The Meeting Place (12 page)
Andrew reined in his horse near the crest of the ridge. His steed halted gratefully and stood blowing great plumes of white so thick they looked like froth from the sea. He slid from the horse's back, flipped the reins around a tree limb, and waited for the others to move up.
This time there were only four in his patrol, all mounted. He had selected the best of the new recruits who had arrived that previous June. He could now trust these men in particular to move with stealth and react to his hand signals as readily as they once would have obeyed the sergeant major's bellows. Without being told, they tied their horses where the trees would mask them, then unstrapped their muskets and moved at a crouch up to where he waited.
The garrison contained only sufficient horses for the officers and a select group known as outriders. These men were intended to function as scouts and messengers, roles with prestige and the promise of swift advancement through the ranks. This was their first foray with the commandant, and the sense of new pride shone from four earnest faces.
Carefully Andrew moved from tree to tree, showing through example how they should use whatever cover winter provided when approaching exposed space. The closer they came to the knoll, the lower he crouched, until he moved onto the rocky mound on his knees. He scouted the horizon carefully, then motioned the others to join him. One by one they approached. There was no flashing or clinking of metal this time, for all exposed buckles and buttons had been blackened, all knives and utensils wrapped in burlap. Regiment regulations were put aside, for this was not the parade ground at Windsor Castle. This was Acadia, and silence was by far their greatest shield.
The four of them crouched and watched and waited for their commander to speak. Andrew stared out over the white waste of winter shimmering in frozen splendor under the setting sun. It was hard for him to imagine that anything living could exist here except a frozen desert of brief days, long frigid nights, wind, and snow.
He turned to the men and said, “This is your enemy. Not the French, not the Indians. Winter. Never turn your back on it, never think you have conquered it, not even for a minute. It is a fatal error.”
They nodded in somber understanding. From these heights the world stretched out white and stark, countless hills pointing snowy peaks toward a gradually darkening sky. Though the wind had died, the night would be bitter cold. Andrew had already decided he would try to make it back to the fort that evening.
Swiftly he sketched out the points of interestâwhere the trails emerged from around lower bends, points where Indians had been spotted in previous hard winters, places where bandits had planted ambushesâthough none of these since he had taken over watch of this region. He was striving to teach these men to track the trackers, to stop danger before it happened.
One of the men pointed to where the snowy landscape fell in gradual stages to join with Cobequid Bay. From their aerie they could see twelve, perhaps fifteen villages along the frozen shoreline. The man asked, “Beggin' your pardon, sir, but which of them hamlets is Papist?”
“Almost none of them,” Andrew replied, not at all sorry to have the question asked. “Almost all the Frenchmen who have settled this region are Huguenot.”
That brought a murmur of surprise. “They's Protestant, sir? Those Frenchies?”
“To the core.” Andrew could have told them more, information he himself had gathered from journeys to towns up and down the valley. How the Huguenots had broken from the Catholic church in France, just as the Lutherans had in Germany. How they had suffered persecution so harsh they had fled to lands all over the world. There were even Huguenots in England now, sheltered by the breakaway Anglican church and good English law. More still in Switzerland with the Calvinists, many others here in the northern colonies, even some with the Ottomans, if rumors were to be believed. Andrew looked down at the peaceful setting, wondering if a stranger could tell which houses belonged to the English and which to the French. He added quietly, “The same as you and I.”
“Don't seem right,” one man muttered.
“The sergeant major, he said all Frenchies suffer from a severe case of genuflection,” continued the first man with a wry grin.
“The sergeant major's humor sometimes goes amiss. No, almost all of this region was settled by French fleeing persecution because of their religious beliefs.” He stretched out a hand, pointed off to the south. “The first major Catholic enclave is Cobequid Town itself, at the very tip of the bay. Unfortunately, the canon there considers himself responsible for all this region, although many of these villagers have never even met him. He is a troublemaker, not because he chooses to be Catholic, but because he chooses to be militant. He is a man who lives to stir the pot of politics and twice has urged his villagers to rise up in opposition to the English fort at neighboring Chelmsford.”
Andrew turned his attention back to the region directly below them. “But these Huguenot villages have never responded to any call to arms, not even ones coming from the French king's own envoys. They are an independent lot, from what I have heard. They have a loose council of churches, but each vicar stands alone. Much like our own way. They even call their vicars by the same names we doâreverend, pastor, preacher. Or so I've been told.” He felt a familiar tension over the injustice of being neighbors and presumed enemies. “Which is why the English have asked them to swear allegiance to the Crown and be done with it.”
A moment's pause, then, “So why don't they do it, sir?”
Because those addle-headed officials in London had insisted on putting in a clause stating that the French might be forced to bear English arms, Andrew wanted to say. The French had no more interest in fighting on the side of the English king than they did with the French. Yet because of this horrendous error on the part of English politicians four thousand leagues away, the French had refused to sign the oath, and were thus branded as enemies.
But all Andrew said was, “We have been in this region for almost fifty years now, and our settlers for twenty years more. In that time we have fought the French army twice and attacked their forts on four different occasions. Never have the local villagers taken up arms. Time after time the French government has called upon them to fight alongside the soldiers. But they have resisted. As I said, they are an independent lot. They farm their land and mind their own business.”
He paused to let that sink in, then went on. “Remember, we are here to preserve the peace and protect the innocent.” And he added to himself,
If only I could convince my fellow officers and the officials in Halifax of this simple truth
.
One of the men demanded, “But what if there's war, sir?”
Andrew pushed himself half erect and started back down the knob. “Then may God help us all.”
It was an hour after dark by the time he had seen the horses to the stalls and the men back to their barracks. His heart quickened as he turned into his own lane and caught sight of the candle flickering in the windowâfor him. He paused outside his door for a moment to collect his thoughts and emotions. The risk of war was real; he knew that as well as anyone. As acting adjutant, he had access to the reports filtering down from Halifax, and the news was ominous. What disturbed him most was his own helplessness.
But he tried to put that all aside as he pushed through the door and caught sight of his wife bounding to her feet from her place by the fire. “Andrew!”
“Catherine, my dear.” His arms enfolded her.
“Oh, Andrew, I had given up any hope of seeing you tonight.” She held him with a strength he could feel through his greatcoat. “I am so glad to see you. I was worried.”
“Why should you be worried?” He peered down at the shining brown hair and tried to see the beloved face pressed hard against his chest. Andrew had the fleeting thought that if he were to die at this very moment, he would be able to part from this earth as complete as he had ever been. “We were just out on an ordinary sortie. I have done hundreds of them.”
“I know, I was silly. I told myself not to be concerned. But it is so cold and getting colder.” She looked up at him. “That must sound rather foolish.”
“It sounds delightful. I never knew what a pleasure it could be to have someone fuss over me.” He plucked at the buttons on his coat. “Let me get this off so I can greet you properly.”
“Oh, of course, look at me, what kind of greeting is this, keeping you here in the doorway.” Hasty fingers helped him with the buttons and the scarf and hat, then she bent to help him ease off the high boots. “Come, take this seat by the fire. Are you hungry?”
“I could say that seeing you is enough food for my soul,” he teased, “but I truly am hungry. Especially after days of trail fare.”
“I would like to think that my countenance is enough to nurture both body and soul,” she retorted, her eyes glinting with mischief, “but I do have some stew I can heat for you straight away. And dough I had set aside for bread tomorrow that will nicely make into biscuits.”
“Thank you, my love,” he said, easing into the chair. He picked up the book from the floor. “What on earth is this, Catherine?” he asked in astonishment.
Slowly she retraced her steps. She said very quietly, “A French grammar.”
“I can see that. Why would you study that?”
Her arms folded across her middle, her hands clasped her elbows and held tight. “I used to be quite good at French when I studied it as a girl.”
Andrew took a deep breath and kept his voice even. “So you just decided to return to your studies, after all these years?”
“Yes. Well, no.” A hesitant breath, then, “I have met someone. A young Frenchwoman.”
He leaned back in his chair. Of all the things he might have expected to hear upon his return, this certainly was not among them. “Here in the village?”
“No, of course not. Up in the meadow. The first time I saw her was the day I went up to pick our wedding bouquet. She was there for flowers as well.” A smile lit her face. “Her wedding day was the same as ours, Andrew.”
“Remarkable.”
She didn't seem to notice any sarcasm in his laconic response. “I've seen her twice more,” Catherine said, her voice gaining animation as she added to her explanation. “She gave me the syrup you enjoyed so. She is a lovely young woman, so nice, I think about my own age. We tried to talk together, but my French was so rusty it was the very heart of frustration.” She stopped, eyes searching his face. “Are youâ are you angry with me?”
“No,” he said slowly, unsure how he felt but certainly not angry.
She twisted her hands together. “Please don't tell me not to see her again, Andrew. Please.”
“No, I won't do that.” Though for the moment he did not quite understand why. The logical step would have been to forbid it. But he could not bring himself to do such a thing, even with the possible jeopardy he would be in with his superiors. “But you must be careful.”
“She is no danger to me. Of that I am certain.”
“That's not what I meant. Word of this can't get out, Catherine. You must be extremely cautious. The garrison would view this in the worst possible light.”
“I understand,” she said solemnly.
He was as curious about her fervent desire to see this Frenchwoman as he was about the woman herself. “Tell me about her.”
“I don't have much to tell. I don't even know for certain if I will ever see her again.” She turned back to the kitchen and he followed, settling himself at the table. As she prepared his supper, she recounted the three meetings with Louise, lingering over the last time. “I wish I could have found the words to talk with her. Really talk.”
Andrew watched her face. “Why is that?”
“Just think about it. I have lived all my life in this village, separated by only a few miles from Minas, and I have never set foot over there. I've never even spoken to the French, unless it was by chance in a market.” She whirled to face him, cheeks flushed with emotion and her wooden spoon waving in the air. “Imagine, Andrew. Wouldn't it be wonderful to know what they think, how they are,
who
they are? These are our neighbors.”
He thought about her words and found, to his surprise, that the strongest emotion he was feeling was pride. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, it certainly would.”
After Christmas, the land of Acadia remained deeply imbedded in the winds and snows of winter. People added extra garments when venturing forth, and piled the firewood a little higher beside cabin doors. The Minas widows nodded with the wisdom of experience as they gathered in front rooms full of children and grandchildren, repeating to all who would listen that this would be a winter to remember. A chilling foretaste of things to come.
But Henri Robichaud did not mind the winter at all. The cold had never troubled him as it did others, not even when January descended like a frigid beast of ice that filled the world with bleakest howls. Perhaps his stocky build helped him stay warm. Or perhaps it was as Louise said, that he did not give himself a chance to grow cold since he labored from morning to night. This too was true. He loved to work. He loved working almost as much as he did eating. And he loved laughter better than both combined.
