The Sacred Shore (17 page)

“But where did she go?” insisted Charles. “To New Orleans?”

Henri had turned to face him then. The rhythm of his oar did not miss a beat as it swept in long strokes, disturbing only momentarily the calm surface of the deep, dark bayou waters. “New Orleans? No, no. She has left for Acadia.”

The burly man had no idea how his news smote Charles. For one moment he bowed his head in defeat. He had come so far, at such cost—and the girl was not here. Then the truth grasped his attention. She was heading for
Acadia
. With his swifter vessel he might still catch up to her there. Charles felt an urgency overtake his entire being. He must return to New Orleans and turn his ship northward again. He wanted to be on the scene if and when she found her parents.

But in spite of his desire to change course and continue his quest for the girl, something kept him silently rowing behind Henri deeper into the bayou. And of course Henri did not know of the full extent of his search, his ultimate goal in coming here. Or if he had guessed, he gave no sign.

In the hour after sunset they drew the canoes to a grassy embankment and made camp. They worked by torchlight, so weary they scarcely had the energy to gather firewood, much less talk. They ate a dinner of cornmeal baked on a stone, along with crawfish netted that afternoon and roasted over the fire. When the mosquitoes gathered like a swirling black cloud, Spanish moss was pulled from the trees and cast upon the fire. Charles followed the others' example and drew in close to the smoke. When he had finished eating, he lay down on the ground and drew an oily blanket about his head and shoulders. He had time for a single silent complaint about the smell and the sticky heat, then was asleep.

He was awakened by someone kicking his boot. Charles tossed back the blanket, rose, and stretched. A dawn mist had gathered and closed in about them. One of the men returned carrying three snakes, as long as he was tall. The fire was banked up high, the snakes were skinned and their meat skewered upon long branches, and Charles joined the others as they cooked and ate their breakfast.

As he was finishing, Albain pointed over to an opening in the mist and a passing alligator in the bayou. The guide and Henri exchanged quiet humor over Charles's and the Spanish soldiers' fearful fascination. The beast was eighteen feet long from spiny snout to the end of his swinging tail. Teeth as long as Charles's hand jutted from the long mouth, and the gator seemed to hold a hungry smile as he passed.

Charles really did not feel rested after the night on the ground. As they continued up the mist-clad bayou, he felt that he was becoming disembodied. The tunnel of moss-hung trees stretched on endlessly, like his quest. There was no end to his journey, no answer to his questions. None. He was doomed to travel for the rest of his life, without purpose, without meaning. Charles drank water from the gourd offered by the man in front of him, took his turn at the oars, endured the heat and the insects and the strange cries rising from the forest. He sweated and he rowed and he felt that all his life had been leading him to this moment.

The journey became a time of facing the utter hopelessness of his plight. Lonely and friendless and poor. He seemed to float outside his body, removed from all the trappings that had captured his attention and purpose all his life long. It was not merely that this journey had taken him away from all he owned. In truth, he had never possessed anything of value at all. He saw that now. The wealth and the responsibilities and the power had done little more than blind him to what he had carried within him. His heart had been as empty as the green tunnel through which he now traveled. He had lived a truly barren life.

A quiet murmur from his fellow travelers brought his attention back to the present. Charles focused with an effort and saw a mirage rise from the mists. White houses with tall roofs stood in orderly rows, surrounded by limewashed fences. A dog ran down the bank and barked, only to be silenced by Henri's quiet command. The banks were green and as well tended as the houses. Henri pointed, and they pulled into the well-built landing stage and halted.

Henri stepped lightly from the skiff, then halted the others with a single motion. He looked at Charles but spoke to them all. “You must wait here while I tell my wife and … wait here.”

The stocky man then turned and vanished into the mist and the growing silver light of the morning.

Chapter 18

All the way home Henri wrestled over the words to tell Louise. He tried one phrase, then another. None of them sounded right, none even the slightest bit adequate. How did one tell a mother that her daughter, lost for all these years, was as they had prayed, alive and well? How did you break a heart at the same time that you mended it?

At last he drew aside from the path and bent to his knees by the stump of a tree. Clutching his hands before him, he bowed his head and cried out his anguish and his joy. “God, I have such good news. Our prayers of many years have been answered—and I thank you.” Tears began to stream down the creased face as the reality of the words sank deeper into the heart of the father. “And now I need to tell the news to Louise. The pain of loss will come again. She has just told the daughter she has known and loved good-bye, and now … now she must hear this. That her first daughter, the one she bore and fought to save, is still of this world … but not of our world. Help me to choose the right words, my Father. Give me wisdom, Lord. Prepare her heart for the news. Even now. Before I walk the path. Before I enter the stoop. Give her calm and quiet and peace so that she might receive this great news as heaven's blessing.”

Henri remained silent for several more minutes, then he rose, wiped his cheeks on the sleeve of his shirt, took a deep breath, and proceeded on the path that led to home.

Louise was in the kitchen shaping the morning bread with sure and practiced hands. She looked up only briefly, then spoke with her eyes turned back to her work.

“You are back. I did not know when you would return. I have yet to make the porridge. I did not know what business of the clan had called you off on such sudden notice. You'd think they could let a man get his crops in before calling him down to Plaquemine. Surely there is nothing so important that one should be dragged from his fields to—”

“It was important,” said Henri, fighting for calmness when in truth his heart was pounding.

Louise did not even lift her eyes. “Ah, I suppose so. To men, all things to do with land and boats and nets and—”

“It was not of such common things.”

Louise glanced over, then turned back to her kneading. “I am sorry to be late with your breakfast. Without Nicole's help …” She did not finish.

Henri remained silent. He still did not know where to start, and Louise had given him no opening. He studied his hands, then began to rub them together. He could feel the calluses. The roughness of the palms. He cleared his throat. But he did not speak, for Louise was speaking.

“I had the strangest dream last night.”

He noticed the emotion in his wife's voice, as though she was musing yet deeply touched.

“Yes?” he responded.

“It was of Antoinette.” Her voice broke on the name, and for a few moments she was not able to go on. Henri waited, willing himself not to hurry her.

“She was no longer a baby,” Louise said softly. “I thought … I thought that strange. In the many dreams I have had of her, she has always been a child. The infant I left with Catherine. I always see her as I saw her last, bundled in her blanket, her face pinched and pale with pain.” She stopped and shook her head again as though trying to make the pieces of the dream fall into some pattern that would make sense. “But not last night.”

Henri noticed the brightness of her eyes, the unshed tears, before she turned back to the dough. Still he held his tongue.

“She was not a baby. She was grown. And her face … her face was no longer pinched. She looked so peaceful. I couldn't see her features clearly. There was a fog or a mist or something. But I sensed that she had a tender smile, as though she knew something she wished to tell me. She stood in the meadow and she … she reached out her hand to me. And then she was gone.”

“Did it make you sad?” asked Henri, his voice husky. But even as he asked the question, he knew the answer. The tears that Louise struggled to hold back were not tears of distress. Her face was calm, her manner relaxed. She was simply sharing with the man she loved an experience that had touched her soul.

“No.” Louise put the baking pan in the clay oven and turned to make the porridge. “Something about it put my heart at rest.”

Henri cleared his throat again. “A man has come back with me. He is visiting our village.”

“From Acadia?” she asked.

“Well … yes … but no,” he tried to explain. “He comes from England.”

He saw her eyes grow dark. Though the bitterness had been dealt with long ago, the mention of the English still brought pain.

“He was in Acadia on his way here. He … he has kin there.” At the look in her eyes, he added, “He has brought some news.”

Louise stood as a statue, pot and spoon in hand.

“He had spent time with his brother and wife.” A deep breath, then, “His name is Charles Harrow.”

His wife's face went deathly pale. He poised himself in case he should need to leap to her side. But Louise did not faint. She crossed to a kitchen chair and lowered herself slowly. Her eyes stared, unseeing. Her lips trembled as she worked at words that would not come. She put the bowl down but held the spoon limply in the hand that settled in her lap. Henri knew he had to quickly finish with the telling.

“He … he met our Antoinette.”

“Antoinette.” Just the name, but spoken with such depth of feeling. Such anguish of soul. But holding such thankfulness. Henri crossed to her quickly and took her in his arms. They clung to each other, their tears mingling, their bodies rocking in tune to the song in their hearts. It was many minutes before either of them could speak, but there was really no need. All that was necessary for the present had already been said.

Charles was ushered into the Robichaud home as though he were an angel in disguise. Louise had found her tongue and bustled about, seeking first his comfort and then plying him with questions. Over and over he had to tell them of Anne. How she looked, how she spoke, how she moved. Did she bear family resemblance? What color was her hair? Her eyes? Was she tall? Short? Dark or fair? Did she know of them? Charles answered them with courtesy and patience. He wished he had studied the girl more closely, but in most instances his memory served him well.

They were pleased to know that Catherine had taught their daughter her own French tongue. Louise, brushing at constant tears, exclaimed that it was so much like Catherine. The news that the girl was seeking to learn from a doctor so she might help those who were ill was particularly moving to her parents. When it came to their question of the girl's personal faith, Charles was at a loss as to how to describe what he had seen. He did not know the words. He'd never had the experience. So he told them of Anne's conversations concerning her deep trust in God. The news seemed to touch them most deeply, and they clung to each other's hands and dipped their heads in silent thankfulness.

Charles could only watch. If he had expected anger or hostility from this French family, he could not have been more in error. Even the sons of the home greeted him with respect. And the faith that he saw reflected in faces of people who had suffered dreadfully at the hands of others, at the hands of his fellow Englishmen, shook him to his very core.
How can people who have been harassed, plundered, nearly destroyed, look to God with so much open trust?

Charles could only shake his head in wonderment. It was beyond his understanding.

Chapter 19

The long lane connecting Halifax's harbor to the central square was a broad thoroughfare, lined on both sides by buildings of stone and timber. The effect this day was one of a funnel, directing the wind and the stinging rain straight into his face, but Andrew did not mind. The weather was in fact rather bracing, coming as it did after one of the mildest springs in memory. He welcomed the brisk salt air. He always enjoyed his visits in Halifax. He found the city an exhilarating and uplifting experience after weeks or months in his tiny village. If truth be known, his only concern this gray and blustery day was his daughter's mood.

Anne walked alongside him, her face hidden beneath the brim of her bonnet. But he had seen enough to know that her eyes were troubled, her expression guarded. For the life of him, Andrew could not understand why. Though her accommodations were spartan, her rooms were clean and located in a fine Christian home. The landlady seemed genuinely taken with his daughter, and she had even gone so far as to say that Anne had become one of the family.

The young doctor she worked for was equally impressive, a tall Welshman with the fine red hair and freckled complexion of his heritage. He was a clear-eyed, intelligent young man, and from the three visits Andrew had made to Halifax since Anne's arrival here six weeks earlier, he had gathered the impression that Dr. Cyril Mann knew the Scriptures and lived their creed.