It makes me wonder who I am.
Le 2 juin 1759
I have heard at the market that our soldiers have taken a deserter, one from the colonies. He has been brought to the Dauphine Barracks, where he will be questioned. What sort of man abandons his own country and its cause?
Plus tard
I have spoken to the deserter. I suppose I should cross out that last, having written it in my excitement, but I want this journal to remain tidy, so there it stands. It is only a small exaggeration. I did not speak to the deserter, whose name is George. His last name is an unpronounceable English one. It was Étienne who talked with him as this George passed by the house.
“So now he will fight alongside those who were once his enemy,” Étienne told me, shaking his head. “What a thing that is, eh, Geneviève?”
What a thing indeed.
Le 3 juin 1759
Today is Sunday, and so we went to Mass at Notre-Dame-des-Victoires. Everyone knows that merchants and artisans may not sell their food or wares on the steps of Québec’s churches. But today, as we left the church, there was a boy standing on the steps holding a basket. In the basket was an eel. I knew exactly what would happen and I was not disappointed.
“Be gone!” called a passing soldier, a white-coated one, scolding that the boy knew the law. The boy ran off, but not before exchanging a wink with Cook. When we returned home the boy was waiting with his father at the kitchen door, their hats in their hands, a bucket of live eels at their feet. It may be against the law to sell eels at the church and perhaps it is a sin — a small sin — to purchase them on a Sunday, but still, Cook did so.
“It would be a worse sin to pass up such an opportunity,” she told me.
The tarte she made with them was delicious, so I agree.
Le 4 juin 1759
Manure.
It is difficult to avoid, since so many pigs wander the streets freely. Some landlords will not permit tenants to keep pigs or even chickens, but it does not seem to matter, since many people do as they wish. There are no fences and so the pigs come and go quite freely. These pigs may be caught and killed by anyone who wants to do so. We, of course, do not engage in such practices.
Yet, it was tempting this morning when I opened the front door, only to see a very large sow reclining at the foot of our steps. I flapped my apron at it. Still it lay there. I told it to go away. Nothing. Then I fetched a broom from the kitchen. By this time Étienne, who had been weeding in the herb garden, came around the corner of the house and stood leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
“Will you sweep it away, Geneviève?” he asked, stepping forward and giving the sow a very firm nudge with the toe of his moccasin.
She rose to her feet, gave Étienne an evil glare, and trotted off. But not before she left her foul-smelling visiting card. Étienne laughed so hard he wept, but he was finally able to control himself well enough to get a shovel.
“Merci, madame cochon!” he called after her. “You have contributed to the richness of Geneviève’s herb garden. Call upon us any time!”
I laughed at that. Étienne. He can always make me laugh.
Plus tard
Étienne has been called to duty with others of the militia. Chegual is going with him.
Le 5 juin 1759
I fear that I shamed myself when I bid them farewell, for I wept a little.
“Ah, Chegual,” said Étienne, “these are tears of joy! Tears of relief that she need no longer listen to us teasing her.” I laughed through my tears.
“It is only the British in their leaky ships,” Chegual said, adding that one might as well fight women.
“Unless they are ones such as your sister,” said Étienne, and I laughed again.
I watched them walk down the street, well armed, their muskets cradled in their arms. Étienne was singing “C’est le Général de Flip,” an old song that pays homage to the resistance of Québec when the town was under siege almost a century ago. When I went back into the house, my eyes were dry.
I have decided that the best way to keep from worrying until they return is to keep busy. Hopefully it will help, and I am grateful for Étienne’s words. But if the British ships leak, it cannot be much, since they have successfully crossed an ocean. And what does it matter how the British soldiers fight? A ball from a cannon or a musket does the same damage no matter who fires it.
Le 7 juin 1759
Our small herb garden is nearly the only one here in the Basse-Ville, since there is really no room at all for gardens. Mme owns a large garden plot at the edge of the Haute-Ville — her potager — land where our kitchen garden is planted. Turnips, peas, cabbages, beans, onions, beets, peppers, cucumbers, garlic and endive. She often sends me there for seasoning herbs as well, savory for her soups, chives and basil for the salads.
The garden here at the house though is a very different sort of thing, for it belonged to Mme Claire’s husband — may his soul rest in peace — so it is the garden of an apothecary with such healing herbs as elecampane, chamomile, chicory and angelica, soapwort, rhubarb, hops, valerian, mallow and comfrey. Each winter they sleep in their raised garden beds, covered in mulch, protected against the harsh weather, but now all are growing well. I use what grows here to make tinctures and salves for healing.
I have set out flower pots of lavender and feverfew on the windowsills. They are both beautiful and useful. I know I should be practical and think only of the good these herbs will do for those with headaches, but I cannot.
Somehow, these days, it seems so important to see beauty, given what is facing us.
Le 8 juin 1759
The hospital, the school, this house, Wigwedi. Such is the pattern of my days. There are fewer girls at the school now, since the parents of the pensionnaires have had them sent home. So many Québec families have left the town, taking their children with them. We have become a town of soldiers and militia.
Mme Claire will no more leave this house than the nuns will leave their convents. That I know.
Le 10 juin 1759
What joy!
Chegual and Étienne have returned, uninjured, and with four squirrels in their hunting bags, having the luck to spy the creatures as they went through the woods. Cook prepared a delicious stew with the meat, turnips and rice, all seasoned with fennel. Mme Claire would not let them tell a word of what happened until they had eaten. Then we sat in the kitchen — neither Étienne nor Chegual finding the other rooms suit them — and they began.
Some 16 lieues from Québec, the British ship called the Princess Amelia had anchored between Île aux Coudres and the shore. Our militia was to take prisoners, since some of the British were on the deserted island, all the people having fled. A group of men originally from Île aux Coudres went ashore and found two young British sailors riding an island horse. The fools were easily captured and brought back to the city, Étienne told us. I asked what would become of them.
Étienne only shrugged and laughed yet again, but I cannot chase his words from my mind: “What does it matter? Torture, death, prison? They are British, after all.”
Later Mme Claire knocked upon the door of my room. I could tell from her face that a lecture was coming. How correct I was: I am not to believe everything I hear about the British or their allies. Think of Mère Esther; think of her family, who surely are good people even if they are from the British colonies.
“You must judge each person one by one, Geneviève,” she went on.
How shall I judge Étienne for his cruel words? Perhaps it is best not to judge at all.
Le 11 juin 1759
Mme Claire and I walked to Hôtel-Dieu today with pea soup for the sick. Étienne had rented the dog cart for us so as to make the work easier. I have become reasonably skilled at handling La Bave.
We saw the prisoners being marched down our street. They are only boys, younger than myself, what it seems the British call midshipmen. Young gentlemen officers. They did not resemble anything like
gentlemen or officers, but rather frightened boys.
I think perhaps Mère Esther’s advice is correct. I will pray for them.
What sort of war will this be if it comes here?
Pendant la nuit
I have argued with Chegual. Or he with me. I cannot say who shouted the loudest. I should feel ashamed of my behaviour, but he demands too much.
Plus tard
Better. We have spoken — spoken, not shouted — and my brother is resigned to the fact that I wish to remain here. We all make choices, I said to him. “Do you think I want you to fight the British?” I asked him. “I know you must, so I do not ask you to do otherwise and shame yourself.” He nodded at that
But I know my brother. He has not finished with this yet.
Le 12 juin 1759
We walked to the meadow in the Heights today to gather up as much grass as possible so that I may dry it for food for Wigwedi. Our neighbour, Mme Volant, says that grass is the best food for rabbits. She knows this since she kept rabbits once. She still has a great fondness for them. With Étienne’s help I was able to fill the dog cart.
Now the grass is drying in the sun and Étienne is also drying in the sun, having become soaked with sweat from the work. He did it all — scything the grass, bundling it. He would hear nothing of me even lifting a finger.
A single thing spoiled the afternoon once we were back at the house.
“You must be warm in those sleeves, Geneviève,” he said at one point. Surely it would be permissible to untie the ribbons and go without my sleeves on such a hot day — who would see, here at the back of the house? I could roll the sleeves of my chemise as well.
Étienne is very forward. I could not control my blushes or my face. He is my friend and I know he did not mean to hurt me. Yet he did.
Le 13 juin 1759
Étienne has apologized. He did not know about my arms and why I would not go out in public with them bared. It seems he was unaware of my tattoos, which of course all Abenaki girls have. Perhaps he thought that since I was taken so young, I had none — not like other Abenaki girls my age, who would have their faces and legs marked by now, as well. I explained to him that only my arms have been tattooed with my totem, so that it is always with me. Holding my head high, I told him not to misunderstand — I am not ashamed of how I look or what I am. Rather, I am proud of it. I just do not like being the object of anyone’s staring.
Étienne laughed at that and then said, “They stare often, I would suppose.”
Yes, I admitted and I shrugged. I am different from other girls. I cannot help that.
He stopped laughing and I cannot say I entirely understood what he said next. “It is the difference at which they stare, Geneviève, but not in the way you seem to think.”
Étienne. Bold and confusing.
Le 14 juin 1759
Poor Mme Delisle. She was very old, but still it is sad that she died in the night, mercifully passing away in her sleep. And just now I have learned that Mme Chesne, the midwife, attended the birth of Mme Thibodaux’s baby daughter.
Life and death all in one day.
Plus tard
We went to the Abenaki camp this afternoon so I could see if my medicines had been of help. They had. One woman asked if I would accept a simple gift, and she put a bundle into my hands saying, “You are one of us.”
It was Abenaki clothing. A plain linen shirt, woollen leggings, moccasins and a skirt.
When I returned home, I put it all on. How strange — and wonderful — it felt. It was almost as though I had returned to another time. My brother said that the clothing suited me. That it brought our mother to mind since I so resemble her. I let down my hair and stared at myself in the mirror. Was this how she would have looked? How I wish I could remember her face.
My mother always said that it does not matter what you look like on the outside. It only matters what you are on the inside. If I could see within myself, what would I find?
Le 15 juin 1759
Chegual and Étienne are gone yet again.
They did not offer to tell me where, or what they will be doing; perhaps that is just as well, for it would make me worry more. I made them swear to watch out for each other and to take great care. Chegual assured me that his skills as a warrior would serve him well and that he would guard Étienne, who is easily frightened.
Étienne, who normally would have also been teasing, only bowed to me. “No harm will come to your brother, Geneviève,” he said solemnly.
Somehow that worried me more.
Le 17 juin 1759
What a glorious day for us! Our soldiers have captured a British ship!
We had heard muskets firing in the morning. Mme Claire and I went to the fourth floor and took turns peering through the telescope toward Île d’Orleans, but nothing could be seen but white smoke.
This evening we will go down to view the vessel.
Pendant la nuit
There is no ship, only a boat called a cutter from the warship the HMS Squirrel. What an odd name for a ship. Who but the British would name a ship after a rodent?
There are more prisoners, this time eight odd-looking men who were paraded through the streets under guard. They all had very long braids, some reaching nearly to the men’s waists. And earrings!
Perhaps the British do fight like women.
Le 20 juin 1759
I have tried to imagine myself as a soldier. Could I ever kill anyone, even in my own defence?
Le 21 juin 1759
Chegual and Étienne. I am not certain when they will return, and so I lock the thoughts of them away, struggling against my fears. Fear, Mère Esther says, is sometimes a hard-fought battle, but like any battle, it can be won. I know nothing of battles, but I do know that today my bravery was sorely tried.
I worked at Hôtel-Dieu, as I do some afternoons, bathing the faces of the ill and holding the bowl for one of the surgeons, M. Laparre. I fear that I do not care much for him.
It is his eyes. They are so cold.
Mère Esther has often said that a person cannot like everyone, but that all should be loved as they are loved in the sight of God. I suppose that is true, but Mère Esther has never had to stand so close to M. Laparre and see the way those eyes of his shine when the blood begins to flow.
He had decided against leeches and had just opened the vein in Mme Joule’s arm. The bowl — M. Laparre insists upon a deep bowl — was beginning to fill, when suddenly Jacques, the apothecary’s boy, burst into the room, shouted and ran out again.
When I heard his words my own blood ran as cold as river water. Mme Joule cried out and her arm jerked wildly, hitting the bowl hard. Her blood splashed out across the bed in a red fan.
“You careless girl!” shouted M. Laparre as he jumped back in vain. He went on about what I had done to his stockings, to his shoes and waistcoat! “What will I do without this waistcoat?” he raved. “It is my best.” It seemed that his patients expected him to wear it. “It is a sign of my office, you stupid indienne!” he hissed.
His waistcoat? I had to fight to keep my voice even, battling my icy fear and the sudden colder anger that was beginning inside me. Did he not hear what Jacques had said? Surely he did.
What sort of sign will your precious waistcoat be against the British, M. Laparre? I wanted to shout back at him. Their warships have arrived and are up river.
Le 22 juin 1759
It is amazing how gossip runs through this town. It appears that Mme Joule sent a note to Mère Esther, who sent a note to Mme Claire, who in turn sent a note to M. Laparre, who has just now left our house having apologized to me.
It was a difficult apology to accept.
I am not stupid, so that insult meant little, but to have heard the word indienne come from his lips as though he were spitting out something distasteful? I accepted his apology. I will not forget what he said, though.
Le 23 juin 1759
I cannot help but imagine that the British will be filled
with despair when they see the defences that they will meet. The town itself with its bastions and wall, the entrenchments along the river, with their redoubts and batteries, the camps of our brave soldiers.
Cook says the knocking together of British knees will be glorious.
Le 24 juin 1759
It was a horribly hot day with a fierce, blistering wind. Too hot to write.
Le 26 juin 1759
A dreadful storm in the night with much lightning and thunder that woke me many —
Plus tard
I heard shouting in the streets and the sound of the door being flung open. It was Chegual and Étienne and my relief was so great I could have wept. But then Étienne shouted that there were ships — British ships — sailing toward the town. Mme Claire, knowing my mind, immediately forbade me to leave the house and join the crowd of people who were hurrying to the river.
I raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time until I was on the fourth floor. By the time Mme Claire was in the room with me, my eye was at the large telescope.
I think I have never felt such dread in all my life. The British navy is here.
Le 27 juin 1759
I have counted them for myself. There are thirty-eight ships anchored off the south end of Île d’Orleans. All day today their boats went back and forth taking British soldiers ashore.
With the big telescope, I saw a party of men walk out of the forest and stand staring at our entrenchments, observing them with spyglasses. They were too far away for me to make out their faces clearly.
Then the strangest thing happened. One of the soldiers — a slight, red-headed man in the uniform of an officer — turned and looked toward Québec, his head raised and his hands on his hips. It gave me such a shock, for it seemed as though he looked right at me.
I know he could not see me, but still. I have looked upon a British officer and I sensed no sign of fear in him at all.
The Death of My Country Page 4