The Meeting Place

by T. Davis Bunn

  “Does this elder speak English?”

  “Alas, no.”

  “Then I must deal with you, sir.” Andrew continued to pitch his voice so that the troops could hear him clearly. “Time is growing short, sir. Very short indeed.”

  “Sir.” The corporal sounded tensely nervous. “Behind us.”

  Andrew turned, drawing the priest with him to where they were no longer shielded by the horses, and saw a group of men bearing pitchforks approaching warily.

  The vicar called out something in French. Answered in the same tongue, he spoke more sharply. Reluctantly the men began to disperse.

  The vicar turned back to him. “You have news, then? From England?”

  “Indeed I do, sir. And it is my sad duty to inform you that the conflict in Europe is worsening with every passing day.”

  “Oh, this is bad, this is very bad indeed.” The vicar held his hands tightly in front of him. “You are certain?”

  Andrew kept his voice carefully neutral. “Sir, I assure you I did not ride here to deal in rumors.”

  “No, no, of course not, forgive me.” The vicar drew himself erect. “Sadly, Captain, I am afraid I must tell you that the people will refuse to sign your oath.”

  “Even with the fact of imminent conflict?”

  “Please, what means imminent?”

  “Definite. It is coming. The conflict has already started in Europe. It is certain to arrive here.”

  “Ah.” The vicar nodded his head, acknowledging with a single glance that he understood. It was for this Andrew had come, to confirm the rumors, not to request once more what he knew would be denied. “The conflict, it will arrive this year?”

  “No. The last ships of the year have already arrived from Europe.”

  The vicar smiled only with his eyes. “Then for once we must give thanks for the winter storms, yes?”

  Andrew willed the man to see beyond his harsh tone, hoping against hope the vicar would understand just how much the news hurt him as well. “It is hard to say exactly what will happen with the spring, since such conflicts have risen and fallen within a season before. But your entire village is at risk unless—”

  “Impossible, Captain.” The vicar held to form with his response. “They have refused to take up arms for the king of their home country. This is—how you say—their very nature. How could they be expected to do such for the English king? You ask from my people what they cannot give.”

  “Not I, Vicar. But my superiors in Halifax and Annapolis Royal are unanimous in their opinion that such a document must be signed.”

  “Yes. So the rumors say.”

  “These are not rumors.”

  “Some of our young people …” The vicar hesitated, clearly uncertain how far he should go. “Some are thinking that it would be better to move north. Start over in a distant outpost, beyond Tatamagouche or farther still.”

  “It will make no difference. All the land east of Quebec Province is now under the dominion of the same man, Governor Lawrence in Halifax.”

  “All land not controlled by the French forts,” the vicar corrected.

  “Sir, not a single French ship has managed to land and service the remaining forts this entire summer. You yourself must know this, as you have not seen a French ship in Cobequid Bay for four years. I hope you will understand me when I say that soon all Acadian land will be under British dominion.”

  The vicar’s brow furrowed, his frustration obvious. He finally noted in a tentative tone, “We have heard rumors of battles to the west of us, even at the gates of Quebec itself.”

  “These rumors are true.”

  The vicar stiffened. “Then Quebec has fallen?”

  It was Andrew’s turn to hesitate. In an instant’s flight of reason and thought, he decided this was important enough to risk. “Sir, I have received dispatches which state a regimental force gathered from the southern American colonies was soundly defeated by the defending French garrison. I tell you this only because I am certain that such a loss will only harden the resolve of the government in Halifax.”

  “But why!” The vicar’s cry startled several of the horses, causing them to back and snort. One of the troopers reined in sharply with an oath, which caused Andrew to shoot him a furious look. When the man muttered an apology and Andrew turned back, the vicar continued, “Why must the mighty British kingdom see a village of poor peasant farmers a threat?”

  “Because, sir, because you are not just one village.” He dropped his voice discreetly. “The number of French settlers is a hundred times greater than the troops at Governor Lawrence’s disposal. Were you to take up arms against His Majesty—”

  “But we will not! What can we do to convince you of this?”

  “Sign the oath of allegiance. There is no other way.”

  The vicar’s shoulders slumped. “This we cannot do. We cannot.”

  “Then I must bid you good day, sir.” Andrew snapped off a salute and turned away, sick at heart.

  To his surprise, the vicar followed him around his horse. When the tall steed sheltered them from the gazes of the others, Jean Ricard murmured, “You are still studying the Gospel of Luke, m’sieur?”

  “Every chance I have,” Andrew softly replied. He could risk no more. He fitted his boot into the stirrup and swung himself onto the horse.

  The vicar looked up at him. “You have perhaps heard the story of the Good Samaritan, Captain?”

  “I have.”

  The vicar nodded, a slow motion of approval, then raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross in the air between them. “Go with God, m’sieur.”

  Chapter 18

  Catherine was very glad the trail had become so familiar. She climbed slowly, pausing often for breath. The autumn sky was heavy with its clouds in a hundred shades of gray. The bay, a sheet of metal, lay breathless beneath, waiting for the winter just beyond the hills.

  When the trail turned sharply, in a manner she now knew so well, she entered the sheltering boughs of the highland firs. Their scent was fresh and strong as their arms joined overhead to form a fragrant tunnel. Like a hall leading to their meeting place, she thought as she paused and leaned against the nearest trunk. Like an entrance hall to a highland chapel.

  As soon as she saw Louise in the meadow, she could no longer contain the tears that had threatened all day. The two women rushed together, holding each other closely against their growing abdomens. The bit of awkwardness made them giggle through the tears as they backed away and in unconscious imitation traced a free hand over their unborn.

  “Look at us,” Louise laughed. “Like a pair of old women.”

  “Winter has never looked to be as long as this coming one,” Catherine replied.

  “Do you remember last autumn? We came up and discovered we had been married on the same day.”

  “It snowed that day,” Catherine recalled. “The first snowfall of the year. I thought I had never seen a more beautiful sight.”

  “Nor I. But for me the beautiful sight was of your smile.”

  “You remember my smile?”

  “You smiled like the sun emerging from a winter shadow. You cast a new spring light over my world.” Louise brushed at one tendril of hair. “I will never forget that smile, not as long as I live.”

  Arm in arm they walked over to the fallen log which had become their pew, their place of sanctuary, of studying the Scriptures, and talk. The breeze chose that moment to turn and come straight from the north. Slight though it was, the wind now held the whisper of winter. The two women shivered and pulled shawls closer around them.

  “Shall we begin our lesson?” Catherine asked as they settled on their log.

  “Yes, let’s do that,” Louise agreed. But when her hand dipped into the basket, it was not a Bible she brought out. Instead, she handed over a bundle bound with twine, saying shyly, “This is for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “A gift. For the baby.”

  Catherine could
not help but thrill at the word. The baby. Said so matter-of-factly, yet so full of promise. Carefully she unbound the twine. “Oh, Louise!”

  “Henri made it for you. It is silver fox. He hunted them and cured them and sewed the furs, all himself.”

  Catherine stroked the surface. “It’s the softest thing I have ever felt! But the value, I can’t …”

  “Please take it, Catherine. It would make him so happy. I only wish he could see your face right now.”

  Catherine held up the fur stitched into a careful square, four feet to a side. The stitching was so tight, and the furs matched so well, she could scarcely tell where they were joined. “It’s so beautiful, Louise.”

  “We have a tradition of lining the baby’s crib with fur its first winter. We also use it as a blanket on the bench by the fire, for it protects the infant from drafts.”

  Catherine raised the fur and stroked it across her cheek. “Tell Henri I will think of you both every time I see it.”

  “This will make him very happy.” Louise sobered. “The entire village is speaking of your husband’s visit.”

  Catherine let the fur drop to her lap. “I could hardly believe my ears when he told me about it.”

  “The vicar called him an honorable man. He said …” Louise stopped and bit her lip. “Jean Ricard said that your coming to this meadow, and our becoming friends, was an act ordained by God.”

  Tears rolled down both faces as the two women stared into each other’s eyes.

  “I don’t know how I am going to make it through this winter without you,” Catherine whispered.

  “Nor I.” Impatiently Louise wiped her face, clearly not wishing to give the season’s last visit over to sadness at the long separation to come. “Have you decided on names yet?”

  “We are still talking. And you?”

  “If it is a boy, no. I want to name it after Henri’s father, and he after mine. But if it is a girl, we have agreed on Antoinette.”

  “That is a lovely name,” Catherine said, reaching into her own basket for a parcel bound in brown paper. “This is for you. Well, for the baby.”

  Louise unwrapped the gift, then sat wiping tears as she stared at the gift. “Oh, Catherine,” was all she could say.

  “It came from England on the last ship. I wanted one for my own child, and I was fortunate to be able to obtain two.”

  The ring was flat and silver and as broad as Louise’s palm. She lifted it by the round ivory handle and heard the musical chime. “Oh, listen! It sings!”

  “It’s called a teething ring. It is strong and safe for the baby to bite—see, there are no sharp angles anywhere.”

  Louise shook the ring once more. “Oh, Catherine, it sounds like the tiny bells of angels! Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  Louise settled the ring back into the paper. “You are more than a friend. You are the sister I never had.”

  Catherine tried to keep the tremble from her voice. “I have thought that exact thing. Many, many times.”

  Andrew paused at the trail’s fork, dropped the load of game to the snow, and leaned heavily against his musket as he looked up the hill. He had thought long and hard of this next approach and decided the safest way to accomplish it would be upon returning from a hunting expedition. Searching for game was one of the few reasons he could leave the village alone and not raise suspicions.

  Though the snows had been even heavier than the year before, this year there had been strong thaws interspersed, so the white ground cover was not so deep. Nor was it so bitterly cold. It was the middle of January, and he had seen signs of everything from fox to bear to deer.

  The trail was empty of all save snow and tracks. Tree limbs were bowed under heavy white capes. Andrew found the trail just as Catherine had described. His snowshoes clumped flat and solid upon the upward-wending path. As he entered the final thicket the snow became littered with needles from the surrounding firs, their scent as strong as incense.

  He passed through the final veil of trees and moved into the opening, now covered in white. The meadow floated high above the surrounding countryside, and the winter setting made it even more breathtaking. The north face dropped so sharply that only the peaks of tall firs rose above the ledge.

  The surrounding trees created three walls from nature’s finest hues, even in winter. The fourth vista was more splendid than any stained- glass window he had ever seen in England. Andrew’s eyes drank in the sight of Cobequid Bay and the slow rise of smoke from many chimneys. From this height, it was easy to blur the boundaries between British and French enclaves. He turned, taking in the forest and snow-capped hills behind. It was as Catherine had described. Her meeting place with the Frenchwoman was indeed inspired, holy ground.

  A slight motion from the meadow’s western side spun him about. A man stepped from the trees, his stocky girth made broader by his winter coat. Black hair was almost hidden by the coonskin cap, and the equally dark eyes flashed as he stared at Andrew.

  Andrew did not need to even think about his next move. He tossed his gun from him and stood with arms outstretched and empty. The action was rewarded with a broad grin, and Andrew knew instantly it was the man Catherine had described.

  “Henri?”

  “Oui, c’est moi.” The burly man stepped forward, and offered Andrew his hand. “Et vous êtes Andrew, n’est-ce pas? ”

  “Andrew. Yes.” It was the first time he had shaken a Frenchman’s hand in years. Henri’s grip was strong as iron.

  Reluctant to release the handshake, the two men studied each other. Finally Henri flashed another great grin and circled his arms in a barrel-shaped girth before his belly. “Louise—elle est trop grande.”

  Andrew had to laugh. Henri joined with him, their laughter echoing back and forth about the hills.

  Henri reached inside his coat and drew out a leather-bound satchel. He opened it, showed Andrew some pages of writing, and beneath it a tightly bound packet of dried herbs. He made a nest in his arms and symbolized rocking the baby to come. Andrew’s smile and nod reflected the anticipation in his heart. Henri smiled in return and said, “Pour Cat’rine. Après la naissance, pour la santé.”

  “You want Catherine to drink this after the baby has come. I understand.” Andrew loosened his belt, reached inside his own coat and extracted a tightly wrapped bundle. He handed over the letter Catherine had been writing almost since the first snow, a diary of her winter. Then he untied layer after layer to reveal Catherine’s little gift and offered it to Henri.

  His eyes wide with surprise, Henri accepted the present with both hands. Andrew said, “We know your ships have not arrived this year. Catherine still remembers your wonderful feast and all the flavors. She thought you might be needing pepper and cinnamon and other spices.”

  Henri held the tiny packages up close to his nose and drew in one fragrant aroma after another. Andrew had never seen a man take such pleasure from simple seasonings before, but on this strong man it seemed perfectly natural. Reluctantly, Andrew pointed at the setting sun and the trail behind him. “I must be off.”

  Henri folded the letter and the gift and stowed them away, then grabbed his hand a second time. Andrew nodded his understanding and thanks, then walked over, picked up his musket, and started for the trees. At the beginning of the trail, he turned back. Henri waved, then made a single fist and pressed it firmly over his heart.

  Andrew nodded agreement and turned away. Henri’s final message warmed his way down through the shadows of the descending trail. Friend.

  Chapter 19

  Henri carried the Bible with him out into the dawn. Here it was late March, and already they had experienced two solid thaws. He stood and breathed in air caught between the freezing blade of winter and the first hint of coming life. The wind rising from Cobequid Bay carried enough of a bite to make him draw the sheepskin coat up tighter around his neck as he walked down to the barn. But he did not enter. He sat on the bench by the east-facin
g wall and, sheltered from the wind, looked out over the steel gray waters and the hills and the land.

  His orchard raised gnarled black arms in silent greeting to him and the day. The sun lanced through the clouds and blazed a path across the fields, turning the patchy snow into burnished shields and the bay a brilliant mirror. He took a heady breath, clasping the Book in his work-worn hands.

  He opened it and tried to concentrate, but anticipation fought with nervousness, joy with apprehension, and the words swam in and out of focus. He did not mind. The power and clarity he had found that winter within its pages brought the same sense of peace he had come to know and love. For many winter nights he had sat with Louise by the fire, listening more and more carefully as she read to him, occasionally speaking up with thoughts of his own. The parable of the planter and the seeds falling upon three types of soil had touched him deeply. He had sensed a seed being planted deep within his own soul, taking root and growing strong. He desperately wanted the seeds planted within him to thrive.

  A familiar voice called to him, and he rose to shout, “Over here!” He stood and watched Jacques Belleveau approach with his rolling gait. His father-in-law said, “No man should be alone on such a day as this. How goes things?”

  “The midwife and Mama Marie, they said nothing except to go away.” For once Henri’s famous smile failed him. “I came here to be away from Louise’s moans. They tore at my heart.”

  “Aye, I still have nightmares of hearing my Marie the night before Louise was born. The women, they say it is forgotten as soon as the baby is laid upon them, but not I.” Jacques pointed at Henri’s hands. “What is that you hold?”

  “Louise’s Bible. Come, sit here with me in the sunshine.”

  Jacques eased himself slowly down onto the bench beside Henri. He had suffered through a long and lingering illness that winter, one which even now was not yet gone. The wasting cough was finally easing, but the slow recovery had cost him much in energy and wellbeing. Jacques remained a burly man, but his age was showing. “She has you reading it now as well?”