrent.

  In that time, he had given little thought to France, outside of the military interests which affected them both, and the separation from his mother and her young charge, both of whom he dearly missed.

  They wrote, of course, at regular intervals when the ship arrived from France, and he was certain to receive his mother’s missives, relating to business of the estate, or the years of increased profit on their vineyards, far exceeding those of poor produce due to blight or frost. Within her capable hands, the estate was flourishing, and he was pleased for her success. Occasionally, he would receive word of her intention to return to the colony, but she never did, and all he really had was held in her miniature, sent this past year. He felt more than a pang at the sight of her still beautiful, but changing, face, and yearned to bury his troubles in her consoling arms, for the fool that he had been.