Buried Secrets at Louisbourg (11 page)

Grace poked her face inside
the tent. Her hair was plastered to her head and water was streaming down her face. “Uh, a little wet out here.”

“Come in,” Mai said. Her voice was shaking and she was gripping Fred's hand tighter.

Grace looked from Mai to Fred, to their still-clasped hands, and back to Mai. “No, that's okay. I'm going over to Jeeter's. He's got food. Want anything?”

Fred shook his head and Grace was gone again. He stood up and looked outside. People were running toward buildings, holding backpacks and purses over their heads. The few who had umbrellas were walking awkwardly, trying to hold onto them in the wind gusts. A flash of lightning zigzagged across the sky, followed by another crash of thunder. That got the umbrella-holders hustling faster for cover, too.

Mai murmured, “One one thousand, two one—”

Another flash of forked lightning hit somewhere up to their left. “Wow, it's pretty wild out there!” Fred said.

“Are we safe?”

“We should be.”

“But aren't these poles made of metal?” Mai pointed at the ceiling.

Fred followed her gaze. A shiver of alarm ran up his spine. A TV show he'd seen recently popped into his head. Lightning had struck tents in a campground in Ontario. One man had died and a bunch had been injured. He imagined what it must feel like to have that much energy frying your insides, and shuddered.

“Maybe you're right.” He went over and shook his mom's arm gently. She didn't stir. “Mom, wake up.”

She was sleeping like the dead. And no way was he leaving her alone. That storm had been far away, he reasoned. It had likely been way worse than this one. They even got tornadoes up there in Ontario. He flinched at another crack of thunder. And what were the odds of the same thing happening again? They'd be fine, right?

He and Mai huddled inside the tent, watching the sheets of rain bounce off the gravel. Gusts of wind buffeted the tent and the rusty poles shook. Leaks sprung in the canvas. Another crack of thunder echoed like a cannon shot. His mother didn't wake up.

“Your mom must be really tired,” Mai said.

“She's still so wiped from having pneumonia,” Fred said. “And with her treatments starting, she needs to build up her strength. That's what burns me. She should be home, not here.”

“It'll work out.”

“It will when I get my box back. Then we'll have enough money and Mom can stay home. It won't matter about not having sick days or insurance then.”

Mai bit her lip. “But…if you find it. And you open it. And it really is some kind of treasure. You can't keep it. You'll get in trouble—for stealing.”

“
Stealing?
What are you talking about?” Fred said. His voice got louder. Did saying it louder make it true? “I read you the journal. Those jewels belong to my family.”

His mother moaned and rolled onto her side. Fred knelt beside her and touched her arm. “Mom?”

Her breathing immediately returned to a deep rhythm. She was still asleep. A new leak in the tent began dripping water close to her face. He grabbed a pot from the cooking supplies and put it underneath.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He sat back on his haunches, watching her sleep. The dark, purplish bruises under her eyes looked like smudged chalk. He wished they were chalk and then he could erase them away. But it wasn't as easy as that. Nothing was.

“Fred,” Mai said, “don't get mad. I'm only worried about you. I mean, it's the government. They own this place, and everything in it…and under it. I don't think they'd be convinced by some old journal. And besides, what you read to us proves they
weren't
his jewels.”

“Fornac gave them to Claude!”

“Well…” Mai hedged.

“Anyway, who's going to know?” Fred asked. “Are you going to tell?” He tilted his head to look at her.

Mai held his gaze. “No,” she said softly. “Of course not. But I've got to—”

“Hey,” Grace said, reappearing at the tent opening. “Sorry to interrupt. I need to change. I'm soaked.”

Fred held a finger to his lips and pointed at his mother.

“Oops, sorry,” she said as she stooped low and slipped inside.

“You aren't interrupting,” Mai said.

Not interrupting? He'd been spilling his guts. Private stuff. How was that not interrupting? Fred clenched his teeth.

Mai stuck her head outside. “I see blue sky.”

Fred opened the flap further. Sure enough, the rain was easing off and there were splotches of blue sky farther out over the harbour. “Just a thundershower,” he said, relieved. But he noticed there were more dark clouds off in the distance.

With the wind dying down, the tall ships were almost still on the already calmer water. Which one of them had his dad been talking about? The one they were going on tonight?

His dad's conversation from last night with Lester replayed in his head. It was weird. But his dad had said something about “invictum.” Could that be the name of a ship or something? It sounded familiar, like he'd heard the name somewhere else. No, that wasn't right. Not heard. Maybe read it?

He shook his head, hoping it would rattle the scattered pieces into place. The brochures about the fortress. Where were they? He slipped out of Mai and Grace's tent and entered his own. Everything was still piled high. A Mount Everest of junk. He dug through and found his duffle bag. He pulled the clothes out, and there, crumpled in the bottom, were a handful of coloured pamphlets.

He flipped open the one on the grand encampment. Inside was a list of activities. He scanned it. “Tour a tall ship.” That was it! He read the description:

Take a sail and experience the high seas of the 1700s. The
Invictum
is a replica of a ship that sailed in 1758. Sunset cruise Saturday at 6 p.m.

That was tonight. Murmured voices were coming from the other tent. His mom must be awake, finally. He was folding the brochure when he noticed another activity listed. A late-night lantern tour of the fortress. There were also workshops on baking bread and blacksmithing. The forge! The fires were made to melt metal. Why hadn't he thought of that before? That's how he could get into the box. His heartbeat quickened.

Inside the tent, his mother was sitting up, talking with Mai. She still looked pasty, but her eyes were bright. She smiled up at him.

“You're feeling better?” he asked.

She nodded slowly. “Definitely. One hundred percent better!”

“Do you want me to find Dad so he can take you home?”

“Take me home?”

“Mom, you're not going back to work. You have to go home!”

His mom smoothed out her hair and adjusted her bonnet. “I can't do that.” She held her hand out and automatically Fred reached over and grabbed it, hauling her to her feet. She swayed slightly and gripped his arm.

“Mom.”

“It'll be fine. I was just doing too much.”

“You should—”

She patted his hand. “Don't worry about me.”

Fred grunted. She wasn't fine. Not by a long shot. But what could he do? Until he had the jewels in his hands, there was no way for him to help.

“Although, now that you mention it, maybe you could do something for me,” his mom said.

Well, he could at least walk her back over to work. “No problem,” he said, ready to escort her from the tent.

She smiled. “You can help me in the restaurant since you're in costume. Carry the trays, clean a few tables. That's what was too much for me, carrying those heavy trays. It'll be fun.”

Fred gulped. “Work in the restaurant?”

“This is wonderful,” she beamed. “Things happen for a reason.”

Fred opened his mouth to protest. But how could he refuse? She needed him. He was trapped.

“Can you clear table five?”
his mother said as she passed by him. He was already clearing from a family of eight whose kids must have been farm animals in disguise.
Did they eat anything?
he wondered, disgusted. He pulled a spoon covered in sticky apple tart goop from the tablecloth and tossed it onto the tray, then bent to scrape up a piece of meat pie that had been smeared into the wooden floor. There seemed to be more food on the table and floor than had been delivered. Kids were pigs.

“I'll get it,” Mai said. She delivered a tray of food to a waiting table and continued to the recently vacated one.

There was a lineup at the door and past the window. People were glaring at him. “Hurry up!” their eyes said.

The afternoon had been a sweaty blur. His arms and back ached. And his feet were throbbing. The stupid wooden shoes were killing him! And the wool pants were torture, making him itch in places he couldn't scratch in public. Sweat dripped from his forehead and down his back. It streamed from under his arms, between his legs, and leaked between his toes. He was one big sponge being squeezed of every last drop of water.

“We're out of linens,” his mom said. There was no gratitude in her eyes for him. She, too, was trapped in the sweaty horror that was the restaurant. They were all in survival mode. “Can you take over the dirty ones and get a fresh batch from Jeanette?”

Grateful for the chance to get outside for even a minute, Fred nodded. He cleared the rest of the table and reset it, then dropped off the tray in the kitchen. The dishwasher and cook barely glanced up, their hair matted to their foreheads under their caps, faces bright red and glistening. No one was having fun today.

“Linen?” he asked.

The guy closest to him swung his arm behind him, a vague gesture to the corner. Fred grabbed the stuffed bag, heaved it over his shoulder, and headed out the back door, stopping for a second in front of the one and only fan.

“Hey, you're blocking the air!” came an instant protest.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Outside wasn't much better. Maybe worse. It was as if the entire fortress had been shoved under a heat lamp. Not a breath of wind stirred. Waves of heat radiated up from the ground.

The harbour was still, the ships perfectly reflected in the water. Part of Fred's brain registered it. Thought it would make a great photograph. Then it was taken over by a dream of jumping into the cool water, and sticking his head under, and swimming along the bottom like Aquaman. He could swim all the way to the North Pole. Sit on an iceberg.

Another drop of sweat dripped into his eye, burning. The fantasy ruined, he was back in the oven. He trudged over to the neighbouring building and yanked open the back door. “Hey, Jeanette,” he said, dumping the bag onto the floor. “Clean ones?”

“There,” she said, gesturing to a neatly folded stack of white tablecloths and napkins. “It's a scorcher, isn't it!” She wiped her sleeve across her forehead. “Someone said it's over forty with the humidity.”

“Wicked,” he agreed.

He'd already been to the laundry earlier. Tall and pretty Jeanette was really nice to him.

“Got something for you,” she said, beckoning him over. She disappeared through a side door and reappeared with her hands behind her back. “Don't tell anyone.”

She held up two cans of pop. Fred blinked, reaching out to take one. The can was icy cold. He held it to his forehead. “Ahhh,” he sighed, rolling it down the side of his face. He popped the tab and took a long, deep drink. The cola bubbles fizzed inside his mouth.

“How's that?” Jeanette said, her own head tilted back to take a drink.

He chugged the remainder of the can, his eyes watering. “Awesome!” he gasped.

BBRRAAAWWP!

Jeanette laughed at his belch. “Sure hits the spot, doesn't it?”

He nodded.

She brushed her hair from her face and drained her can, too. “Here, give me the evidence.” She took the cans and put them back in the cooler, covered it, and shut the door. “What they don't know won't hurt them.” She winked at him.

He laughed and picked up the stack of linen. “Later,” he called over his shoulder.

Back at the restaurant, he dumped the clean stack in the kitchen, grabbed a tray, and headed into the dining room. It was even busier than when he'd left. Mai was clearing a table near the front door, saw him looking her way, and smiled. She was the only one in here who didn't look like she'd been dunked in a steam bath.

Grace and Jeeter were off somewhere. A flash of resentment washed over him. Wherever they were, it had to be better than here. It definitely had to be cooler. He couldn't blame them, he supposed. If it hadn't been his mother who had asked, would he be in this inferno? Not a chance.

And where was his dad? He hadn't seen him since the chapel. What time was it, anyway? Not wearing a watch was driving him crazy. No wristwatches back in the 1700s, so it couldn't be part of the costume. It was easy to lose track of time. Which usually meant it passed by fast.

But today, he was so miserable and uncomfortable that the time had dragged. Even though he'd been “busier than a one-armed paper hanger,” as his grandfather used to say. He'd been forced to ask diners for the time now and then to keep track. Even now, a tourist at the front of the line was pointedly looking at his watch and at the empty table Mai was clearing.

Fred strode over to him and smiled. “We'll get you a seat in just a minute, sir.”

The man's face softened slightly. “Thank you.”

“Could you tell me the time?”

“Half past five.”

Oh no! The restaurant was full. Empty tables were piled high with dirty dishes. The tour was at six o'clock! He'd told Grace about the tour before coming to the restaurant, so she and Jeeter were likely already waiting there. He gazed out the window at the harbour. The sun was lower now, the shadows a bit longer. Ships waited, as if holding their breath, on the still water. One of them was the
Invictum
. He had to get on that boat.

But it may as well have been a million miles away.