The Meeting Place

by T. Davis Bunn

  “I tell you, Papa Jacques, it is my greatest source of strength.”

  Jacques Belleveau wheezed a laugh. “Of all the men in all the world, you are the last I would have thought needed more strength than you already have.”

  “I am not even sure I understand well enough to say the words. But one thing I do know.” It felt good to talk, to have something weighty enough to draw his mind away from all that was going on inside their little farm home. “There are things which I cannot face alone. I have feared these things all my life long. Ever since the day you found me in the fields, I have been terrified of … of defeat.” He grimaced an apology at the older man. “I am sorry. I do not say these things well.”

  “On the contrary.” Jacques Belleveau crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the barn. “You say them as clearly as I have ever heard.”

  “The nights my wife and I study the Word together, I find myself looking at what I have always run away from. And I know it is because I am strengthened by something which is not my own. My heart and my mind, they can look into the terrors of my night, and they are at peace.”

  Jacques stared out over the strengthening day. From the barn behind him came the sound of cattle shifting into wakefulness, wanting to be milked and fed. “Always before I have thought these ideas to be the realm of the vicar.”

  “I as well. But now”—in the air before him, Henri fashioned a thought with his hands—“now I feel as though some of the words I read were written for my heart alone. Some nights I talk over a passage from the Book with Louise, and I feel as though the wisdom I have never known has been laid open there before me, the mysteries revealed.”

  Jacques Belleveau stared out toward the horizon a long moment, his breath rasping hard in the quiet air. Finally he said, “Perhaps my wife was right in what she said.”

  Before Henri could ask what he meant by those words, another set of footsteps hurried around the barn. “Henri!”

  “Here! I am here!” When he saw it was his mother-in-law, the air became trapped in his chest such that he could scarcely manage, “Louise, is she …”

  “Louise is fine.” Marie Belleveau gave a flushed and weary smile. “You may come and meet your daughter now.”

  Andrew always looked forward to the annual spring journey to Annapolis Royal. The first ships over from England arrived with papers and journals less than four months old. Along with the news, he replenished both his supplies and his troops, arguing with all the other garrison commandants for whatever able-bodied soldiers had been transported over to Acadia from England. He reviewed the winter with his fellow officers and traded information. Most of all, there was the sense of liberation after winter’s confines.

  But this year there was a special significance to the journey. He breathed the fresh sea air, different here on the Bay of Fundy, more heavily laced with salt and distant climes. The wind was stronger, the town less sheltered than around their beloved Cobequid Bay. Annapolis Royal itself had a solid, patrician air, as it well should. Only Halifax was a larger establishment, and it still held to the raw-plank odor of a brand-new city. In this older town many of the houses were built of fine Acadian stone, solid as the seaside cliffs. The fort was a massive affair as well, with great towers supporting thirty-pound cannons aimed both seaward and inland toward the forests. The sea-born wind snapped countless flags and pennants, and everywhere there was the sound of drilling soldiers and shouted orders and troops on parade.

  Yet not even the signs of renewed military preparedness could displace Andrew’s deep-seated joy. He entered shop after shop, working down the almost endless list Catherine had given him. Even as he had mounted his horse for the departure from Edward, she had continued to add more items. And he could refuse her nothing, not when she had stood there in the doorway of their house holding little Elspeth.

  Elspeth Anne Harrow was named after Catherine’s mother, a decision that had brought tears even to stern John Price’s eyes. Andrew carried the sound of that little child and the joy of her gaze with him through the entire four-day journey. He smiled as he watched the shop mistress measure out a yard of blue silk ribbon.

  “Ah, look here, now. The gallant captain must see this already dressing the lovely lady’s hair,” the matronly shopkeeper said with a soft Scottish burr.

  “Indeed I do. Her hair and gown both. You’re sure this is the finest ribbon you have?”

  “The finest this side of London, good sir.” She lowered her eyelashes. “And you’ll be hearing that again when your lady-friend lays eyes on it, you mark my words.”

  “I doubt that seriously, ma’am. Seeing as how the lady who has captured my heart is scarcely six weeks old.”

  “Oh, for your daughter now, is it? And sure it must be your firstborn, seeing the light there in your eyes.”

  “It is indeed. The ribbon is for her christening gown.”

  “And a lovely day that will be. Where would you be coming from, then?”

  “Fort Edward.”

  “Hard it must be, having to journey so far away from the little one.”

  “Yes. And from her mother.”

  “Gallant, handsome, an officer, and a good husband as well.” The shopkeeper shook her head as she rolled the ribbon and tied it with string. “Where would you be when my daughter was looking to wed?”

  Andrew paid for the merchandise, returned to his heavily laden horse, mounted, and rode up toward the fort. He entered the main gates and saluted the sentry just as the clock struck three, the time of his appointment.

  It was hard to confine his joy and his impatience to return home, now that his errands were completed. But the brisk tension within the fort left little room for the homey emotions which came most naturally these days. Andrew walked to where his sergeant major was surveying the final wagonload. “That the lot?” he queried.

  “It is, sir. Only there’s been a certain bushy-tailed captain out here looking for you, must be five times now.”

  “Stevenage is here?” Andrew felt a chill in his gut. “I thought the man was stationed in Halifax.”

  “Must have traveled over with the general,” the sergeant major said, then looked over Andrew’s shoulder and stiffened in a salute. “Ten-shun!”

  “Ah, Harrow, back from your little gallivanting I see. Good. Come along, then. The general would have a word with you.”

  Andrew stifled the sudden rush of irritation, his usual reaction to Captain Randolf Stevenage. He did not bother with small talk, merely followed the man back to the commandant’s quarters. Once through the door, Stevenage announced loudly, “I managed to locate Harrow for you, sir.”

  “Good, good. Afternoon, Harrow.”

  “General.” Andrew snapped off a sharp salute. When it was returned he went into parade-ground rest. The general was seated behind the fort commandant’s desk, a red greatcoat tossed over the back of a nearby chair, medals gleaming in the light. Andrew had always liked the man. “I was not expecting to find you here, sir. Otherwise—”

  “Say nothing of it. I just arrived on the morning tide, a snap inspection, on my way up to Beausejour.”

  “The French fort? Has there been trouble?”

  The great mutton chops bristled as General Whetlock’s chin jutted aggressively. “No, and we are going to take it before they have an occasion to offer any.”

  Andrew hid behind a calm mask, but inwardly he was rocked with emotion. “Sir?”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve heard about our forays in the Ohio Valley.”

  “No, sir. I just arrived myself this morning.”

  “Absolute shambles. We were outgunned and outmanned. Lost a great parcel of land west of Pennsylvania. Oh, we’ll get it back. But for the time being we must be sure there’s no such trouble here in the north.”

  “Sir,” Andrew said struggling to make sense of it all, “my region has been at peace for years.”

  “Yes, and we intend to keep it so. But under British control.”

&
nbsp; “It’s under British control now. There haven’t been any French troops in our area for almost five years.”

  “I told you, sir,” Randolf Stevenage muttered at his side. “He’s gone soft over the enemy.”

  “Sir, I protest.”

  “That will do, Stevenage.” To Andrew, the general went on, “What’s this I hear of a foray into the French village, what was the name?”

  “Minas, sir,” Stevenage offered quickly.

  Andrew managed to keep the shock from his voice as he answered, “Sir, I urged them to reconsider signing the king’s loyalty oath.”

  “And?”

  “I’m afraid I failed in that mission, sir. They say they cannot agree to take up arms against their own countrymen, particularly when they will not take up arms with them. But if the governor could see fit to take out that one stipulation, I am sure—”

  “Nonsense!” The general slammed his fist down upon the table. “Harrow, you as commandant of an outpost garrison must see how that simply will not do!”

  “But, sir, we have lived in peace—”

  “A peace which remains a myth, so long as our backs are watched by a force a dozen times the size of our own! Have you any idea how many able-bodied French settlers there are within this region?”

  “No, sir, but—”

  “Fifteen thousand! Do you know how many troops I have under me for all of Acadia? Twelve hundred! Can you imagine what would happen if they chose to take up arms against us?”

  Andrew knew he risked his commission by saying more, but he could not remain silent. He could not. “Sir, their own reluctance to fight for anyone could not be more clear.”

  The general went on as though Andrew had not even spoken. “I’ll tell you what it would be. It would be an absolute debacle, the likes of which the British army has never witnessed. Why, we could be eradicated, our towns and villages lost, wiped out to the last man, woman, and child!”

  The general’s face had gone bright red with the exertion of his arguments. He observed Andrew with a hard gaze. “Stevenage here has asserted that you do not have what it takes to carry out my orders.”

  “Sir, I am yours to command. But I cannot bring myself to fire upon people who are not my enemy. Nor upon unarmed women and children. I certainly do not believe you could either, sir.”

  “The men are armed. Every one of them possesses a veritable arsenal. And they are potentially our enemy unless they sign the king’s declaration!” His gaze blazed with his words. “You are aware, are you not, that refusing to obey a direct command in a time of war is a crime punishable by hanging?”

  “Yes, sir,” Andrew confirmed, dismayed that his commanding officer felt it necessary to warn him so. And made more miserable still by the knowledge that such fate awaited him, were he to attempt to resign from the regiment during a time of conflict. “I am.”

  “Very well. Go back to your post, Harrow. And remember that any man who is not for you is against you. Especially now.” General Whetlock turned away, clearly disgusted with the exchange. “You are dismissed, sir.”

  Andrew turned to the door, far too apprehensive to more than glance at Stevenage’s smirk as he opened the door and ushered Andrew from the room.

  Chapter 20

  “Shah, child, hush now, it’s all right.” Louise rocked the tiny form back and forth, the words a constant litany spoken as much to her own heart as to the baby.

  She sat where she could look out the door, waiting for her husband to return from the highland meadow. Henri had offered to make the delivery, though the morning had threatened rain and there was so much for him to do around the farm. Even with enough work to keep a dozen men busy, still he bound up her letter in oilskin and carried it up to leave it where she and Catherine had agreed—tucked beneath the fallen log they had used as a bench.

  Oh, for those days to come again! Louise looked down at her child, her own sweet baby. The infant’s tiny face was screwed up in pain, and she gave off a weak mewling sound, half whimper and half cry. “Oh, my sweet one, I would give anything to make you better. I would give you my life itself.”

  Almost as though in reply, the little eyes opened, and the crying stopped. One tiny hand unfurled to accept Louise’s finger, and then the eyes closed and the face relaxed into slumber. Two months and two days old now, little Antoinette had not slept a single night through since birth. Whenever the pain eased she slipped instantly into a sleep so deep sometimes Louise could not help but worry if she would ever awaken again.

  The baby was not doing well. Louise had tried every herb and medicine the village midwife and her own mother could suggest. Together they had worked through the meager store of local remedies available to them: Calomel was a favorite for infants’ complaints, but it had shown no effect upon Antoinette. Physic nuts brought from some distant isle had been ground and fed to the fussing child along with cassia, but they had come right back up again. James’ powders, the solution to so many problems, had helped not one whit. Asafoetida had been tried, along with minute quantities of belladonna. In desperation she had tried a thimbleful of her mother’s laudanum, which had done nothing but send the baby into a sleep quiet as death and scared them all out of their wits.

  The midwife had finally shrugged her confusion at this little baby who ate so little and cried so much, and said simply that she would outgrow it. But Antoinette’s symptoms were not getting better. What was more, she was not growing. Her frame felt feather light, merely skin and bones beneath the blankets. Louise’s heart squeezed tight with the fear of not knowing and of having nowhere else to turn.

  The heavens opened, and the rain fell in great silver sheets. As she sat within the protection of her beloved home, Louise felt as though the sky was crying for her, weeping the tears of her frightened heart.

  It seemed as though her world was being shaken by invisible hands. For not only her baby was sick, but her father as well. Jacques had never recovered from his winter cough; instead, he had become more quiet and subdued and then had begun to waste away. Over the past two months he had seemed to pass through stages of aging that should have taken years.

  What was more, all the rumors drifting in with the early spring traders were bad. There were stories of war in Europe and conflicts closer to hand. The English governor had again issued a demand for all French settlers to sign the declaration of loyalty, this time warning of dire consequences if the French did not agree. Never had the troubles disturbed her as they did now.

  Louise looked down at her beloved slumbering child, and wondered whether she would ever regain the recent inner peace she had discovered from her reading of the Book with Catherine, with Henri.

  “Louise’s baby is still sick.”

  The words seemed to drift through their cottage like unwanted shadows. Andrew looked up from the cradle to where Catherine stood by the kitchen worktable, upon which Louise’s letter was spread. Her face mirrored the feeling of his own heart. “What is the matter?”

  “Louise writes that she doesn’t know. Antoinette won’t eat as she should, and she cries all the time.”

  Elspeth gurgled, wiggling her entire body as she watched Andrew’s dancing fingers. He turned back to his daughter. “I think she recognizes me,” he noted fondly.

  “Of course she does.” Catherine walked over to stand by her husband and said to the baby, “You know your daddy, don’t you? Such a smart baby.”

  Elspeth’s little arms and legs jerked up and down, delight on her face as she looked at both of them together. Her little mouth opened wide with squeals of happiness and good health. Normally, watching his baby daughter was enough to wipe away the strain of whatever Andrew’s day had brought. Yet tonight he could not shake off the concern over their friends’ infant. Friends. Strange to feel such a bond, especially when he had never met Louise and had seen Henri only that one time. But he had grown close to them through Catherine’s shared affections. And now as he bent over his happy daughter’s bed, he worried for parents
and child both.

  “I wish there were something we could do for them,” he murmured quietly.

  “Oh, so do I, Andrew.” Catherine bent over the cradle and touched the round little face. Elspeth crooned and waved and wiggled. Andrew leaned to place a kiss on a tiny waving hand, his eyes misting with the emotion that overtook him. Catherine went on. “Louise says the nearest French doctor is in Beausejour Fort. There or Port Royal.”

  “They might as well be in Paris, then.” Beausejour and Port Royal were the two remaining French bastions in Acadia, and both required long journeys by ship. “The British navy has been blockading them since last April,” he noted. “There is no way a French family could get passage.”

  Andrew felt his wife shiver at the news. “Things are bad, then.”

  “Things are terrible,” Andrew replied gravely, knowing there was no point in trying to shield Catherine from the full truth. “And they are growing steadily worse.”

  She stood and placed a hand on his shoulder, drawing him up. Andrew did not object. He did not wish to speak of such things while so near to his daughter, as though the love and joy he felt there by her little form did not belong to the world in turmoil beyond their cottage door.

  Catherine led him over to the table and stood as he settled into the chair from which he could watch her prepare their meal. She said, “You have received new dispatches?”

  “Yesterday. I didn’t want to tell you, what with the note from Louise.”

  She sat down beside him. “Tell me.”

  “It is not good.”

  “I want to know.”

  Others in the regiment would have considered him weak to unburden his soul to his wife. But he had known their relationship was strengthened by doing so. Now it seemed as natural as their praying together. Even when the news was bad.

  “The dispatches from England all refer to the French as ‘belligerents,’ ” he explained. “This is the word used to describe enemies in battle.”