The Meeting Place

by T. Davis Bunn

  The wagon rumbled over a protruding tree root with a jolt that shook her already stiff and tired body. Automatically she shielded Antoinette, but in spite of her effort the baby stirred and Catherine feared she might begin to cry. At once she began to rock the child back and forth.

  When she lifted her head again, they had cleared the edge of the planted windbreak. To Catherine’s horror, none of the buildings remained standing. There was only a heap of darkened ashes where the house and barns should have been. Charred bits of log that had not totally burned jutted upward like blackened teeth.

  Catherine’s face paled. All those children. “Oh, God,” she breathed. “Please may no one have been in the house.”

  Everything was burned to the ground. Catherine turned stricken eyes to her father. She saw that he too was carefully studying the devastation.

  “A terrible fire,” she managed, her tongue suddenly dry. “Everything’s gone. It’s … it’s awful.”

  John Price merely nodded.

  “Lightning, do you suppose? In the storm we had yesterday?” It happened, but not often. Usually a large tree was the first to catch the strike. But these trees had been planted well clear of the house, and though there was some smoke damage, none of them looked split or scarred.

  “I think not,” her father replied slowly.

  “Carelessness? But surely—” Was it perhaps one of the Acadian children? But little ones, from the time they could toddle, were taught the serious consequence of uncontrolled fire.

  “I would say it was intended.” Her father’s voice was very matter-of-fact.

  His words shook Catherine to the core. “Intended? But the Indians have not been here in years.”

  Her father was shaking his head.

  And then it hit her. She could not have said how she knew, but suddenly she realized what had happened. A coldness washed over her entire body, making her shiver in spite of the scorching day. The army. The British army. They had done this. But why?

  Her eyes swung back to her father. What would he think when the full truth struck him as well?

  But he was standing now, legs far apart to brace himself upright. His eyes coolly observed the scene before him. There was no horror in his gaze. No puzzled expression. Even as she watched she saw him give just the hint of a nod, as though granting approval to the entire scene.

  It took her a moment before the truth dawned, before she could allow herself to admit it. She whispered in horror, “You knew?”

  Inwardly she prayed that he might deny it. She longed with all of her being to separate him from this terrible event.

  But he did not dispute it. She thought she even detected an odd gleam in his eye, much like when he returned to the house with a good-sized salmon to be roasted slowly over the fireplace spit, or a fresh buck that meant meat for their cooking pot.

  When he did answer, it was with an acknowledging nod of his head. “I knew it was coming.”

  Catherine felt the fear wash over her body. She tightened her arms around the blankets bundling Antoinette. “Is this … is it to continue?”

  John Price turned from the charred remains to look down at her. “Continue? No, I suspect it is all over.”

  “All over?” What did he mean? What could he possibly mean? All over, like a deed entirely done. “You mean, this one French farmer … but why him? Was he some kind of threat?”

  “No more than any of the others.” His eyes drifted back to where the barn had stood. Little whiffs of smoke still curled upward. Catherine could smell it now. The acrid, sickening smell that all settlers feared as much as the plague. Her father was shaking his head, and his expression told her what he thought of women and their questions. He spoke down to her, “I knew you would be concerned. That was why I agreed to have you accompany me to Halifax.”

  “You mean … might others be affected?” She could scarcely shape the words.

  “Really, Catherine, you women simply do not understand the workings of conflict. Of military acuteness. Of what is required to insure that the Crown retains what is rightfully ours.”

  Elspeth. She had to get to her baby. And Louise. Had anyone been there to warn her? Catherine would have jumped from the lumbering wagon and plunged headlong through the heavy mud had not reason told her that it would be more than foolhardy. Antoinette stirred in her arms, reminding her that she had a responsibility to this little one as well. Her arms tightened until the baby squirmed with the restriction.

  “Why?” Catherine flung at her father, her voice wild with demand. “What conflict was there?”

  John Price gave her a solid impatient look, but his face now showed weariness. His usually straight shoulders sagged slightly as he lowered himself back onto the seat. When he spoke, even his voice sounded tired. “Need you ask? The whole situation was precarious. No way to know who were one’s allies, and who the enemy. Unwilling to submit, they were. Oh, not openly rebellious. No, too clever for that. The French wanted to pretend neutrality.”

  “But—”

  “Yes. But if push had come to shove, it soon would have been evident whose side they were really on. Upon meeting an Unreliable on the road, one never knew whether to expect a surly nod or a knife at the throat.”

  “I never heard of knives, or any other such nonsense, except from British soldiers.” Her voice was sharpened by her anxiety. She had never spoken to her father in such a tone before.

  “Nonsense, is it? Perhaps they were simply not brave enough.” There was a spark to his eyes again. “Leave it to the Indians and the troops to wear us down, then swoop in for the final slaughter.”

  “The French villagers have lived here in peace for years and years,” Catherine hurled back, her spine stiffening with the unfair accusation. “And no one has ever proven that the French have attacked us alongside the Indians.”

  Another wave of fear swept through her, causing her fingers to bury themselves within Antoinette’s wool shawl. She had to get to Louise. “What have they done?”

  “Look, my dear.” Her father noticed her clenched fists and softened his tone. “I know your tender heart makes it difficult for you to understand the deeds of men at war.”

  “There is no war, not here! Andrew has always said the war—”

  “Ah, yes. Andrew. Methinks you have not realized the difficult situation you have placed your husband in. His whole military career has been placed in jeopardy by this absurdly soft side he has been showing toward Minas.”

  Catherine’s fears turned in another direction. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “You shouldn’t be running around making friends with the enemy, Catherine. It just isn’t done at such a time.”

  “Making friends …”

  “Captain Stevenage has had reason to plant some doubts among General Whetlock’s staff. His wife has also informed them that you have been seen in the company of some Acadian woman. She even claimed you were over visiting the Frenchy village.”

  Catherine felt her face grow hot, but this time it was not the work of the scorching sun. Anger burned through her. “And what has that to do with Andrew?”

  “Stevenage has hinted—more than hinted, actually—there might be some reason to suspect Andrew would fail to perform his duties as an English officer. The plans were kept from him. Even I was not informed of the details of the maneuver until we arrived in Halifax. Andrew would probably have suspected as much had he not been so determined to ignore what was plain to everyone else.”

  “That is absurd! Andrew has never given reason for anyone to think he would commit treason! That is the most … most offensive charge I have ever heard. Not perform his duties as an officer? I have never heard such an outrage.”

  “It has gone far beyond protests, I fear. Again, I am not privy to everything, as the boy is my son-in-law. And I must admit, at such a time, I do feel a certain—”

  “Stop it! Stop it right now! I will not hear another word!”

  “Calm yourself, no need to g
et yourself further heated. You’ll have yourself in a swoon if you’re not careful.”

  Catherine squirmed back onto the wooden seat, but her thoughts still swirled in fear and anger. Priscilla Stevenage, would she never cease to make trouble? Catherine struggled to gather her thoughts. She had to concentrate on the calamity at hand.

  “These raids.” She fought to control her voice. “You say—they are not to continue?” “They are not raids,” her father responded brusquely. “It was a carefully planned military maneuver to expel the Acadians. Not to harm them. I suspect the burning became a necessity for some reason. It was not a part of the plan as I originally—”

  “Expel them?” New horror clutched at Catherine. “Expel them where?”

  “Here and there,” he answered impatiently. “To several other settlements. Not en masse. That would be too dangerous. A few here, a few there.”

  “But that is preposterous! How could they even consider such a thing? This is their home.”

  “Not anymore.” His eyes were suddenly cold. “Would you have us put them to the sword?”

  “Of course not!”

  “That is likely what would have happened,” he snapped, “had this course not been taken. A number of our senior officers were arguing for it. But no, we are not so brutal as all that.”

  “But what have they done to deserve—”

  “What have they done? Don’t talk foolish, child. They are French! They are our natural enemy! Do you think I have ever for an instant forgotten it was a French cannonade that cost me the use of my leg, stripped me of my rank and my career, and relegated me to a pen-pot instead of a sword? Do you think I don’t have reason, day and night, with the pain throbbing through my muscles, to remember who my enemies are? I know the French. I have known them longer than you have been alive. They have not changed with the passage of time, and they will never change.”

  But Catherine remained trapped by his earlier words. The French were to be expelled. All of them. Catherine searched frantically about her. Should she be put down from the wagon? Could she make better time on foot than the tired team? She sank back. No woman could walk through such a mire of red clay. It would suck at her boots and weigh down her woolen skirts until she sank. Especially a woman bearing the burden of a sleeping child.

  “This expulsion,” she began, her voice not more than a whisper. “When is it to be?”

  He swung toward her. “Haven’t you heard a single thing I have said? It is accomplished. The maneuvers are over. The British are now in full command of Acadia. We have secured the land for the Crown.”

  She stared at him, no longer able to comprehend his words. “Over?”

  “Over.” He seemed enormously pleased. “That is why I so readily agreed to your accompanying me to Halifax. Such a treacherous, miserable journey, but so timely. Under usual circumstances I would have discouraged it. But I wanted you and my grandchild away—just in case things got testy. This request of yours could not have come at a better time. I—”

  But Catherine was no longer listening. “Oh, dear God.”

  Her frantic thoughts tumbled and twisted, coming always back to Andrew. Even if he had not known, at least at first, surely by now he would have been able to do something. Andrew. Her source of strength through so many past troubles. He was there. He would have done something—anything to save Elspeth, protect Louise. Something. Andrew was an officer. Even if the carnage had reached out, had included others, Andrew would have done something.

  It was a small hope, but she clutched to it tightly. Surely, surely things were not as black as they seemed. Surely Andrew … surely her precious baby Elspeth …

  Catherine enfolded herself over the sleeping infant, clutching it and her tiny flame of hope deep to her breast. “Oh, God … my baby.”

  She buried her face into Antoinette’s heavy blanket and let the hot tears wash down her cheeks.

  Chapter 31

  The storm passed after two hard days of wind and rain and buffeting waves. Henri was the only one of those onboard who did not suffer, trapped as they were upon the ship’s open deck. He had fished through worse conditions, he assured Louise when she asked him if they were to die. She was so ill and so heartsick, she felt faintly sorry at his assurance.

  Louise awoke on the third day to a gentle rocking motion, one which allowed her to rise unsteadily to her feet and walk to the railing. The sea stretched blue and white-flecked in every direction as far as she could see, joining finally with an equally blue horizon. She felt tears drawn from her eyes. Wherever they were, she knew they were far from home, and growing steadily farther still.

  By the fifth day they had fallen into an accustomed routine. All around her people were either finding inner strength and surviving, or slowly wasting away. To her great surprise, the sea air seemed to be helping her father grow steadily stronger. It was her mother who suffered, like a plant torn from its roots and unable to settle anywhere again. Whenever Louise looked into her mother’s eyes, she saw a shattered soul.

  It was her mother’s anguish and the baby’s needs that kept her from the brink of darkness. She could not afford to succumb to the overwhelming sorrow and loss, much as she wanted to. Much as her own wounds felt as though they would never heal.

  Baby Elspeth knew nothing and loved everything about the sea. The ship’s gentle rocking sent her cooing to sleep, a blanket upon the deck as comfortable a bed as the baby could ever wish. Every sea gull who came flying in searching for tidbits, every sunbeam that flickered down from between the mighty sails, every flap of canvas overhead, every rattle of rope or hardy seaman’s footsteps, all were cause for delight. Elspeth showered Louise with her happiness and her need for attention. Louise nursed and bedded and changed and loved the infant, and in this loving she came to know the first fleeting touches of healing.

  And from Henri. The man was a rock, steady and gentle and firm when necessary. Through the first two endless days he had been everywhere, moving amidst the worst afflicted, carting them up from the holds on his back so they could benefit from the strong sea air, holding them as they were sick over the sides, rigging canvas strips to keep off the wind and rain from those on deck.

  When the weather improved he took charge of rations, doling them out, helping the weakest old men to clean themselves after the meals. Through the worst of it he was there for everyone, giving and helping and offering his strength to one and all. When the sun shone bright and the sea sparkled great and blue, he even offered a few smiles and words of comfort to those suffering the greatest sorrow, though Louise could see how much it cost him.

  Onward they sailed, steadily south. On the sixth night the wind tasted of a different land, one unseen beyond the horizon yet leaving its distinctive stamp upon the atmosphere. Louise drifted in and out of sleep as always, one ear constantly tuned to the baby lying alongside her, when another sound drew her to the surface. One she had never heard before. Silently she rolled over and raised herself to a seated position to look upon her man. Henri’s massive shoulders shook so hard she could see the movement in the starlight. Sobs wrenched his entire body, for he cried as a man cried, one who had never known the luxury of easy tears. He wept with his entire being, a wrenching, gasping groan of unendurable agony.

  Louise was weeping herself within an instant of hearing her husband, sharing not only his pain but hers as well. She flung herself upon him and allowed the wounded heart within to melt and flow together with his.

  Henri turned over and took her in his arms, for once not offering strength but rather seeking consolation. Yet she had nothing to give. Nothing but her own deep pain, her own empty soul.

  They cried themselves to sleep, locked within each other’s arms, never shifting the entire night.

  Louise woke first, her eyelids tickled by the first glint of sun. She did not move, did not want to waken her husband. She lay in his arms, surrounded by the strength, the scent of her man. And she saw in the deep new lines creasing his face a wearing
down, a giving up. She had to do something. She could not help but see his need there in the remnants of the night’s sorrow. She had to help him, or risk losing this strength and this goodness along with everything else.

  A part of her wanted to give up herself, to give in to the silent cry of agony and bitter anger. Let it all sweep away. Take us all, she wanted to shout at the God who had let this happen to her. Take it all. I don’t care.

  The two sides of her mind fought against each other through the morning routine. It was only when she moved over with the baby to greet her parents, and she looked into her mother’s empty gaze, that she saw and understood. There were others who needed what she could give, and only if she did not herself give into the temptation of hatred. If she could not do it for herself, perhaps she could do it for them.

  She sighed, and in a voice still raw from the previous night’s weeping, she said to her mother, “Would you like to come and sit with me for a while? We could read the Bible together.”

  She could see her mother struggling to make sense of the words. The front of her gown was littered with the remnants of what little breakfast she had eaten. “What?”

  “We need to find strength for whatever is to come ahead.”

  She made an effort to focus upon her daughter. “The Bible? You brought the Book with you?”

  “God can be our strength now,” Louise said, nodding. “We need Him now more than ever.”

  Henri chose that moment to join them. “I have just spoken with the ship’s second-in-command. He tells me we are destined for the French colony of Louisiana.”

  Jacques Belleveau brushed the crumbs from his front, took a deep draught of water, and said, “There are Belleveaux in Louisiana. My father’s brother and his children. Their children as well by now, I warrant.”

  “I have heard of this also,” Henri said. His dark eyes remained ravaged by the night’s struggle, but there was something else to his voice. A first faint hint of something new. “When I was young, my father used to speak of that colony. He said it was a place without winter. My mother never liked winter.”