Buried Secrets at Louisbourg (9 page)

“The devil?” Mai said softly,
she and Grace leaning forward in unison.

Fred nodded. Feeling a breeze graze the back of his neck, his eyes were instinctively drawn to the sea. One of the tall ships eased by, members of its crew hanging from the rigging. The wind filled and billowed the untied sails with a series of loud snaps. Barked orders had the hands scurrying. The ship swayed in the white-capped waves.

Was it like that on
Le Chameau
? Fred imagined he could feel the deck tilt beneath his feet as he returned to his tale. He glanced down at the papers to find his spot. He continued with the story, in Claude's own words.

I had snuck up on deck as I often did late at night, my only opportunity to breathe in the fresh air and walk about freely. Monsieur Fornac was there, as usual, clutching his
satchel to his chest. The man never slept.

From Claude's description in other pages he'd read, Fred could picture the round, bald man with the big mustache, always with a sheen of sweat on his forehead and darting, panicked eyes as clearly as if he was standing beside him. He continued:

I had been ordered to remain out of sight, to not draw attention to myself. I was not supposed to be there, you see, a lad of ten travelling on his own. But it was suffocating below decks, and the rocking waves caused my insides to churn. If I'd not had some respite, I would have gone mad.

“My boy, you should come work for me in Québec,” Monsieur Fornac offered. “I can tell you are a trustworthy lad, and my instincts also tell me you have no fear of hard work.”

“Thank you, sir,” I replied. “But I journey to my father.” Monsieur Fornac knew this, as the conversation was not our first on the matter.

“Ah, yes, of course,” Monsieur Fornac said. He stared off to the sea. “I have no family of my own, you know. It would be welcome to have an honest sort in my confidence.” His voice was gruff.

We both strolled along the deck. I listened with rapt attention as Monsieur Fornac described the settlement of Québec and what I could expect there. Visions of a vibrant and exciting life at my father's side filled my head. He had an important and powerful post there.

I noticed the walking had become more difficult and I found myself struggling to maintain an even footing. Monsieur Fornac stumbled and grasped his satchel tighter. I reached out to steady him as he slid to the railing.

Monsieur Fornac peered nervously at the water. “We're in for some weather, it seems.” He laughed. But there was an edge to it. Not a brave laugh. More like the kind of laugh one uses to make oneself brave.

It was now well after midnight. We lost the moon and the sea began to froth. “I can feel it,” I said, lifting my face. “The wind, it is different.”

“Yes, it comes from the north. The sea has mischief on her mind,” Monsieur Fornac agreed. “I believe she means to have fun with us tonight. We should return below.”

“Not yet,” I said. Bad weather or not, the air was still sweet, a welcome change from the stale stench of slightly rotten food and sweat that waited below.

“Take great care,” Monsieur Fornac warned. “I have travelled this voyage many times. This is not a night for stargazing.” His hand swept an arc at the now starless sky. “Indeed, it is a night for nothing but hope to get through it.”

Monsieur Fornac paused as he was about to leave the deck, casting a sorrowful look in my direction, as if convinced it was the last time he would ever lay eyes on me. One last shake of his head and he was gone.

The ship pitched and rolled. Icy ocean water slapped my face. I braced against the rolling deck, clinging to the ropes. Fear had not yet found me. Quite the opposite. I was exhilarated. I was a fool.

A sound like thunder erupted and a great shudder rippled through the ship as it came to a sudden stop. Cargo toppled from the deck over the side. But then, just as quickly, we were free of whatever had taken hold of us and were tossed about the waves once more.

Shouts and cries were snatched by the wind. All but one.

“The ship is taking on water!”

Monsieur Fornac reappeared at my side, his bulging satchel tight in his grasp.

“My boy, she's doomed. We must abandon ship, before she is dashed on the rocks,” he cried.

“Jump into the sea? We will surely drown!”

“No, boy. See there? A boat has been ripped from the ship's moorings. But it will be lost to us if we do not act now.”

Sure enough, a small boat bobbed in the waves next to the ship.

“What of the others?” I cried. Strangely, we were still alone on this section of the deck, although shouts came from all around us. “And my things…”

“There are other boats,” Monsieur Fornac said. “And what worry of things, when our lives are at stake! Come now, before it is too late.” He proceeded to climb over the side, tipping dangerously. He grasped my arm, and I was pulled with him.

Over the side.

We tumbled into the churning water. Nothing prepared me for the frigid iciness. Pain pierced my skin as if I was being attacked with swords. Waves crashed over my head and I was under water.

The small boat crashed into me, and I latched onto the side before it was again ripped away. I dragged myself on board, shivering and gasping for breath. It was empty.

Where was Monsieur Fornac?

Through the rain, I could see the outline of the flailing ship. Another thunderous roar bellowed through the storm as it was tossed once more upon the rocks. The mast listed wildly as the ship appeared to stagger backward, like a drunkard, its sails dipping dangerously into the waves.

Monsieur Fornac was right, the ship was doomed.

“Claude, my boy,” a raspy voice called. I scanned the rough water. A pale face. An outstretched hand.

I grasped Monsieur Fornac's hand and pulled. I pitched forward, almost falling into the water. He was too heavy. “Use your other hand!” I cried. “I cannot pull you in.”

“My satchel,” he replied. “I cannot lift it from my side.”

“Let it go!”

“I cannot. It holds my fortune. I will be destitute.”

“You will be dead!” His hand slipped slightly from mine. “I cannot hold you. You must give me your other hand!”

“I've enjoyed our talks. You are a fine young man and your father is lucky to have you as a son.” Monsieur Fornac squeezed my hand, then pulled his from my grasp.

“No,” I cried. “What are you doing?” I lurched forward, almost capsizing.

His gaze held mine as his other arm sank beneath the water. Groaning with effort, his head thrown back, he heaved the satchel with both hands up from its watery hold. I fell back, out of the way. It crashed to the deck, splitting open, its secret contents finally exposed.

Jewels of all colours poured out at my feet, a carpet of riches.

“A king's ransom,” I breathed. I looked up with a smile for Monsieur Fornac. But all that greeted me was an empty ocean.

“Monsieur Fornac?” I called

It was the sea that answered, tossing a momentous wave upon me. And my world turned upside down.

“So, Monsieur Fornac…he died?”
Mai
whispered.

Fred blinked at the sound of her voice, the spell broken. “Yeah.”

“The jewels,” Grace said. “Is that what you think is in that box?”

Fred nodded. “Claude talks of how the big wave washed most of the jewels overboard, but lots remained wedged in the boat. That's a whole other story. He—”

“Lost?” Grace cried. “Really?” She leapt to the top of the wall, pointing out to the sea. “Then they're still out there?”

Fred shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Why are you wasting your time on a few that might be in a tiny box if there's a whole pile of jewels out there just waiting to be found? We could get a boat and diving gear and—”

Fred shook his head. “It's not that simple.”

“Why not? How hard can it be? We're fossil hunters, after all.”

“I read up on
Le Chameau
and the treasure. There were tons of people looking for it. It had been carrying the money for a whole year of France's expenses for their settlement in Quebec, so it was big! Way bigger than a sack full of jewels. But they searched and searched and couldn't find it.”

“So those jewels weren't the real treasure?” Mai said.

“Nope. No one even knew about Fornac's jewels. The treasure from
Le Chameau
was lost for over two hundred years until it was finally discovered in the 1960s. And even then, it took them months of tracing the debris on the ocean floor to find it.” Fred didn't add that he'd already been thinking about what may be at the bottom of the sea…and every possible way to get it.

“But—”

Fred held up his hand. One thing he had heard over and over from his father was how hard treasure hunting was. “Grace, the water is freezing cold, and really deep with wicked currents. Wrecks get scattered for miles, and—”

“Okay, okay,” Grace griped. “I get it.” She plunked down on the wall, legs dangling.

KAABOOOMM!!!

Fred ducked.

“It's just the cannon,” Mai said.

Geez, why am I so jumpy? The cannon goes off a gazillion times a day. I should be used to it
. “Must be all the psychos around here,” Fred said. “Between that nutty soldier Gerard and wacko pirate guy, it's crazytown. And they're all after me.”

“Paranoid much?” Grace said.

He scowled back at her.

“All right you two, cool it,” Mai said. She stood, brushing grass from her dress. “So. Fill us in on the rest. How did the jewels get from the boat to underground at the fortress?”

“As entertaining as the history lesson is, can we skip Claude's life story for now?” asked Grace.

Fred's fingers clutched the parchment pages. Grace was right, they didn't have time for it. “I guess it doesn't matter much, does it? And none of it means anything if I don't get the box back.” His guts clenched at the thought.

A strong gust of wind whipped around them, almost snatching his treasured papers from his hand.

“The weather's weird today, isn't it?” Mai said. “Hope it's not
Le Chameau
weather.”

The waves were even choppier now, the peaks like snow-frosted mountains. Dark clouds were again gathering on the horizon. Fred shrugged, trying to brush off a growing feeling of dread.

“Well, we can't do anything without the box,” he said. “We've got to find Lester's campsite.”

Neither Grace nor Mai looked thrilled at the prospect.

“You don't have to come with me,” he said.

“Yeah, like that's going to happen,” Grace said with a grimace. “We stick together and that's that.”

Mai nodded.

“But we should wait for Jeeter,” Grace added. “He likely won't be gone much longer.”

Fred shook his head. “Wasted enough time already. He'll find us.”
The longer he stays away the better,
he added silently. Fred carefully refolded the parchments, returned them to the waterproof zip-lock, and tucked them back into his waistband. He patted them protectively as he gazed up toward the King's Bastion. The hill was dotted with campsites. “Let's go,” he said.

As they crossed the quay, dirt and rocks were being tossed around by the now steady wind. A baseball hat rolled by, chased by a balding tourist. Grace and Mai held down their skirts.

The restaurant was packed, with a line of people outside waiting for seats. His mother was taking orders as they walked by. She glanced up, saw them and waved. Fred waved back. She looked tired.
This is the last day you'll have to work!
he promised silently.

They continued walking. The street ended.

“I'm not crawling back into those weeds!” Grace said, pointing to the swaying, white-topped field of plants.

“Me neither,” Mai said. She struggled to smooth her long hair. “Give me a sec, I've got to braid this before I lose an eye! I wish I had my backpack. I need an elastic.”

“Do mine, too?” Grace said, tugging on her long ponytail.

Their voices faded as Fred surveyed the hillside. There were dozens and dozens of campsites. They all looked the same. The people were thick as ants on an anthill. How would they ever find Lester? If he was even still here. No! He was here. He had to be.

A wave of helplessness washed over him. His head felt like it was stuck in a helmet two sizes too small, his forehead pulsing. He wanted to scream and hit something. Instead, he closed his eyes and held a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
Think!

Okay, they didn't have to check
every
site. There probably wouldn't be any kids or really old people with Lester. That had to eliminate more than half the sites right off the bat. He'd never seen so many white heads in one place before.

And likely no women either. That was kind of a big assumption to make, but they had to start somewhere. Fred figured since Lester wasn't a real re-enactor, his site would be bare, with no display stuff around it.

He opened his eyes and re-surveyed the same scene with those filters. Almost every site was elaborately set up, with a firepit and some kind of display of old-fashioned things—clothes hanging and barrels and stuff. And many also had old people doing some kind of activity, cooking or whatever.

A few sites were almost empty, with just a tent and no one around them. They'd start with those.

Another strong gust of wind whistled past. Fred glanced up, shocked to see that the boiling clouds had filled the sky and were now directly overhead. A fat raindrop landed on his cheek.

“C'mon,” he said, waving them forward, his eyes fixed on the first target. Somewhere out there his box was waiting for him.