Crossings, A Thomas Pichon Novel

by A. J. B. Johnston

  “Four? Yes, all right. And down … down in the Sainte-Barbe, Mademoiselle?” His question came with a frown.

  “I would prefer up on deck, Monsieur, unless the weather does not permit.”

  “So be it. Tomorrow at four on the deck, Mademoiselle.”

  ——

  Marie-Louise knows she was bold to reach out and grab his sleeve the way she did, to hold him back as the rest of the table was exiting. But she has grown to like and even trust her tablemate. He does not appear to be anything other than what he presents himself as, a kindly man. True, that is merely the surface, but it is a good surface in his case. And she is a fair judge of others, she is convinced. Surlaville, for instance, she does not much like. He reminds her of her late father. No sense of humour and no outward sign of compassion. Thomas Pichon is different. He is more what the English call a gentleman. More importantly, he occupies a role that puts him closer to the new governor at Louisbourg than anyone. Surely, the King and those around him would not select someone unworthy for such a position. He should be able to be trusted with what she is going to confide.

  She glances along the rail to her left, past three sailors who are having their meal seated on the deck. Sardines, it looks like, along with the always-present hard tack and a mug to drink. She swivels to the right, where other sailors are coiling ropes under the watchful eye of a midshipman who looks like he could be ten years old. One of the men is an African, she supposes, though he could be from the Isles. Or for that matter from Louisbourg. Her own family often has a slave. Then again, why does she assume a person with dark skin is enslaved? He could and should be free. She has read the philosophes. She notices the African sits as he coils with a posture that is very erect.

  Marie-Louise sighs. No sign of the secretary either way, and it is past four. The bells sounded a while ago. Did the comte detain him longer than usual? That would be her luck. She presses her teeth against her lower lip. Or did Thomas Pichon simply forget? Or, worst of all, decide it was not worth his time?

  She tightens her grip on the rail. It feels like the sea is getting a little rougher. Yes, the waves definitely have a different look. They are not rolling as they were but appear to be driving at the ship, breaking at a faster pace. And is it her imagination, or is the wind not blowing now from a different direction than it has been for the past two weeks? It feels different. Impossible to tell, however, without a compass. The ocean does not wear a sign that tells east from west or north from south.

  Marie-Louise sharpens her focus on the most distant clouds, along the horizon. It looks to her like they are thickening and darkening. If they are moving this way, it means some difficult weather is coming on. That makes her briefly close her eyes. If it gets rough, with strong winds and hard rain, she and the four men she shares the passenger quarters with will have to stay below. God forbid. How much closer and more fetid the Sainte-Barbe will smell if they cannot escape to clear their heads.

  She fills her lungs with fresh sea air. While she can.

  Thomas sees her clutching the rail, not far from where the sailors are setting off, carrying two immense coils of rope. It surprises him to see her head cast down the way it is. He did not think her to be one of those prone to discouragement. She always presents herself in public with an erectness he admires. Not just her bearing, but her lively eyes and conversation, any time they have had an exchange. Thomas has had far too much nattering with the men on this ship about the weather, the crew and the tasks ahead in Louisbourg. An unhampered talk with a woman, even a young one such as she, will be a welcome relief.

  He wonders if that solitary position of hers, as the lone woman on the Heureux, is what makes her ask for a rendezvous. There must be times she feels awkward, even vulnerable. He is guessing she has a confidence she wants to impart. Perhaps a sailor has put his hands on her. Or one of his fellow passengers, down in the chamber the five of them share below. He would not be entirely surprised. There are those who lust after the barely nubile. Could it be that Surlaville or one of the priests is such a man? Thomas curls his lips. That is not how nature is supposed to work. Mademoiselle Chassin de Thierry is young enough to be a daughter, for God’s sake. She should be left alone.

  “Ah, there you are, Mademoiselle,” he says from six feet away, to let her know he is coming near.

  Mademoiselle Chassin de Thierry turns his way. She straightens and shows an expression of relief. She pushes off from the rail and turns all the way round to offer a curtsey.

  “I apologize,” Thomas says with the requisite bow. “I know I am late.”

  “No, Monsieur. You are here.”

  “That I am.”

  It appears she does not know what to say next. If she had something prepared, it has flown away. It is up to him, apparently, to put her at ease, for whatever conversation it is that she wants to have. He will not press. Instead, he gestures to the tossing sea.

  “So it has happened,” he says. “A strong westerly at last. I chanced upon the captain this morning on my way to see the comte. He said, and I quote, ‘We will be in for it now.’ The way he said it, I am sure he blames me.”

  “Because you asked how quickly a crossing could be made?” Marie-Louise’s face is back to being composed.

  Thomas shrugs. “I broke a rule it seems, albeit one I did not know existed.”

  “Oh well,” she says, giving him a sympathetic shrug of her own. “Speaking of which.” There is a tremor on her lips, a hesitation.

  “A rule?” he asks, puzzled.

  “Yes. Do you have a few moments?”

  “Is that not why I am here?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Marie-Louise takes her time to find the words she has been rehearsing the last day and a half. She begins where she must, with her family situation. And that starts with her father, of course, born more than half a century ago, a son of the billeting officer for the King’s household at Versailles.

  “Really?” Monsieur Secretary says.

  “Yes, it is true. My grandfather on my paternal side was at the court of Louis XIV.”

  “A close confidant of the king?” Monsieur Pichon asks with a trace of curled lips.

  “No, but—”

  “But still, a lineage that is better than most.”

  “Yes, I suppose. My father was put into the military while still a lad. First to Isle Royale – Louisbourg – then to Louisiana then back to Louisbourg. Distinguished himself at the siege of 1745. For which he was made a chevalier of the Order of Saint-Louis.”

  “You must be proud.”

  “I am finding it difficult to tell you my story, Monsieur Pichon. You keep interrupting.”

  The secretary pretends to lock his lips with an invisible key.

  “My mother is the daughter of a Rousseau de Souvigny, who, at the time of her marriage to my father, was an even more senior officer in the Louisbourg garrison than my father was.”

  “Your family on both sides is military through and through.”

  Marie-Louise lets him see her grimace. “That is just it.”

  “What is it?” the secretary asks.

  “Are you married, Monsieur Secretary?”

  Marie-Louise watches him lean back and sees his eyes go wary. She did not think it was a prying question. If it is, what secrets does this man have?

  “I was,” Thomas Pichon says, glancing around.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, placing a hand upon his sleeve. “I should not have asked you that. It does not matter.”

  “I would not think so.” His eyes have narrowed. “Why, Mademoiselle, am I here?”

  Marie-Louise has to get it out fast. “Monsieur Secretary, my father died a year ago.”

  “I am sorry to—”

  “And my mother, fearing penury on the small pension she receives, is forcing me to marry. Against my wishes.”

>   She can see she has rekindled the secretary’s interest with that. Though the expression on his face is hard to read.

  “She wants me to wed an ancient military officer in the garrison at Louisbourg,” Marie-Louise continues, lifting her voice so she can be heard above the squeal of some sailor’s violin farther along on the deck. “I thought you, a man of influence, might be able to help me. To prevent an injustice.”

  ——

  Thomas hopes he keeps his tinge of disappointment to himself. He had imagined this young woman had been threatened by someone on the ship with lusty loins. Thomas was to be her confidante, her assisting knight. He would make the complaint on her behalf. Perhaps begin the investigation. Eventually see that a punishment was meted out.

  But no, it is nothing of the kind. He has been summoned to learn that Mademoiselle is but the latest daughter to be forced into a marriage she does not want. Does she not realize her predicament is as old as time itself? In her case, she is well past twelve, the age at which the Church sanctions marrying off a girl with the parents’ consent. Does she not know that boys also suffer under their parents’ control? It is how it is, which makes it hard for him to feign as much sympathy as she clearly wants.

  “Well,” she says, holding out two waiting hands, “will you? Help me?”

  “I’m not a priest,” he says with a small shrug.

  Mademoiselle frowns. “What does that mean?”

  “Marriages fall under the Church.”

  “Oh, surely you know better than that.”

  Thomas shows her raised eyebrows.

  “You have influence,” she says. “Or should have. You are the man closest to the governor.”

  Thomas hunches his shoulders with modesty. His right hand comes to his chin.

  With the education she has received, of which she is so clearly proud, has she not learned that parents control their children until the females reach twenty-five and the males thirty? They may not be slaves, but they are pawns in the matrimonial game. Unless they take themselves clear off the board, the way he did as a boy, getting away from what his parents had planned for him. “Let me think,” Thomas says.

  “I have grown up in a military family, Monsieur Secretary. I know all officers require the commandant’s permission to marry. You could speak to the comte de Raymond. You could make him understand.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That the man my mother insists I marry I have no affection for. None. He is dull, very dull—”

  “Oh, Mademoiselle, if dullness were an impediment, few would ever wed.”

  “This is not a joke. The man is ancient, more than twice my age.”

  Thomas is able to rein in the smile that wants to appear. His one and only wife was considerably more than twice his age, and neither he nor she complained. Not about that. The union was to their mutual advantage. Does this smart young woman not realize how foolish she sounds? Our lives, and the marriages that come along, are not novels to be imagined.

  “Please excuse me, Mademoiselle.” Thomas covers his mouth to hide a smile. Then he takes away the covering hand. “I do admire your youth.”

  The young woman places a hand on a hip. Anger colours her face. “What of my youth?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “And the man whom your mother wishes to be your groom, the military officer?”

  “At least forty-five. Nearly in the grave.”

  Thomas fears he will mock her openly if she does not stop. Does she not know that he just passed fifty-one? He looks out to sea. The darkening sky is coming closer all the time. It is a heavy sea and the swells are lengthening. Maybe the captain is right: Maybe this change of wind and weather really is his fault.

  “I could,” he says, when he turns back to Mademoiselle Chassin de Thierry, “I could ask the comte.”

  Her face is alight. “Would you?”

  “I would.”

  “Today?”

  Thomas studies her face. Hope and fear rise and fall in her eyes. How sadly sweet it is to see such an expectation of happiness. Such naïveté. Is she not life itself?

  Which to Thomas’s surprise brings to mind the godson who carries his name and lives in London. He has not seen petit Thomas in years and is unlikely to ever see him again, which makes the sudden thought of him more than a little strange. He would have thought his interest and affection for the boy would have dimmed with time and distance, yet it seems not. Why is that?

  “Are you all right?” Mademoiselle Chassin de Thierry asks.

  Thomas tries to focus on her face but then shakes that focus away. He takes firm hold of the rail.

  That time in the Cross Bath … with Hélène … it was not to fuck but to conceive. The boy, her son, petit Tommy, he is Thomas’s, not Gallatin’s.

  “Monsieur Secretary? What is it?”

  Thomas holds up a hand to shut out the voice.

  Oh, he has been dull and thick. For that also explains why Hélène acted the way she did the day he left. She was trying to tell him the truth. Oh God. Thomas closes his eyes and gives his head a shake.

  “You still there?”

  Thomas feels a touch upon his sleeve. He blinks back open to see a young woman standing before him on the deck. There is concern upon her face.

  “I am sorry, my dear,” he says. “I … I lost myself.” And yet he cannot help but beam. A son. Far away and out of sight, but his nonetheless. And with Hélène.

  “You were seized,” the woman announces triumphantly. “I have an aunt who does the same thing.”

  “No. No, I was not.” Thomas shakes his head and gives Mademoiselle a smile. “Something occurred to me is all. Listen— Where were we?”

  “You promised to intervene with the comte.”

  “To speak with him, which is different. Yes, I shall, but not today. Our sessions are over and I would not raise it at the captain’s table.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But when the time is right, I will pick my spot.”

  Marie-Louise Chassin de Thierry looks as if she might burst. But then a serious expression returns. “Montalembert,” she says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You need to know the officer’s name. The one from whom the comte will be withholding his permission to wed. It is Pierre Montalembert de Cers.”

  “Montalembert. A pretty name. I shall remember that.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Secretary. You are a good man.”

  And a father, Thomas smiles back secretly.

  ——

  The next week is as turbulent upon the waves as the first two were not. The winds come only from the west and they come very hard. Most days are gales, bringing a rain that stings. No one needs to ask the pilot what the change in the weather means. It means the ship is doing well not to lose ground. Not to be blown back to Europe. The tacks north and south are long and they’re hard. The deck is wet all the time, slippery as ice. Thomas has heard of a half dozen sailors who have been injured, slipping on wet wood or tumbling from the rigging above.

  As for the passengers, they are warned to stay below, except for coming to the quarterdeck for meals, or in Thomas’s and Surlaville’s cases, to meet with the comte de Raymond. When the passengers do go up on deck they seek handholds wherever they can. Ropes, crates, the pump near the mast, and of course the rails. When it is especially bad, the passengers choose to stay where they are. Bad as the air already is, it gets worse. The seawater that comes aboard finds its way below-decks and spreads the animal droppings wherever it goes.

  Despite the foul stench, it is an easy choice to stay below. Better to pinch one’s nose or sprinkle ample sweet-smelling water on one’s clothes than to go up top and risk one’s life. Besides, with the Heureux tossing the way it is, no one has any desire to go to the wardro
om for meals. Neither Thomas nor Surlaville has yet vomited, but Mademoiselle and the two Récollets have each spent time at the bucket, a bucket that does not get emptied but once a day.

  The first time Marie-Louise is sick, Thomas keeps his distance. But the second time he cannot. He simply has to cover her with a blanket, to stop her shivering. Then he rubs her back as well. He can see Surlaville disapproves, but the Récollets do not. Maybe they are too ill themselves to care.

  Mademoiselle thanks Thomas each time he helps her back into her small room. And each time she worries that she has ruined yet more of her clothes. No, Thomas always assures her, they will come clean, though he doubts some ever will. Only once so far has she asked him if he has yet spoken to the comte. Thomas shook his head and she let it drop. She appears to understand that the weather is making for a delay.

  The week after is marginally better. Yet the contrary winds are still strong. The wood and ropes of the ship still creak and moan. The ocean becomes a surface of deep troughs, into which the Heureux plunges then fights its way back up. Though at least the rain is not as hard, nor as frequent. One day – Thomas has lost complete track of the days of the week – the sun actually comes out. All the passengers are up on deck when he comes out of his two-hour morning session with the commandant. Surlaville is waiting to go right in, and the two Récollets have some colour in their cheeks as they strut around, hands clasped in front of them. Mademoiselle Chassin de Thierry is following close behind the missionaries.

  “Any news?” she whispers as she passes by. Thomas sees expectation is huge in her eyes.

  “No, not yet.”

  Mademoiselle gives him a sharp look. He nods that he understands her concern. “Soon,” he mouths, which brings a disappointed pout from her in return.

  He does not want to tell her that he did in fact broach the subject with the comte de Raymond that very morning. It was, or so it seemed, a propitious moment. The commandant was going on about the poor quality of the Louisbourg garrison. How its officers were the ones to blame. They needed stiffening, a rigour they clearly lacked. Which the comte and the new major de place Surlaville were going to instill and show by their own example. So Thomas spoke up, offering that he had heard one of those Louisbourg officers needed to be taught a particular lesson.