“I will make my life in both worlds, Geneviève. I am no hero, but I will die before I live my life under the yoke of the British.”
Plus tard
They are all asleep or at least in their beds — Mme Claire down the hall from me on the second floor, Brigitte and Madeleine together in their room on the third floor, Cook in her room next to theirs, Chegual and Étienne in the kitchen. Only Wigwedi and I remain awake, she washing her face with her paw, me writing, having already washed my face. With warm water and a soft cloth, not with my paws.
Prayer has not set my mind at ease, nor has pacing my room. All I can think of is the war, something that Étienne’s words brought sharply home. He said that he was no hero, but it was not that. It was —
Plus tard encore
How he could have heard me walking, I have no idea, but Chegual did. I am glad of it. He came up and whispered that I must let him in. Then we sat and talked. Not of death, although he had seen how Étienne’s words had disturbed me. Rather we talked of the Abenaki village at the St. Francis mission, of his and Étienne’s happiness there, and of Wigwedi, who was asleep in her cage. How I love my brother. When we speak of such things, when I see how proud he is to be Abenaki, the same pride rises in my heart. I wish that our parents could see the young warrior standing before me.
Le 28 avril 1759
Chegual told me the strangest thing this morning. He said it with no more concern than if he had been discussing the weather.
“He says you have grown up,” he began. When I asked who had said such a thing, Chegual answered, “Jigenaz,” using Étienne’s Abenaki name. My brother looked at me long and hard, studying my face. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “He says you are comely. I myself cannot see it.”
How I blushed.
I thought about this all day, although I tried not to do so, since vanity is unbecoming. Finally, I examined my face in a mirror. Our home has mirrors of all description that reflect the light and make the rooms seem warmer and larger. I am accustomed to seeing myself as I pass by them, and think little of it.
Tonight though, I examined my face carefully with the looking glass that I keep on my dressing table. I saw the familiar shape of my features, the tawny skin and dark eyes, my black hair ready to be braided for the night. It is not a white face or even a French one. It is an Abenaki face, something of which I have become very aware as the years have passed. It is a serviceable countenance with eyes that see well, ears that work properly and white teeth for chewing food. But comely?
Perhaps Étienne has been out in the woods too long.
Le 29 avril 1759
Mme Claire has offered work to Étienne and Chegual. Until their skills as warriors are needed, they will be in her employ. Though I hope it is their work as interpreters, not as warriors, that will be called upon more often — both of them having Abenaki and French and the English they learned from captives. How I pray they will be safe.
Chegual declined. “Work?” he laughed. “Perhaps I will take charge of Étienne as he slaves for you, and I will go with him when he hunts. Only to make certain he does not become lost in the forest, you understand.”
I know my brother. He will not let Étienne work alone.
Le 30 avril 1759
Mme Claire has decided that she prefers water from one of the wells in the Haute-Ville, the one at the Place d’Armes. There is a well here to the west of us in the Basse-Ville, but madame insists the water is not clear enough.
Cook rolls her eyes when she thinks madame cannot see her, which is seldom. “Salt cod poached in water from the well here is no better or worse than salt cod cooked in any other water. It is still cod.”
“Nonsense,” madame counters. She insists that Place d’Armes water is sweeter and more pure. “It is all that my dear husband used for his tinctures and I have decided that it is all I will have in this household.”
So the water must be brought all the way down to our house in the Basse-Ville from the Haute-Ville, though the road between the two sections of the town is extremely steep. But Étienne solved the problem. He would rent a dog, he said.
Anything may be rented here in the town, from looms, to ovens to houses. Why not a dog?
Mai 1759
Le 1er mai 1759
Étienne, to the unending amusement of Chegual, who could barely stand for laughing, rented an enormous beast called La Bave. She is called this because she drools a little. Mme Claire says that a little is enough, but I think La Bave is a fine creature. She is no ordinary Québec dog, being from a far-off island called Île de Terre Neuve or New Found Land. As black as ink, La Bave is tremendously strong and suited to the work she does, which is pulling a cart loaded with a cask.
I am to go along with them tomorrow and bring back water to fill the large copper cistern that stands in the kitchen. What fun that will be.
Le 2 mai 1759
Away we three went this morning, with Chegual behind me, down Sault-au-Matelot, right onto Des Soeurs, all the way up Côte de la Montagne. I held onto La Bave’s harness, as did Étienne. When we reached the top of the hill, Étienne stopped the cart in front of the stately old Jacquin house so that La Bave could rest. Above the door of the house is a carving of a dog chewing a bone. There are words as well.
Je svis vn chien qvi ronge lo
en le rongeant je prend mon repos
vn tems viendra qvi nest pas venv
qve je morderay qvi mavra mordv
Étienne, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, asked what it said. He lifted his shoulders and grinned at me. No matter how hard the good priests tried, they somehow never managed to teach him to read, he confessed.
And so I read it for them. It said:
I am a dog that gnaws his bone,
crouch and gnaw it all alone.
A time will come, which is not yet,
when I will bite him by whom I am bit.
Ha! Chegual laughed and he went on about how that is what they will do to the British if they come here. And he growled at me, which caused La Bave to cock her head at us, but she did not have long to stare, for Étienne was again urging her on.
We turned left onto Château and proceeded past the houses to Place d’Armes and the well. I was not surprised to see that others had come for water, and so we took our place in line. It might have been tiresome but for Chegual and Étienne, who commented in Abenaki on every woman and girl who passed by. I tried not to listen and definitely tried not to smile, but when Mme Prunier came into sight — she was wearing a gown the most dreadful shade of purple — and Étienne said something about a walking plum tree, I lost my resolve. I leaned over La Bave and made a pretense of scratching her as I tried to contain my laughter.
It was not until we were on our way back down the hill with Étienne singing a song about plums and prunes and grapes — one that he was inventing — that I began to laugh aloud.
For all that time today I did not think of the possibility of war.
Le 3 mai 1759
Having three legs does not stop Wigwedi from getting into mischief or from nibbling at the sprouting, tender herbs in my garden. It has not stopped her from nibbling the corner of this journal either, as I noticed last night. Books are a precious thing, but there is one in the library that years ago was left out in the rain. The pages are so blotched and warped that it is impossible to read.
When I took it from the shelf, Mme Claire asked what I could possibly think to do with such a disaster. It may as well go into the fire.
It is for Wigwedi, I told her, explaining that if she had a book of her own to chew on, she would likely leave mine alone.
How Mme Claire laughed at that. “An educated rabbit,” she said, wiping her eyes with a lace-edged mouchoir. “Only you would think of such a thing, Geneviève.”
Le 4 mai 1759
I have a small telescope, a brass one that collapses so that it fits in my pocket. Mme Claire gave it to me. Her cousin Capitaine Renaud was a privateer who
took as plunder many interesting things from the British vessels he captured. Of them, my favourites are the telescopes.
When Capitaine Renaud’s ship sank years ago and he drowned, his estate and possessions came to Mme Claire. His furnished house in the Haute-Ville on Rue St. Louis, one that has a beautiful hawthorn tree growing in its walled garden, madame has at times rented out, although at present it is uninhabited.
There is a larger cherrywood and brass telescope that stands on one of the tables in our library. But the finest — one made of brass and mahogany that stands on a tripod — is the telescope in the fourth-floor study. With it I can see to Île d’Orleans as well as across the river. And if the telescope is moved out onto the balcony, I can just see the beautiful waterfall, Chutes-Montmorency.
I pray I will only ever see beautiful things through the telescopes.
Le 5 mai 1759
Today is Saturday, and so I went to the market this morning in the company of Étienne. My list was not long, since Mme Claire’s pantry and attic are still fairly well stocked. Sacks of flour, dried peas, oats and the corn that Chegual so enjoys, barrels of salted eel and pork. We will not starve. Still, there is often something we need and so I shop.
Today it was butter only. Madame does not keep a cow. Where would she put it if she could? Étienne says it could live in the parlour, which is a drôle thought.
Le 6 mai 1759
Since it was Sunday, and a day of rest, I could shamelessly read and play with Wigwedi today. Not at the same time, of course. Well, as much as she will play, for she is not a cat or dog, but a rabbit.
She is an odd little creature. When I scratch the floor in front of her, she will come to me and lower her head and body. Then she folds back her ears. She likes to have her head stroked and the bases of her ears scratched. At first I thought she did not, since she would grind her teeth. Now I believe it is a sign that she is enjoying my attentions.
Chegual caught me whispering to Wigwedi and said, “You have French and Abenaki, Geneviève, and a bit of English. Can you also speak rabbit?”
I answered with my nose in the air, “Well, of course.”
Le 7 mai 1759
A great flock of pigeons de passage came to roost in the woods during the night. Cook says she has never seen them do this so late in the year. Hunters do not even shoot the birds. They are so thick in the trees that they may be knocked out with sticks and then their necks wrung.
Dishonourable, scoffed Étienne, as he and my brother loaded their muskets and prepared to hunt. They left immediately, since a migrating flock can disappear at any moment.
L’après midi
What are we to do with nineteen pigeons? Eat them, Chegual commanded. And salute the twentieth bird, for it escaped.
Le 8 mai 1759
There is now an encampment of Abenaki warriors outside the city.
Alnanbal. It means men. It seems to me, though, that the Abenaki are not treated as men, as equals to the French or even to the Canadians. The warriors may come into the town during the day, but unlike Chegual and Étienne, who were once residents of the town, they are required to return to their encampment at night.
I wondered if their companions dislike the fact that my brother and Étienne remain here. When I asked him, Chegual said that they understood. His duty was to protect me from what could happen when war came. And Étienne’s — or rather Jigenaz’s — place was with his friend.
“If we were to leave Québec, Miguen, that would not be necessary,” my brother added. He talks of war and how the British will come, and that we must leave Québec before it is too late. He would have said more, I know this, but for the expression I could not keep from my face.
I am surprised it has taken him so long to begin arguing for our departure.
Le 9 mai 1759
I dreamed of my parents last night. When I woke, I could not keep myself from weeping. It does no good at all, for it cannot bring them back. I know I am loved by Mme Claire and Mère Esther, but still. I will always miss them.
Le 10 mai 1759
What excitement!
“A marvellous ship has arrived and is now at anchor in the basin. Mme Claire, surely you will permit Geneviève to see this spectacle from the edge of the river with her own eyes.” Those were Étienne’s exact words.
And these were madame’s. “Yes, if she puts on a cap and remains in the company of you and her brother, who will both make certain she does not disgrace herself by running and falling in the street. And if I receive a full report.”
I must leave.
Ce soir
The excitement has given way to other emotions.
We three walked until we were out of sight of the house. Then Étienne announced that we were proceeding far too slowly. We must run. “But I am not allowed to run!” I cried.
You are not to run and fall, he told me in a most reasonable tone. He and Chegual would make certain that I did not fall.
And so we ran madly down the street — how I love to run, although it is unseemly — toward Anse de la Canoterie with me between Étienne and Chegual, each of them holding tightly to one of my hands. It is a good distance from the house to the Canoterie, about 500 toises, and I was puffing a bit when we arrived to join the crowd.
I pulled the spyglass from my pocket and put the glass to my eye to more closely examine the vessel.
“She is a frigate.”
That was said by M. LeBlanc, the merchant who hides what remains of the eye he lost in war with an eye patch. He was once the capitaine of his own ship, and although he is far too old to go to sea any more, he still has a keen interest in anything nautical.
It is called Chézine, I told him, still peering through the glass. And it looks new.
She, he informed me. A ship must be called she. He said that she is new, having been built at the shipyard at Nantes in France just last year. She has more than twenty guns, and is 115 pieds du roi long. A fine vessel, although not a ship of war, he called her. Just then two small boats were lowered down the side of the ship. Sailors climbed into them and took up oars while armed soldiers followed. Then a white-wigged officer — a gentleman, by the cut of his clothing — stepped down into one of the boats and seated himself. Louis-Antoine de Bougainville, someone whispered. Général Montcalm’s aide de camp.
When the boat reached land, Sieur de Bougainville stepped ashore, his face unsmiling and serious. People called for news, but the soldiers had none to give. They formed a party behind and before the officer, shouting that we all must step aside, that Sieur de Bougainville had business with the Intendant. With not a word to anyone, away they went.
When I reported each detail — except for the running, of course — to Mme Claire, she shook her head and heaved a great sigh.
“No news for the people, is it?” she said. “That is easily remedied.” And she went to her desk, spread her skirts, sat, and said over her shoulder, “Geneviève, find Étienne.” She was already writing as I hurried away.
Étienne arrived moments later. He had been splitting kindling behind the house.
Mme Claire folded the sheet of paper and handed it to him, saying that he would deliver it to the capitaine of the ship Chézine. The capitaine being Sieur Nicholas-Pierre Duclos-Guyot, an old friend of her dead husband’s. He was to run. She gave me a piercing glance. It is impossible to keep secrets from her!
Then when Étienne had left the house she told me to go straight to my room. I could not help but droop a little, but I did deserve punishment for disobeying her. Then she smiled. “You will go straight to your room with Madeleine and pick out the finest of your gowns. She is to make certain there are no spots on it.”
I was thoroughly confused.
“Vite, Geneviève!” she said with a laugh. “We are to have a dinner party.”
Le 11 mai 1759
I again spent time at the monastery school today, helping the littlest of the boarding students, the pensionnaires, write letters home. There are alw
ays a great many ink blots and stained fingers during these sessions. It did give me a chance to visit briefly with Mère Esther and tell her of Mme Claire’s plan. An answer had come early this morning. There is indeed going to be a dinner party tomorrow evening, and I am to attend it. My first true dinner party!
“Bien,” said Mère Esther. “You are not a child any more, Geneviève, and it will be an excellent opportunity for you to practise conducting yourself in a ladylike manner in the presence of gentlemen. Do not disgrace us now.” So many times she has told me that no matter how one lives life, no matter whether one is a nun or a married woman, a widow or a spinster, good manners are always important.
I am so excited that I can barely think clearly, much less remember my manners, but I will not disappoint her or Mme Claire.
Le 12 mai 1759
All is ready for the dinner, and so I am able to take a few moments to set down my thoughts here. Madeleine and I have laid out the clothing I am to wear this evening. “Is it sinful to take so much pleasure in fine clothing?” I once asked Mère Esther. After considering my question she told me that not to enjoy that with which le bon Dieu has blessed me would be worse. I should be thankful for what I had.
And so I am.
There is a chemise of the finest linen, edged with batiste ruffles at the neck and cuffs. The gown is raw silk the shade of moss, and my stockings are white cotton with blue ribbons to hold them up. No one will see the ribbons, naturally, but still, they are lovely. New silver buckles on my shoes. I will wear a small cap with a double ruffle and a length of the same blue ribbon tied around it. Earrings of white amber and a ring to match. A silver cross tied around my neck with blue ribbon and a fichu of cream silk tied about my shoulders for modesty’s sake.
The Death of My Country Page 2