There is other, far simpler clothing, folded away in my chest, for I still have the garments I wore when we first came to Québec. Madame, in her wisdom, did not insist it be burned because it was so filthy after our ordeal. Instead, Cook washed it all and hung it in the sun to dry. Whenever I touch the plain shirt, leggings and skirt, I can see my mother, seated outside our lodge as she made them for me. What would she think if she could see me dressed as I am now?
But enough of such rambling, especially when the memories can bring sadness. Cook is calling.
Tard
Always confused feelings these days. I am sleepless yet again. I have said my rosary and prayed for peace of mind, but it eludes me and so I have lit a candle and write.
The dinner party was a great success. The capitaine is a dashing man of perhaps forty-five years. He said I was to call him Capitaine Guyot. He came accompanied by two of his young officers, Marc Dubois and Louis Benoit, who were equally dashing in the manner of sailors. I fear I was rather overwhelmed by all this and could scarcely think of anything to say, and rather than embarrass myself, I said nothing.
But I curtsied properly. I had practised in my room. Madeleine had played the part of a gentleman and bowed to me, both of us laughing. And I did not spill food or my cider, so I was satisfied.
Until the dinner ended, that is, and the last of the dishes were cleared away.
Mme Claire gave the capitaine and his officers permission to light their pipes. It is illegal to smoke within the city for fear of fire, but this is a private home after all.
“Now,” said Mme Claire. “Tell me what you know, monsieur.”
He drew on his pipe, blew the smoke into the air and began. I did not listen closely. It was far more entertaining to watch Madeleine, who was peeking around the doorway making eyes at the young officers. This caused them to wiggle their eyebrows in what I suppose was an enticing manner.
Then I heard it. War.
“The supply ships are not far behind us, madame,” the capitaine said, “but behind them is the British Navy.” It seems that that is why Sieur de Bougainville went directly to Intendant Bigot, and it is also why he will leave Québec shortly to carry letters to Général Montcalm in Montréal.
The capitaine looked away then and it seemed to me that his voice could not have grown more serious, but it did and I shall never forget his words. “I fear that France has abandoned us.”
Le 13 mai 1759
Our entire household went to Mass this morning at the Ursuline chapel to pray for the delivery of Québec from the British. Even Étienne accompanied us, although Chegual would not, the Catholic faith meaning nothing to him. Afterward, Mme Claire spoke at length privately with Mère Esther while we waited in the street. What things were being said! “The British are animals. Unbaptized barbares!” cried one woman. Her sister was at Louisbourg when it was taken last year, she went on. She said that if the king will not do more than he has, we would meet the same fate as they — deportation, starvation. “Eating grass like the cattle they will treat us as.” People nodded in agreement.
Later, Étienne told me not to listen to them. They were fools. The city was a stronghold that the British would never be able to breach. Besides, with such brave men as they — he then elbowed Chegual in the ribs — the British stood no chance. Chegual laughed at his joking, but his eyes were not amused at all.
Tard
I knew it would come to this. It was only a matter of time before Chegual would truly press me.
“We must leave this place,” he said when we walked alone by the river this evening. He would take me from Québec and back to the Abenaki mission at St. Francis so that I would be safe.
When I insisted that we were safe here, that the city is well fortified, he made a rude noise. He has heard stories of the British army, of its size and strength. He knew what the capitaine of the ship had said, that France had abandoned its people here. “I will not abandon you, Miguen,” he told me. “I am your brother and your only living kin. The blood of our parents flows in both our veins, and you will obey me.”
He knows how it moves me when he uses my Abenaki name. And what he says about France may be true. “But what of Mme Claire and Mère Esther?” I asked him. “I do not share their blood, but how can I abandon them after what they have done for me? For us?”
His answer turned my blood to ice.
“Then you may be choosing death, sister. If that is so, I will die with you.”
Words only. I know that, but alone in my room they have come to life.
Le 14 mai 1759
They have slowly unloaded the supplies carried by the Chézine. 300 barrels of flour, 200 of salt pork, bales of blankets, rolls of fabric. And 4 muskets. Only 4! 145 barrels of brandy, of course, for Mme Claire says the officers cannot function without eau de vie.
Le 17 mai 1759
Nine more French ships have arrived. Perhaps France has not abandoned us after all. Of them, the Maréchal de Senneterre is the most spectacular. She carries 24 cannons, I have heard. Surely the British cannot possibly compete with our vessels.
I would ask Capitaine Guyot, but I am not certain I want his answer.
Le 20 mai 1759
We are to have an adventure, for Capitaine Guyot has extended an invitation to dine tonight with him and his officers upon his ship. I have once again been ordered to my room and my wardrobe.
Le 21 mai 1759
I have seen my first parrot and ruined my best gown. It was the parrot that ruined the gown, not me, and even Mme Claire can only be so cross with a parrot.
The dinner was an elegant one with a table set in what Capitaine Guyot called the great cabin. A servant stood behind each of our chairs, and with seven people dining it was a bit crowded. Much fuss was made of Mme Claire and me. She did look lovely in her blue silk gown. There are no women permitted aboard the ship as a rule, and so many curious glances — curious, but polite — came our way.
Capitaine Guyot began with an apology. He had been weary, he said, weary and under strain. He now insisted that of course France had not abandoned us at all. That the king and God would protect the people of this city. That with such wise and experienced men as Général Montcalm, Gouverneur Vaudreuil and Intendant Bigot — at that name he almost rolled his eyes — Québec was invincible. That said, conversation turned to other more cheerful matters.
We were introduced to M. Lavaseur, the ship’s pilot, and to M. Raymond, the ship’s physician. Marc and Louis — they are so friendly it seems odd to refer to them as officers — were there as well. They introduced me to the ship’s cat, Bernard, a huge sleepy creature stretched out in a square of sunlight.
It seemed that the ship’s cook had been in the employ of a country gentleman and when the capitaine discovered this, had kept him busy since. The meal the cook had prepared was a tasty dish of poached cod in a dill sauce, a sort of bread that Capitaine Guyot called toasted soft tack, and eggs with candied citron peel for dessert. Delicious!
Afterward, there was talk of France and of acquaintances common to both Mme Claire and Capitaine Guyot. M. Raymond gave his opinions on the best way to treat scurvy and M. Lavaseur assured us that the British were such pathetic sailors and navigators that they would never make their way up the river to Québec. Each of their ships would run aground and that would be that.
Louis asked to be excused for a moment and left the great cabin. Capitaine Guyot was assuring Mme Claire and me that more supply ships were due to arrive, when Louis returned. He was not alone. Upon his shoulder sat an enormous grey bird.
“You will restrain that thing, monsieur. Mind me now,” said the capitaine firmly.
Mais oui! Louis promised that the parrot, Pitou, would be on his best behaviour.
What could it possibly do? I wondered. It was just a bird, after all. The conversation turned back to navigation, when Pitou decided that he liked the look of my shoulder and so he hopped onto it. He would not hurt me, I was assured. Then Pitou spoke
to me. At length. And loudly. I have heard soldiers say such dreadful things, but never a bird.
Mme Claire’s hand flew to her mouth, the men gasped in horror and Capitaine Guyot roared that Louis must remove the parrot immediately. Pitou, alas, did not wish to be anywhere but my shoulder and so he dug in his claws and said something even more foul. When Louis and Marc pried his claws from my gown, apologizing, their faces red, I fear that Pitou lost control of himself. He left behind a large green-white blob that stank horribly. As Louis carried him from the cabin, Pitou was singing a song. I will not set down the subject of the song’s words here.
Later, when I told Étienne, he roared with laughter and said that it could have been more scandalous. “The parrot only gave you one verse of that song. I believe there are ten!”
Le 22 mai 1759
We baked today. Unlike many people in Québec who must rent an oven or use the public ovens, we have our own. Two, in fact. When the weather becomes warmer, Étienne will take apart the sheet-metal stove and set it up behind the house, but for now it is cool enough for us to bake using the brick oven.
Cook has a special wooden trough into which she put the flour and about three pints of warm ale, with yeast and salt to season it. She kneaded it well, covered it with a cloth and set it aside to rise. Later I shaped the dough into round loaves and used the flat wooden paddle to put them into the oven and to remove them when they were done.
The smell of fresh bread. What comfort there is in such a simple thing.
Le 23 mai 1759
Général Montcalm returned to the city last night, Étienne has told us. Étienne seems to hear news sooner than anyone else. I will admit that his sources are perhaps not always the most respectable. Étienne favours the taverns now and again. He says they are an excellent source of information.
They are also an excellent source of beer, I suspect.
Le 25 mai 1759
It is happening. Signal fires were lit at midnight last night to alert Québec that the British are coming up the river. Their ships are at St. Barnabé! It is so close.
There has been a meeting. All the capitaines of the merchant ships and the French naval ships were in attendance. The crews of these ships — 300 men — are now digging an entrenchment along the east bank of the St. Charles River. The soldiers will fight from their positions behind it. Other men have been sent out to Montréal and Trois Rivières to bring back the soldiers who wintered there.
I thank le bon Dieu that we will be so well equipped should the worst happen.
Le 26 mai 1759
People are beginning to leave the city, but Mme Claire refuses to leave our home, her faith being in the strength of our military and the town. Brigitte is gone, taken by her fiancé to his family’s farm up the river, he like many others having responded to Général Montcalm’s orders. Women, children and even farm animals are to be hidden away deep in the forest. Our sailors will pull up the buoys and navigation marks along the river and then put in false ones to confuse the enemy and cause their ships to run aground.
The enemy. I have never thought of a single human being in such terms before in all my life.
Le 27 mai 1759
What a fearful thing is being done! Five of the largest ships as well as three small ones are being converted into something Capitaine Guyot calls fire ships. He explained that they will be set afire when the moment is right, and they will be sailed into the British fleet so that their ships burn.
I can barely imagine the horror of this. It is not only the ships that will burn.
Le 30 mai 1759
I walked to the Haute-Ville this morning to take a note to Mère Esther from Mme Claire. She told me the contents, knowing my natural curiosity.
“I would like to visit with her tomorrow,” she explained. “To spend time with an old friend would cheer me, I think.”
I can recall how worried I felt as I walked up the hill. Worried for the possibility of war, but worried for Mme Claire who is so cheerful. That cheeriness is slipping away.
Le 31 mai 1759
We visited the monastery this afternoon, spending two hours with the good nuns during their recreation period. Mère Marie de la Nativité, being the Mother Superior, may receive visitors at other times — she must carry on the business of the monastery, after all. But apart from those duties, she and the nuns are cloistered, living under the strict rules of the Ursuline order, and so can see outsiders only at certain times.
It was a familiar scene. Groups of nuns sat here and there in the walled garden, or walked in pairs. There are forty-five women here. One would think that a convent is a serious place, and it often is, but not during recreation. Then it is the duty of the sisters to cheer each other in whatever way suits them best.
I had brought a tincture of mint I had made for Mère Angélique, who suffers from the toothache, and a large jug filled with willow-bark tea for those who have pains in their joints. Mère Jeryan and Mère Charlotte are surely both afflicted with this, although they do not complain.
“Le bon Dieu watches over us, Geneviève,” Mère Charlotte always says.
“There is nothing to fear from death,” Mère Jeryan always adds.
Mère Esther and Mme Claire discussed the possibility of war. There was nothing to be done, they both agreed. Nothing, except to pray for our own deliverance. And pray for the British.
“Yes,” said Mère Esther, speaking to me as she caught my expression. “You must pray for them and for the militia from the British colonies who will surely be with them. There is good in all people, Geneviève.”
I have thought about what Mère Esther has said. If there is good in the British and their allies, then why did they besiege and take Louisbourg? Why did they seize the farms of the Acadien people and send them into exile? And why do they think to attack Québec?
But I have prayed for them tonight. They are animals and know no better, I suppose.
Juin 1759
Le 1er juin 1759
I have learned the real reason for yesterday’s visit. Mme Claire wished to seek Mère Esther’s advice regarding me. They make me feel as though I am still a child at times, but still I am grateful for their love.
It was Chegual who began it, wanting me to go to the Abenaki encampment just beyond the city. He has taken to visiting our people each evening. There is sickness there, it seems. Not smallpox or ship’s fever or griping in the bowels. It seems that there are children in the camp and some have sore eyes and no surgeon in the city will help them.
Mme Claire told me the outcome of her discussion with Mère Esther. I am not to visit the Abenaki camp at night. Neither Mère Esther nor Mme Claire consider that to be appropriate. But I may go tomorrow during the afternoon if both Étienne and Chegual are with me. Then she grumbled, “For shame, that no one will minister to little children.”
Tard
At first I thought that I would not write of my visit to the encampment. It disturbed me so. But in the end I think it might help clear my mind.
At Chegual’s direction I dressed in my plainest, oldest clothing. We set out walking through the Basse-Ville and up the hill, I carrying a covered basket. Both he and Étienne carried muskets and had tomahawks and knives at their waists and sheathed knives hanging about their necks.
At first I thought little of that, but then it occurred to me that they seldom go about armed when around the house. Will there be danger? I wanted to know.
None, Chegual assured me. Not if he was with me.
“It is only that we will be in the presence of warriors and must appear to be warriors ourselves,” said Étienne. He made a horrible face. “Fearsome warriors.”
We left the city and set out northeast across the Heights of Abraham, across the open sunny fields toward the woods. It was cool within, since the leaves on the trees have not achieved their full growth, but the coolness was pleasant. If I had been alone, I surely would have been lost, but Chegual knew the way.
Then, there it was.
The Abenaki camp.
There were nearly a thousand Abenaki there and more people of other tribes camped in the woods. Some of the warriors had set up lean-tos of canvas to shelter their families, although I could not conceive of why a warrior would bring his women or children into the danger of war. When I said so to Chegual, he was silent a moment before he spoke.
“Because they do not wish to be separated from them, Geneviève,” he said gently. “Because they would rather die together than be apart.”
The people’s eyes followed us as we made our way through the camp. Some of the men were reclining before their lean-tos. Some were eating, others were cleaning their muskets or making ammunition with molds and bars of lead. When one of the young warriors called out to Chegual, my brother tossed an answer over his shoulder and the man laughed. So did Chegual and Étienne. I did not. I was not amused to hear him asking if I was for sale.
Then we stopped where a woman sat on a woven mat — an anhahkoganal, as we call it — made of cattail rushes. There were two children, a boy of perhaps twelve years and a girl who seemed a bit younger. The eyes of the girl were sore and crusted with matter.
“This is my sister. She is a healer,” Chegual explained. The woman’s husband was his friend, I learned, as I knelt on the mat and uncovered my basket. I took out a stoppered bottle and a soft cloth. I explained to the girl in Abenaki that it was but a wash of goldenseal roots, and that it would soothe and heal her eyes if she bathed them with it each morning and night. I watched as she did this for herself and smiled when she shyly thanked me. Then I went to three more families where I offered the bottles and cloths to those with sore eyes.
Now that I turn it all over in my thoughts, I know that it was not the simple way in which the people lived that disturbed me. Nor was it the sickness I had seen. It was that Chegual seemed so much a part of the encampment, so at home there, as did Étienne. I, who am Abenaki, did not. Even the way the Abenaki words sounded as they came from my lips was not quite right.
The Death of My Country Page 3