Chapter 23
UNDER THE BURNING July sun the city waited. Miriam could not escape the growing tension. In the tailor shop men talked constantly of war. In the streets there was a heaviness in the air, like the charged stillness in the path of a distant storm. At the Château the servants scurried to avoid the impatient step of the Governor, and even the Marquise was often preoccupied and anxious.
One morning, looking up from her work, Miriam was awed by the sight of a great ship, white sails filled, moving along the river like a queen, flying the gold lilies of France. Later in the day, in the parade ground beneath her window, there was a review of troops. They had come from France under General Dieskau, she learned, and they intended to make short work of the fracas. Very different they appeared from the swaggering local militia, these rigidly disciplined ranks, wheeling and advancing in perfect unison. Yet even this evidence could not make the war a reality for Miriam. The conflict was too remote, the issues at stake too vast. All the uneasiness of the great city seemed to be only a reflection of the tumult in her own mind.
Every passing day brought nearer the moment when her decision must be made. Or had the decision already been made? Both Pierre and his grandfather had taken her hesitation to be nothing more than coy acceptance. She had only to keep silent and every costly thing she had learned to value would be hers. Then why did the thought of Pierre's return set her heart thudding with dread? Since May Day, no, since the first moment she had seen him on the street of Montreal, he had possessed her thoughts, even her dreams. The other image, of Phineas Whitney, was dim and indistinct, a man whom a different girl had loved in a time almost forgotten. Surely Phineas could not be the cause of this uncertainty. What was it she instinctively distrusted? Why, when the future promised to fulfill every dream, did she still feel a sense of loss, as though she had reached for some priceless thing and found her hands still empty?
She came one morning into the sitting room to find the Marquise smiling eagerly. The Governor stood nearby, tapping with slender nervous fingers on a polished tabletop.
"Come in, my dear," the Marquise greeted her. "The Governor has something to tell you."
The Governor coldly acknowledged her curtsy. "The Marquise has been begging me for some weeks," he began, "to look into the matter of your sister and her family. It is a time when I can scarcely afford to be concerned with trivial affairs, but I can seldom refuse my wife. I have ascertained that some money has arrived by messenger from Albany. Nowhere near enough, you understand, to discharge the debts Captain Johnson has incurred here in Montreal. But because of my good wife, I have decided to be exceedingly lenient. The Captain and his family will be released tomorrow morning."
He raised a hand to prevent her interrupting thanks.
"I have no intention of releasing the Captain to fight against us. At any rate, it is out of the question for him to return overland to the English colonies. I could not guarantee him safe conduct for a single day. There is one course open. There has been much fighting in Europe, and many French prisoners are now held in England. A ship leaves here tomorrow for Quebec, and from there for France. By special agreement it will stop at the port of Plymouth in England for the exchange of prisoners of war. The Captain and his wife and children, and you yourself, will be included in this exchange. I have given orders for him to be conducted straight to the ship at six o'clock tomorrow morning and you will meet him there. From England you will no doubt be able to secure passage back to your colonies."
Since he disdainfully rebuffed her gratitude, Miriam steadied her voice and tried to express her thanks with dignity. After her husband had left the room, the Marquise spoke gently.
"It was a pleasure to do it, my dear. I know how troubled you have been about your sister."
"We shall be so grateful to you, my lady, as long as we live," Miriam told her. "Oh, I can scarcely believe it, that Susanna is free to go home, after all she has suffered."
"Yes. She is free. I should like to meet your sister, I think, but there will be no chance for that."
Miriam hesitated. "We have never been on a ship," she confessed. "I am a little frightened when I think of that great distance."
"It is not so far nowadays," the Marquise assured her. "The new ships make the voyage in a month or less. But I have been wondering about you. You have learned to speak French so fluently. Are you determined to go with your sister? I should be so happy to take you with me to Quebec when we return."
Miriam stared at her in surprise.
"I confess it is selfish of me to suggest it. You are by far the best dressmaker I have ever had. But I think you would not be unhappy in Quebec, and, who knows, perhaps you might find a young man who could persuade you to make it your home."
Miriam, looking down at the rug, felt her color rising under the keen eyes that studied her face.
"I have suspected lately," said the Marquise softly, "that there might already be such a young man. Is that true?"
"Yes, my lady."
"A young habitant, perhaps? And he has asked you to marry him? What do you really want to do, my dear?"
Miriam still could not meet the older woman's gaze. Suppose she were to tell the truth? Would the Marquise be outraged at the thought of an English prisoner presuming to marry a French nobleman? Yet it would be so wonderful a relief to find someone who would listen and advise.
"I am not sure," she began, searching for words.
"When I was your age, I was sure," the Marquise answered, speaking almost to herself. "I would have gone anywhere in the world without a moment's hesitation. I know that people do not understand my husband. I know the things they say. But for me, all I ask still is to be able to stay beside him, or to go, wherever he needs me."
Miriam felt shut out again, baffled by that sureness she could not share. She could not confide in this woman, after all. Nor could she explain to Susanna, remembering her sister's eyes shining in the prison cell, and the steady voice saying, "I can stand anything, anything, so long as James is with me." Nor even to Hortense, who had given her whole heart into Jules's keeping. For all of them marriage seemed so simple a thing, so unquestioned. Why must it be, for her, so complicated by doubt and compromise?
"You must do what your own heart tells you," the Marquise said finally, taking the girl's hand in her own. "If you do not come tomorrow morning, I shall understand. God bless you, whatever you decide."
By evening Miriam determined that she must talk to someone. She could count on Hortense for a warm and affectionate listener, and when she left the Château at suppertime she walked along the river road to visit her friend.
Hortense, a neighbor informed her, was at her mother's house, so Miriam continued her walk to the familiar cottage, sure of a welcome. There she found everything unchanged, the same warm greeting, the happy clamor of the children, the taking for granted that she would share the evening meal of fish and vegetables. She was so far from being company now that the family bickering about the table was unchecked, and Alphonse did not escape a scolding when he slid into place after grace had been said.
"I was down on the wharf," he explained. "The ship from France is sailing in the morning. The sailors were climbing all over the rigging. How do they dare to go so high, Maman? What do they hold on to?"
Hortense's eyes flashed briefly toward Miriam. Did she suspect? Miriam wondered. So often those black eyes, childlike and dancing as they appeared, had the penetration to read her mind. But there was no chance for confidences here. After supper, on the road along the river, they could talk.
Is this the last time? Miriam wondered, looking from face to face. If she should sail in the morning, she would never see them again, never sit in this bright room that had been home to her. Yet if she stayed, in the fine house Pierre had promised her, would she still be welcome here, or would a strangeness come between them?
Suddenly, bursting in upon their meal, came the sound of churchbells. No stately Sabbath tolling it was, but a mad clamor
, as though the hands that jerked the ropes could not wait for the bells to swing back. As they stared at each other with startled eyes, the floor beneath them rocked with a thunderous blast.
"The cannon!" gasped Hortense. She pushed back her chair and leaped to her feet. "Come with me, Miriam—quick!"
In the road Hortense set a pace that Miriam could scarcely match. Alphonse dashed past them, his brown legs kicking up spurts of dust.
Inside the gates of Montreal there was tumult. Doors were flung open, and children and bareheaded women rushed into the street. In the middle of the road neighbors hugged each other with tears streaming down their cheeks. Alphonse came dashing back to them, his eyes popping with excitement.
"It is over!" he shouted, choking for breath. "The battle is over! The English are beaten!"
"Are you sure?" Hortense demanded, catching him fiercely by the arm.
"The runners came back, a quarter-hour ago. One of them is down there in the tavern." Jerking from his sister's grasp, he was off.
"Come!" ordered Hortense, and, bewildered, Miriam managed to stay at her heels.
There was no question what tavern Alphonse had meant. The door was mobbed with shouting men and boys trying to push their way inside. At the fringe a few daring women stood on tiptoe, craning their necks for a glimpse of the hero. He could barely be seen, through the open door, lifted high on a table, a weary grin flashing over a tankard of ale.
"You can't go in there, Hortense!" protested Miriam, seeing her friend's intent.
"Nonsense," said Hortense. "I can see that's only François Jobin. I've known him all my life. Let me in there!" she ordered, digging a forceful elbow into the nearest ribs.
"The dirty poachers!" someone was shouting. "They'll stay out of our beaver territory from now on!"
"By all the saints, that Braddock was one surprised general!" agreed the hero, wiping a froth of ale from his chin. Looking up, he spied the determined girl pushing toward him. "Look who comes here! My little friend Hortense! La, girl, you don't need to look like a ghost. Your man wasn't touched. Last I saw of him he was four steps ahead of the whole army in a fever to get back to his bride!"
There was a roar of laughter. Hortense turned back, her cheeks on fire. Yet she did not really mind. She did not even hear the rude jokes that set Miriam's ears tingling. Into her eyes had sprung such radiance that Miriam could not bear to look.
"Weren't many touched," the runner was continuing. "Five men killed, and a parcel of Indians. Not one of the officers was even nicked."
The question Miriam dared not ask was answered. Pierre too was hurrying back toward his bride. Yet she felt no rush of joy, only a cold quiver of dread, deep within her.
The boastful voice of the runner followed her through the door. "Caught them right in a trap, we did, before they even knew we were anywhere around. Those Indians know how to fight. They keep out of sight behind the trees. The stupid English farmers couldn't even see where to shoot at. They were firing every which way, killing off their own men. Dead bodies piled up five deep on the ground!" He took a deep draught and smacked his lips with satisfaction.
A wave of nausea swept over Miriam. These were Englishmen he was talking about! The English had been defeated! Impossible! It must be a lie! Never for one instant had she dreamed that this unreal war could mean defeat. Fear welled up in her. Englishmen, caught in a trap, shooting at an enemy they couldn't even see! Stupid English farmers, more handy with an axe and a plow than with a gun. Men like the ones she knew at Charlestown. Men she did know, perhaps! Oh God in heaven, she had never thought! Even her own father, it might be, or—Phineas Whitney!
In cold blackness she leaned against the plaster wall. All at once, so clear and close that she could almost touch him, his face had come back to her—the fine serious mouth, the steady blue eyes.
"Miriam, are you ill? Come away from this crowd!" Hortense was steadying her. She felt the fresh breeze from the river against her face. Gradually her heart slowed its pounding.
"Forgive me, Miriam," said Hortense softly. "I forgot it is not a time of gladness for you. You know that I am not happy because we won over your people. It is just for Jules. You understand?"
"Yes," Miriam answered with wonder. "I do understand. I never did before."
Phineas had come back to her! Pierre, marching back to the city, seemed a stranger compared to the closeness, the dearness of the memory that she had lost and that was now hers again. She had almost let go the priceless thing that had been hers all along. What was it Phineas had written? "Every hope of the future is meaningless unless I have faith that you and I will share it together." How could she have forgotten? That was what she really wanted, a man she could wait for without a shadow of fear or doubt, knowing that at the end of waiting she would stand at his side, working with him, and sharing, and loving.
"Oh, Hortense," she burst out, "how I envy you! If only I could know that he is safe, and that someday I would see him again!"
Hortense studied her friend silently. "I think you are talking about an Englishman, not a Frenchman at all," she said, with her uncanny perception. "A man from your own country."
Miriam nodded. "You knew about Pierre?"
"I heard he had been seen with you. I knew that you would tell me someday, when you were ready."
"I came to tell you tonight. I didn't know what to do, and I wanted you to help me. But now, all of a sudden, I don't need to ask, I know! This is what you all have, you, and Susanna, and the Marquise!"
Hortense did not follow all this, but as usual she went straight to the heart of the matter.
"Then you mean to go away," she stated wistfully.
"You know about the ship too? Hortense, is there anything you don't hear about in this city?"
Hortense smiled. "I did not know about your Englishman. Now that I do know, I can let you go. I am so glad, Miriam, that there is someone waiting for you."
"Perhaps it will be too late. It will take such a long time, all the way to England and back. He may not wait so long. But no—I think he is like your Jules. I can trust him always. I will have to learn somehow to have faith, like you and Susanna. Oh Hortense, wish me well, please!"
"I will always wish you well, Miriam, whatever you do," Hortense answered. The two girls gazed at each other soberly.
"We will be enemies," said Hortense sadly.
Miriam threw her arms about her friend. "Oh no, Hortense! I could never be your enemy. You know that!"
"You and I, in our hearts, no. But your Englishman and my Jules, they are enemies. And there is so much hatred everywhere."
"There was a truce before. Perhaps there may be again. When I get home, I shall tell them, everyone I meet, what it is like here in Montreal. If they understand, they can't go on hating."
But she knew they would never understand. To the stern New Englanders Montreal was a place of wickedness, like the ancient cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. If they heard that it had been wiped from the earth with every soul it contained, they would accept such a fate as the just will of God. Oh, pray that no harm should come to this city that she had grown to love! Tears filled her eyes.
"I can't bear to say goodbye to you, Hortense!"
"Then let us not say it tonight," answered Hortense practically. "Let me stay with you tonight and help you to make ready, and tomorrow morning I will stand on the shore and wave to you. See, they are making ready to sail."
Their arms about each other's waists, the two girls stood for a moment, staring high above the rooftops at the masts that lifted against the evening sky. The sharp calls of the sailors in the rigging carried clearly through the summer twilight. In the morning those vast sails would be released to billow out and catch the wind. What would it be like to have no solid ground under one's feet, to hear only the howling wind, to strain one's eyes and see nothing but sky and water week after week? She shivered, yet at the same time her mind leaped ahead toward this new adventure.
"Whatever may lie between
this day and our next meeting—" Phineas had written. A bloody war for him, two oceans for her!
I shall not lose courage, my love, she spoke to him silently. Not now that I am sure. Wait for me—just a little longer.
Epilogue
IN HER Narrative of the Captivity of Mrs. Johnson Susanna Johnson tells of the long journey from Montreal to Charlestown, New Hampshire. After months of wearisome delay in Quebec, the Johnsons, with many other prisoners of war, boarded a small sailing vessel which took four weeks to cross the Atlantic to Plymouth, England. There they waited until they could find passage on an English ship for the return voyage to America. It was with great thanksgiving that the family at last reached New York harbor and began the slow trip overland to the beloved Connecticut River valley.
A year later, a captive redeemed from the Indian village of St. Francis brought home with him Sylvanus, a wild young savage who could brandish a tomahawk and bend a bow but could not understand a word of English. Another prisoner, redeemed from Montreal, brought back little Susanna, a fine-mannered and fashionable young lady who could speak nothing but French and could never forget her deep affection for the two kindly women she had left behind.
The conflict between the French and the English for supremacy in the New World ended in the surrender of Montreal and victory for the English colonists. Some time after the close of the war, Phineas Whitney graduated from Harvard College and began his ministry in a small town in Massachusetts, and there he and Miriam Willard were married.
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