Blood Brothers in Louisbourg (4 page)

Chapter Six

T
he bones lay curled up like an infant beneath her deerskin clothing. The skin was gone but hair still graced the skull like soft brown autumn grass. The bones of her feet disappeared inside rabbit-fur moccasins. She had crawled in on a winter's day.

Two-feathers stared for a very long time. The sacred tree was a very fitting resting place for his mother; he was not upset to have found her so. And yet, the certainty that she had gone into the spirit world opened a fresh wound in his heart for which there was no medicine. The only weapon against such pain was acceptance. But it did not sit as well as it might have. Half of his quest still lay unsolved.

He took his time and prepared a comfortable camp where he would stay for a few days. He wanted to say many prayers in honour of his mother. And so he cut the stems of young poplar trees, peeled wide sheets of bark from old birch trees and fashioned a small teepee. In front of it he dug a pit and rounded it with stones. There he lit a fire that he kept going for three days. He searched the melting woods for the roots of plants, which he burned for their ceremonial scent, all the while chanting words of remembrance and acceptance.

On the third day, Two-feathers constructed a mortar out of clay and dead grass. He slowly kneaded the mixture next to the fire inside the teepee, while spring rain fell outside. It was his intention to seal the opening of the sacred tree and preserve his mother's final resting place. When the mortar was ready he decided to take one final gaze at his mother's bones. The rain fell against his back as he squeezed the front of his torso into the tree. After a few minutes his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He whispered his final goodbye. But just as he was about to leave, the sun appeared from behind a cloud, even as the rain continued to fall. A ray of the sun's light pierced the darkness within the tree and reflected off something shiny among the bones of his mother's ribs. Curious, Two-feathers reached inside and picked up the shiny piece. It was a smooth, turquoise stone pendant attached to a strip of leather. Powerful memories flooded his head. The little stone, with a woman's face etched into it, was familiar to him. Images of it dangling above his outstretched arms came to him. Had not his mother bent over his bed with the shiny stone swinging above him? Hadn't he reached for it while she spoke loving words to him, and sang to him?

Two-feathers felt the wound tear fresh in his heart as he squeezed the stone in his palm. But the pain faded quickly, like waking from a hurtful dream, and he thanked his mother's spirit for the precious gift, fitted the stone around his neck and began to seal the tree.

—

The evidence of trading parties showed as Two-feathers grew closer to the bluecoats' great village. Old campsites littered the woods. Drinking jugs, discarded snowshoes, broken sleds and tools stuck out of the snow here and there. The woods became thin. For every tree now there were two or three stumps. Had the bluecoats come so far to feed the fires of their village? As cautious as a fox he examined everything he passed. He would not walk blindly into a place he did not know, amongst a people with whom he did not belong. But soon he came upon a small group that included some of his own people. There were two older warriors, a younger one and a couple of white-skinned warriors. All were acting strangely. At first he thought they were sick. They were swaying back and forth and falling down. But they were also singing and laughing and shouting. After he watched them for a while he realized they were also drinking, just like the redcoats he had passed, only this drink was making them lose their minds. Two-feathers remembered the warnings of his elders and felt that he should help these warriors, even though they were older than him. And so he strode right into their company, pulled the drink from their hands and started spilling it onto the ground.

“No! No!” shouted the warriors. “What are you doing? Stop!” They swung at him in an effort to stop him. But he easily avoided their blows.

“This drink is making you sick,” said Two-feathers.

“No!” they screamed. “This is good drink! This is very good drink! Who do you think you are, taking our drink away? Give it back. This is ours. Who are you?”

“I am Mi'kmaq,” said Two-feathers. “Like you.”

“No!” said an older warrior. “You are not Mi'kmaq. You are Métis. Your father is a Frenchman. I see it in your face. Your blue eyes.”

“I am looking for my father,” said Two-feathers. “That is why I have come.”

The men started to laugh. “You are looking for your father? Amongst the French? You will have to look at many men, my son. Perhaps you will find that you have many fathers.”

They laughed harder. Two-feathers felt insulted but did not want to show it. He had never seen Mi'kmaq behave this way. He felt embarrassed for them and wanted to leave.

“Ah, come and have a drink with us, young warrior. Come and taste the French drink. You will like it. Come! Come and drink with us!”

“No!” said Two-feathers. “I will not drink that poison. I will leave now. I wish you many safe days of travel and many blessings.”

“But we are not going anywhere! Come! Come and drink with us!”

Two-feathers waved respectfully and walked away. He was upset and confused. He had never seen Mi'kmaq warriors act this way before. They had called him “Métis,” which meant “mixed blood.” It was true; he was of mixed blood. But no Mi'kmaq had ever said that to his face before. No one had ever suggested he didn't belong. It was a disturbing thought. If he didn't belong with the Mi'kmaq, with whom did he belong? It surely wasn't the bluecoats.

He crossed a hill and picked up the taste of salt in the air. Climbing to the top of a tree, he saw the great water spread out at the base of the sky. In the distance were little huts here and there with fires burning. More distantly, jutting into the great water was the bluecoats' village. From a distance it didn't seem so impressive, but what
was
impressive was how much of the woods had been consumed. Fields of stumps spread out as far as he could see and beyond. New, fledgling trees had sprouted. From field to field he could judge the age of the cutting by the height of the new trees. The bluecoats had been cutting trees for twice his age.

To the right, closest to the great water, was a swamp where no trees grew at all. This would be the least desirable approach to the village. No one would ever camp there. This was the way he would go.

Chapter Seven

S
he sat stiffly, held the bow too tightly and cradled the violoncello so awkwardly between her knees she looked like she was trying to climb a tree. Yet she put her heart and soul into playing a little song by an old French master that might have sounded pleasant if the bow had been tightened enough, rosined enough and she didn't pull it crookedly across the strings so that the tone was dry and shallow, like the breathing of a dying invalid. She was trying so hard. How on earth she had managed to stay sane at Louisbourg was beyond me. She had courage.

“It makes me feel happy when I play,” she said nervously, “but I'm not very good at it.”

I smiled politely. “You're not so bad. Would you mind if I tried it?”

“Please! I would love to hear what it is supposed to sound like.”

I picked up the violoncello. It was light, delicate and designed like a perfect pear. I saw from the inscription inside the belly that it had been made by one of the best craftsmen in Paris. I tuned it, tightened the bow, rosined it, took a seat opposite her and held the instrument between my knees. The memory of my father throwing my own violoncello into the sea flooded me as I shut my eyes and pulled the bow across the strings. It sang! Sound emerged from its belly and echoed around the room like a booming drum. It was beautiful. I took a breath and began the first of the Bach suites.

The bow danced across the strings and the violoncello sang like a tenor angel. For a few moments I completely forgot where I was. Never before had I played with such bittersweet joy, which was ironic considering where we were. When I finished playing and opened my eyes I saw tears running down Celestine's cheeks, though she was smiling and her face was lit like a candle.

“That was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard,” she said.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Thank you.”

“I cannot believe we were playing the same instrument. It is so beautiful. Please teach me to play, Master Jacques? If you will, I promise you I will practice so very hard. I cannot promise I will have talent, but I will apply myself most earnestly.”

That much I could believe. “Mademoiselle, it would be an honour to share my musical training with you.”

We started right away. For the first lesson we covered the basics of correct posture and handling of the bow and instrument. We quickly discovered that it was impossible for Celestine to hold the violoncello properly because of her dress. The dress fell in thick folds of rich silk and was bordered at the hem with heavy lace. It showed just how determined she was to learn that she simply raised the dress above her knees, revealing skinny calves, folded the silk tightly beneath her thighs and pulled the instrument to a proper position. This was hardly a fitting thing for a young lady to do and it didn't surprise me that the maid quickly left the room, no doubt to run down and tell M. Anglaise. But she came straight back with a heavy frown on her face and never said a word, so he must have approved.

We continued the lesson for nearly two hours. Celestine had a lot of energy for a sickly looking girl. I think I was more tired than she was by the end of it. I bowed, she curtsied and I promised to return the next day. Stepping out into the promising sunshine I took a deep breath and smiled. Perhaps Louisbourg wasn't going to be the horrible ordeal I had expected it to be. Then I ran directly into my father.

“Jacques! I have been looking everywhere for you. Been up to see the Governor, have you? Well, I hope he has set you straight on a few things. Come now. Hurry! I have found a uniform for you. There are so many things to do. Today is the day, Jacques, the day to set aside all of your childish ideas.”

“A uniform …?”

“Of course a uniform! We are a country at war. You will take your part in defending the King from the enemy.”

“The English?”

“Of course the English!”

“Some of my friends are English.”

“Then your friends are enemies! Wake up, Jacques! Stop running around with your head in the clouds! You will put on a uniform today and you will obey me or I will have you spend a few days in the dungeon. That will straighten you out quickly enough. Don't test my patience, son. Do as I say. It is for your own good.”

Anger raced through me as I followed my father to the barracks. I felt my face flush. He lifted a uniform off my bed and threw it at me. “Put it on!”

I was so upset I could hardly breathe. The uniform was made of the heaviest wool and was musty and terribly itchy. The boots were uncomfortable and needed to be worn in. He gave me a tri-cornered hat, which was heavy on my head and made me feel ridiculous. Finally, he handed me a musket and said, “Follow me!”

He led me on a long walk around the fortress. My feet were blistered in less than an hour and we walked for two. He showed me everything, explaining in detail how the fortifications worked, how ingenious the design of the bastions was, how and why the cannon were positioned just so. I wasn't paying much attention because I was so uncomfortable. Then he led me through the Governor's courtyard and up on top of the fortress walls. From there a large swamp spread out as far as the eye could see. In all this time I hadn't uttered a word. But here, from this high point, where one could easily view the entire fortress and all its defences, there was one thing I was curious to know. I couldn't help it. I knew he would be pleased if I asked him a question about the fortress, although that wasn't why I asked; I really wanted to know.

“Why are there no cannon pointed towards the swamp?”

He laughed. “Because it's a swamp.”

“But … what if the English come across the swamp?”

He laughed again. “They can't.”

“But … why not?”

“Because it's a
swamp
. It's impossible to march through a swamp. And even if they could somehow, which they couldn't, they certainly couldn't drag their cannon through it. It is physically impossible. It is scientifically impossible. Besides, the English are a seafaring people. They like to fight on the sea. No, they will come from the sea, my son, and they will face the greatest barrage of cannon fire that ever welcomed a flotilla of war ships. And we will stand by, Jacques, and watch their ships sink in our harbour like paper boats on fire.”

I went to bed that night with blisters bleeding on both feet. My ears were ringing from having shot the musket a dozen times or so, and I believed my hearing would never be the same again. My shoulder was bruised from the kick of the musket and my head ached from having spent so much time in my father's company. Here, in Louisbourg, he was in his element. He was happy. But how could anyone be happy here? And how could anyone love war? It made no sense.

It was torture to pull the boots on in the morning. My father was already gone but had left strict orders for me to march around the fortress all morning. I had promised to give Celestine another lesson. After catching up on my letters to my mother, I decided I'd better check in at the Governor's residence first to explain. At the entrance I was greeted by the frowning maid who told me that M. Anglaise wanted to see me.

“Ah, my young scholar. How different you look in uniform. What misfortune man brings upon himself with war. My dear Jacques, I must already thank you. My daughter is in her happiest mood for many months. It is the first time I have seen her smile in ages. I am grateful. She says you play the violoncello in such a way as to inspire her to want to be happy again. That is quite a compliment. She has even taken up her needlepoint again, and painting, and was practicing the violoncello late into the night. How can I express my gratitude to you? Is there anything I can do for you, any way to ease the passing of your time here?”

I looked down at my itchy uniform and aching feet and smiled.

“Well, there
is
one thing …”