Blood Brothers in Louisbourg (6 page)

Chapter Ten

L
ike an owl Two-feathers sat on top of the leader's house and stared at the night. From this spot he had a good view of the harbour under the light of the moon. He understood now that the bluecoats did not use canoes on the sea. Ingeniously, their sea vessels used giant sheets of cloth that captured the wind. They let the wind do all the work!

He could see the silhouette of the whole of the village and a few figures moving around it. Fewer persons moved around at night, but there were always some. There were soldiers on patrol in pairs, and sentinels here and there. There were late-night revellers, staggering home from houses that appeared to be used for nothing but drinking. Some were fishermen, who lived outside the main gate and who had to make their way down the long path before they were let out. Some were traders, who slept outside the fortress. Some were Mi'kmaq, like the ones Two-feathers had met on his way. There were also some children, usually with their parents but sometimes not.

Occasionally some of the revellers would fall asleep along the path, which was not a good thing to do because the bluecoats would pick them up, drag them over to the fortress walls, throw them into dark holes inside, and not let them out for a day or two. And sometimes, if the revellers were making too much noise or fighting amongst themselves, the bluecoats would lock them up in wooden frames, trapping their necks and arms and forcing them to stand in a most uncomfortable position where everyone would see them and laugh at them. Two-feathers could not understand why the bluecoats encouraged everyone to drink so much in the first place, then punished them when they did.

In the early summer the windows of the houses began to open. Now he could search for his father in earnest, for he felt certain that, should he stand next to him, he would know him.

He made his way from roof to roof. Once inside a house, he pounced like a cat from windowsill to floor and stepped silently through the rooms, even though the sleeping rooms were anything but quiet. Some bluecoats made as much noise in sleep as they did awake, women as much as men. Some breathed with sounds like a crackling fire, or a sack of stones being dragged across a wooden floor or waves rolling up on the beach. Some whistled through their noses with sounds like baby birds in the nest or the piercing blasts made by blowing on a blade of grass between the thumbs. Some talked nonsense in their sleep, shouting out with voices full of pain and anxiety. Others shook their nightmares out with a great shaking of their beds and thumping on the floor. There was at least one snorer, nose-whistler, sleep-talker or bed-shaker in every room of two to ten sleeping bluecoats and some had more. This made Two-feathers' quest easier, although the noises were sometimes akin to the sounds he imagined evil spirits would make, and that was disturbing.

But his father was not easy to find. Night after night Two-feathers returned to the swamp disappointed. He was also growing lonely. It had been so long since he had been with his own people, and though he passed amongst people every night, it was as if he wasn't really there because he never spoke with anyone nor was seen by anyone. He was missing the warmth of friendship, although there wasn't anyone in the fortress he wished to befriend. Except one.

But he did not have to seek her at night. He merely had to hide in the little shed and wait for her to come out to water the flowers. It was not something he chose to do every day, because once he crawled inside and the sun came up, he was stuck there until the sun went down. And while no one ever came inside except to let the sheep in and out, and he could sleep there as comfortably as in his muskrat den, the summer sun could sometimes get hot without wind in the courtyard, and he had nothing to eat or drink all day. Still, it was a temptation he could not always resist. To gaze upon her, just a few feet away from him, was so pleasant. Then one day she came a lot closer than he ever expected.

The sheep had given birth. There were three new lambs in the shed. Since Two-feathers had visited before and offered words of congratulation, the sheep did not mind him. As the sun rose and warmed the walls of the shed he found a comfortable spot at the back and promptly fell asleep. His nightly travels and broken sleep had caught up with him. It was noon when he was wakened suddenly by steps inside the shed. Opening his eyes, he saw her standing above him, like a spirit on the air. She had come to see the lambs. Two-feathers lay still. He shut his eyes and concentrated upon invisibility. But she began to speak soft words to the newborns and his concentration was broken. Such a pleasant voice she had. Such a gentle soul. And there was her smell, a fragrance of flowers, floating on the air like thistledown. Still, she did not see him hidden in the hay and he might have avoided detection had she not stepped on his foot. But he pulled his foot away and the movement startled her. She jumped back and stared at the hay with horror, as if looking for a snake. He raised his head and stared at her calmly, the way he would stare to calm a startled deer, to keep her from being overcome by fear. She was struggling in the shed's darkness to see the whole of him. She didn't scream. Two-feathers rose to his feet and brushed the hay from his bare torso and limbs. They stared at each other for a moment without speaking. She was shorter, with unbelievably light skin and hair that looked so soft and golden compared to the black, oily curls that fell across his shoulders. Her eyes were blue, like his. He saw that she spied the turquoise pendant around his neck and was fascinated by it. She stared without a word. She wore a shy smile, made a slight bouncing movement with her hands on her rainbow garment, dropped her eyes and left the shed.

When darkness finally fell, Two-feathers couldn't get back to his den fast enough. He was dying of hunger and thirst. He would collect mussels from the beach, steam them in the fire and make a feast of them with fresh cranberries. He would collect water and make tea from the leaves of the bloodroot plant. And while he feasted he would offer prayers to the spirits. He wanted to ask their advice. He was smitten with the girl who dressed like the rainbow.

As smoke filtered through the boughs of his fire canopy Two-feathers offered up his prayers and his request. The smoke split into thin streams, each finding its way separately into the air, so that they could not be seen from a distance. The spirits answered Two-feathers in his dreams that night. They warned him to be careful. To desire anything too much was to invite suffering. The girl who dressed like the rainbow was not from his people. Yes, said Two-feathers, but she was from the same people as his father. Therefore they had something in common. All the same, answered the spirits, to want something so much was a sure way to pain. Two-feathers nodded to show his understanding but was glad the spirits had not forbidden him to seek her friendship. Perhaps he would feel pain. Perhaps he would feel happiness. In any case, he would like to have the chance to find out.

Chapter Eleven

T
he first time I saw him I thought I was dreaming. My watch post was on the King's bastion, the largest corner of the fortress wall, which jutted out like an arrowhead into the swamp. It was also the quietest corner of the wall, and though I was supposed to stand alert and keep my eyes peeled, I immediately sat down and nodded off to sleep. I only wished I could have read, but keeping a light on watch was punishable by a stint in the dungeon. The only thing I needed to stay alert for was when the patrol guards would pass. But I could hear them coming from a ways off and would jump to attention in time. It was awfully boring, but at least it was a peaceful spot and I was left alone and didn't have to march. The nights were even lovely sometimes because it was so quiet. Strangely, I often picked up the scent of roasting fish or meat from the swamp, as if someone was out there feasting. And then, I saw him.

He looked like a ghost at first. Like a shadow he ran along the ground, then disappeared. It was dark, but I had definitely seen something moving. Rising to my feet, I stared without blinking for the longest time, until my eyes watered. The ghost appeared again. He came through the swamp like a rat, sometimes running on the surface and sometimes underground. He would appear and disappear. I didn't see how that was possible. Lucky for me I didn't believe in ghosts. When he reached the wall I assumed he would go around it but he flew up it like it was nothing. I could hardly believe it. For one instant I saw his outline in the moonlight – a young Native, shirtless, with a bow on his back – then he disappeared inside the fortress.

I should have raised a call of alarm. I should have shouted out or shot my musket. That was my purpose for being there after all. On the other hand, he was a Native, and the Natives were our allies, although they were supposed to be let in and out through the gate just like everyone else. But there was something about him I liked – his magical stealth perhaps, or his confidence or maybe just his freedom. I wasn't sure what it was but it inspired me. I had no idea who he was or why he was sneaking into the fortress, and I didn't care. I liked it. And so I kept it a secret.

—

Towards the end of May, a few dozen French soldiers left Louisbourg in a small group of ships to attack a minor English fortress on the mainland. They didn't look much like an attacking force to me; half of the ships were fishing boats. But they left the harbour full of the spirit of war. My father was among them, and he was excited. I could see it in his face.

They returned a few days later with half a dozen English ships in tow. Not only had they taken the English fortress and their ships, but they took a hundred soldiers captive and brought them back to Louisbourg! As the prisoners were rowed to shore, one group at a time, I saw my father standing proudly with his pistol in hand, his other hand resting on the shoulder of an English officer.

The English soldiers didn't look like prisoners of war so much as a company of men who had lost at cards. And they were treated more or less like that. None of them was put in the dungeon. Instead, they were housed in the barracks and in a warehouse that was turned temporarily into a holding cell. Some were kept on the ships. They were given a daily ration of food and enough space to walk about. The highest-ranking officers were even allowed to walk freely about the town! This, I was told, was all consistent with the etiquette of war, glorious thing that it was.

The capture of the English fort lifted the spirits of the people of Louisbourg considerably, as did the capture of several English privateers at sea. For a while it seemed as though our forces could do no wrong. My father was overjoyed. But he had never read Boethius. The fortunes of life, Boethius had written over a thousand years earlier, spun around and around like a wheel. We should never feel too unhappy when things are bad, he said, because the wheel is always turning and they will eventually improve. Similarly, we ought never to get too comfortable when things are good, because the wheel will surely turn down again. I never bothered to mention this philosophy to my father. I didn't think he would have cared for it.

One person's spirits didn't lift much with the victory – the fortress priest. He was one of those people who always looked gloomy, and I avoided him as much as possible. But one day I happened to notice Celestine come out of the courtyard and turn into the chapel quickly, almost as if she were sneaking in, which made me curious, and I couldn't help but follow her. I pushed the door open, peeked inside, then slipped in and stood in the foyer, out of sight. She went up to the altar where the priest was tending the candles. I heard whispers. I should have minded my own business, I knew, but I couldn't seem to pull myself out the door. Celestine asked the priest a question, and her voice sounded so different. She sounded worried or conscience stricken. With me she was always light and happy. I couldn't help listening, even though I shouldn't have. I had to strain to hear and I felt like a criminal.

“Father?”

“Yes, my child.”

“Do the Natives have souls?”

The priest sighed like a squeezed bellows.

“Well, now, why would you ever want to know something like that? That is quite a difficult question, my child. I think you could think of the Natives as being like lost souls, that is, until they are brought into the faith. Then they become Christian and their souls are given to them. Then, yes, I suppose they do have souls, perhaps not quite like you and me, but souls all the same.”

“And before they come into the Church?”

“Well, no, I don't think so, not really. But that is our purpose here, you know, to spread the Catholic Church and save those who are lost.”

“I see.”

“But you needn't concern yourself with the spiritual plight of the Natives, my child. Our Saviour has far greater plans for you.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Let us pray. We will pray for the Natives, that they will find their souls.”

Someone else came into the chapel, so I darted into one corner and knelt down until Celestine left, then tried to sneak out, but the priest had eyes in the back of his head. “Master Lafayette, I am rather surprised to see
you
here. You have come for prayers, have you?”

“Uhhh … Hello, Father. I was just seeking a quiet moment for my thoughts.”

He nodded his head up and down, but I could tell he didn't believe me at all.

“Tell me, Jacques, do
you
believe the Natives have souls?”

“Yes, Father, I do. Absolutely.”

“
Do
you? Well, now, you and your father are a pair.”

“My father?”

“Yes, indeed. Perhaps a little warning is in order for you, Jacques. There are many temptations for a young man so far from home, many vices waiting to entrap you, body and soul. Walk the straight path, Jacques! Stay on the straight and narrow. And remember: the father's sins are visited upon the son.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I think you know what I'm getting at, Jacques. You're an educated young man.”

“But …”

He made an angry face. “Keep to your own kind.”

He turned from me and continued fiddling with the candles. I stared, confused. What did he mean exactly? I couldn't have cared less what he thought of me, but I wondered what he was getting at about my father. Was he suggesting that my father had something to do with the Natives? I wanted to laugh. He didn't know my father.