The Death of My Country Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Québec, New France, avril 1759

  Avril 1759

  Mai 1759

  Juin 1759

  Juillet 1759

  Août 1759

  Septembre 1759

  Octobre 1759

  Novembre 1759

  Décembre 1759

  Janvier 1760

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  French and Indian War Chronology

  Images and Documents

  Glossaries

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Also Available

  Books in the Dear Canada Series

  Québec, New France, avril 1759

  Avril 1759

  Le 8 avril 1759

  I have two names. The people here at the town of Québec know me as Mademoiselle Geneviève Aubuchon, for I was baptized so. However, the name given to me by my birth mother is Miguen, which means feather. I have been told that when my mother first felt me move inside her she saw a small blue bird fly across the sky. She chose my name in memory of that moment.

  This is my journal.

  Today, on the anniversary of my coming to Québec, I was presented with a lap desk by my foster mother, Madame Claire. All inlaid with mother of pearl, it is the finest gift I have ever received. Then I opened it. Inside was this journal covered in green leather, a silver inkpot, sealing wax, a dozen goose feathers for quills and a small silver penknife. There is also a brass porte-crayon and a set of leads for sketching or for writing when I am away from home. The journal is of a perfect size and fits in my pocket so that I may always have it and the porte-crayon with me. I was touched, but it was the seal that moved me the most, for Mme Claire had contrived to have it imprinted with my totem, a small bird.

  I know that she wants the best for me, but the best means growing up French, something that disturbs Chegual deeply. To remember how important it is for me to remain Alnanbal in my heart — Abenaki, as the French call us — was very dear of her.

  Le 9 avril 1759

  But what to write? I asked Mère Esther just that question when I went to help at the Ursuline school this afternoon.

  “Everything,” she told me. “You are a well-educated girl of twelve years, Geneviève, taught by we sisters. Tell the story of your life.”

  I protested that my life is so quiet and ordinary.

  She said that it is all the small and ordinary things that make up a good story, and that some day someone else might read my story. Mère Esther reminded me of all the letters and papers left behind by Mère Marie Guyart de l’Incarnation, the foundress of their convent here. Think of the stories they tell, she said.

  Later, Mme Claire said much the same thing. No detail is too small. The ship’s logs left behind by her poor drowned cousin, Capitaine Renaud? Read them, and one knows each and every adventure he and his men experienced. “You may think your life is ordinary, Geneviève,” she finished. “If so, then bless that fact, for it may not last forever.”

  That made me shiver, for I knew exactly what she meant. We have talked about it many times, trying to prepare for what we hope will never happen. France and England have been at war for five years here and in other countries. Such horrible things have come to pass. The Acadiens forced from their lands. Our forts — Beauséjour, Frontenac, Duquesne, Carillon and even Fortress Louisbourg — falling into the hands of the British. There have been so many killed and so much suffering. It is only a matter of time until the British try to take our city.

  I give thanks every day in my prayers that Québec is so well fortified and manned that the British cannot possibly succeed.

  Le 10 avril 1759

  So. I will try to set aside time each day for my story and begin where it is always best to do so — at the beginning.

  I was but perhaps five years old — I am uncertain of my true age — when Chegual and I were found in our village by voyageurs, hard men who still had enough kindness within them to pity orphaned children. There had been an attack, with every living soul in the village killed or taken prisoner. All except for us, we two who had been wading in the river, we who had hidden in the reeds to watch and hear the horror of it all, we two who had crept back to mourn for days, surrounded by our dead.

  The voyageurs brought us here to the city and we were taken in by Mme Claire Pastorel and her husband Monsieur Jacques Aubuchon, the surgeon apothecary. They had no children of their own. When I was seven years old, the year M. Jacques died, I began to attend school under the instruction of the Ursuline nuns. Chegual — who was given the name Joseph — was enrolled in the seminary school for young boys.

  Such a thing did not suit him.

  Where I took well to life here, he, being four years older, did not. Two summers ago when he and his friend Étienne L’Aubépine ran away to join the Abenaki people at the St. Francis mission, it nearly broke my heart.

  “This is your way, Miguen,” he said to me gently that morning. “I cannot live with the French as you do. Perhaps it is a good thing that you are like them now, but it can never be so for me.”

  He was correct, of course.

  Le 11 avril 1759

  Although my education at the hands of the Ursulines was completed several months ago, Mme Claire has seen to it that I continue my studies here. She sometimes speaks to me in English, but it is a difficult language at which I do not excel. French is my preference. As for Abenaki, I fear it is necessary that I speak it to myself each day so that I do not forget words.

  My studies are no hardship. This house has the most wonderful library, and I spend time there when I wish. The books are marvellous. There are thirty-two of them, and that is not something of which many homes may boast. Among them is one precious volume of La Fontaine’s Fables. There is Lettres d’une Péruvienne, by Mme de Graffigny. What a gossip she was! Mme de Graffigny would have been quite at home in the market, telling tales of other people’s lives.

  Some of the books I have been forbidden to touch. Manon Lescaut, for example. Madame says it is far too scandalous for a girl my age. She is correct, for once I peeked into it just to make certain her words were not an exaggeration, and it took an hour for my blushing to cease.

  Le 13 avril 1759

  What happiness!

  Our Brigitte is to be married. It will be in the fall, naturally, after the harvest is in. Her fiancé, Pierre DesRoches, has a fine farm up the river toward Montréal. She will leave us once she is married, and no longer work as our housemaid, since her life will be with her husband.

  Housemaids. Servants. What strange words to use about the women who are part of our family. Mme Babin we simply call Cook, for that is what she does so very well. The rest of us wonder how Cook never gains any weight no matter how much of her excellent food she consumes. I suppose it is because she is such a tall, thin woman. At least Brigitte’s sister Madeleine will remain. Since they are twins, it will almost be like having Brigitte still with us. Only their laughs are different, Brigitte’s being light and soft and Madeleine’s hearty. Unlike Cook, they are very short girls, with small hands and feet. I have noticed that young men smile and wink at them when we are at Mass. Some young men are very bold.

  Yes, we have servants, but I do my share, just as I would have in an Abenaki village. I can remember working in the fields with my mother — how I miss her and my father sometimes — helping her when she scraped and tanned skins, stirring a pot of corn and beans. The work was different, but it was work all the same.

  “You will be able to run your own household much better if you know how the work should be done,” Mme
Claire has said more than once. “And hopefully, you will be able to manage your servants.” This she says with a twinkle in her eyes since she knows very well that Cook is ignoring her. And so I work and prepare myself for the day when I have my own home. Strange. Sometimes it seems as though I spend all my days getting ready for life to begin.

  Le 14 avril 1759

  I count happiness in many ways. There is the manner in which winter sunlight shines upon me through the windows of Notre-Dame-des-Victoires when I kneel during Mass, turning the walls golden and warming my chilled hands. There is the sound of children’s laughter in the streets. Warm bread at breakfast, the sweet voices of the nuns when they sing in their choir, all are like rosary beads slipping through my fingers, counting happiness the way I count my prayers.

  Now I shall count it in a different fashion, for Abenaki warriors who came to Québec to trade have told me that my brother is coming home. I am so filled with joy at this, that I can scarcely hold a quill. Blotches!

  Le 16 avril 1759

  Mme Benoit’s savage goose is nesting in our laundry. She — the goose, not Mme Benoit — likes the steamy warmth of the place. Cook says that Mme Benoit had best bring her goose home soon or find the beast turned into a ragoût.

  Le 17 avril 1759

  Today when Mme Benoit came to the house to fetch home her goose, she said that the price of bread has risen alarmingly yet again. She expressed the opinion that we would be wise to hoard our food since war will surely come here to Québec. With the poor harvests of the last years and lack of supplies from France, life is certain to become a hardship.

  Surely she is wrong about the last.

  I will not think of such things and let them spoil my happiness. Only Chegual’s return is important.

  Le 19 avril 1759

  Mme Claire and I went to the Ursuline monastery today. It is always a pleasure to do so. I enjoy seeing all of the sisters, but it is watching Mme Claire and Mère Esther together that brings me the most happiness.

  They could not be more different; Mme Claire so short and a little plump, which suits her. Mère Esther so tall and slender — which I suppose suits her as well, as she has at least twice Mme Claire’s thirty years. At least I think it is thirty — she will not confess her age to anyone! For such close friends they have many differences. Madame is sophisticated and influential here in the city, and she has even travelled in the New England colonies. She loves to read and learn about all manner of things. Mère Esther’s world is that of God, the Church and the Ursulines. Where madame may go where she chooses, Mère Esther must remain within the walls of the monastery, since the Ursulines are cloistered. Yet these women remain devoted friends, having known each other since Mme Claire herself studied at the school.

  I have things in common with each of them, these two good women who have taken me into their hearts. What I share with Mme Claire is a hunger for books and learning and music. And a deep love of this town.

  With Mère Esther I share a similar history, since she was taken by the Abenaki as a small child in a raid, living with them until Père Bigot ransomed her and brought her here. And as I was raised by Mme Claire, Mère Esther became the ward of the first Gouverneur Vaudreuil. It is said that when her family in New England learned of her whereabouts and begged her to return, she refused — even at the age of fifteen, she knew she was meant to serve God in Canada. Like me, she never saw her parents again.

  They both have their feet planted solidly in the lives and worlds they have chosen. For myself, I am not always so certain.

  Le 22 avril 1759

  I was happy when I woke this morning, for the sun was shining, and since it is Sunday there would be little work to be done. I am not lazy, but neither am I a fool. I enjoy a day of rest very much, merci.

  Now, though, my happiness could not be greater, for Chegual has finally returned after nearly half a year’s absence. I cannot sleep, and so I will write down everything perfectly so as to give thanks to God for how He has blessed me. Mère Esther says work done well is a gift to God.

  There I was, staring at the herbs in the tiny raised garden behind our house, longing to pull out a weed that had sprouted and knowing that I must not — it being Sunday, after all — when someone said, “Kwai, Miguen.”

  For a heartbeat I did not recognize him. His long black hair, so much like mine, was gone. Now he wore only a scalp lock, the rest of his head having been plucked clean. Fine blue tattoos ran across his face. More would be on his body and arms beneath the linen shirt he wore, I knew. For a moment I saw something in his eyes that mirrored my own thoughts. She has changed, he was surely thinking. I am wrong to have come here. But then I was in his arms, in the warm and loving arms of my brother, and I knew that neither of us had changed at all.

  When Mme Claire found us, we were seated on the ground, lost in conversation.

  “Kwai, Chegual,” she said, and spoke the words of greeting I have taught her. “Toni kd’allowzin?”

  Mme Claire then insisted that he stay with us. The kitchen would be to his liking, she went on, for it was where he had always preferred to sleep in the past.

  “My thanks, madame,” he answered her.

  I was grateful she had used the name Chegual and not Joseph — the Christian name forced upon him. He will tolerate Joseph from madame’s lips, though sometimes when she uses it, he takes his vengeance by speaking to her as though she were a habitant’s wife rather than a lady. She does not care.

  Later, much later, after Chegual and I had talked and talked and yet had only begun to say the things we needed to say, he gave me a gift, something he pulled all sleepy and limp from his hunting bag. It was a rabbit, not a wild rabbit with a white tail, but a small brown rabbit. One that had only three legs.

  “She is called Wigwedi,” he told me. How I laughed at that, for wigwedi is the Abenaki word for lynx. “A lynx took her front leg, you see. I saw her fighting for her life as bravely as a lynx itself.” So he killed the lynx for its pelt, but thought that such a brave rabbit should live rather than go into his pot. I thanked him for bringing her to me.

  The people here will see only a warrior hardened by battle. I, though, see his tender heart.

  Le 24 avril 1759

  I will give my rabbit the freedom of my room, for I do not mind cleaning up what she leaves behind. As for the rest of the house, I have promised that I will be vigilant. However, there will be times when she must be in a cage, as little as I like that. On the other hand, when left alone this morning when I went to Mass, she chewed the heel of one of my shoes! I scolded her for her naughtiness.

  I decided to buy a cage woven of willow for Wigwedi. How Cook, Brigitte and Madeleine, all farm women, laughed at that. She will chew through the willow and be out in a flash, Cook said, adding that it must be made of metal or heavy wood. Then she snapped her fingers and said, “M. Ste-Anne, the forgeron — you must go to the blacksmith shop and ask him to make you a little cage.”

  With Wigwedi shut in my room, I did exactly that. The cage will be ready tomorrow.

  Le 25 avril 1759

  Strangely, Wigwedi, who is a friendly little thing, was quite the opposite when I returned with her cage today. I have learned something about her. The rabbit is a vengeful creature. And a patient one. She bided her time before she showed me what she thought of being scolded for nibbling my belongings.

  Why is my pillow wet? I wondered this afternoon. Even if I had left my window open, it hadn’t been raining. Was the roof leaking? Then I looked more closely at the wetness. It was yellow.

  I picked up the pillow and sniffed it, just as Madeleine was coming in with a basket of clean linen.

  “It is not the roof that is leaking; it is your lapin. Rabbit urine,” she laughed. “She has fouled your nest, it seems, Geneviève.”

  You are a bad rabbit, I wanted to say as I removed the pillow covering. A very naughty rabbit, and perhaps Chegual should have eaten you. But I did not say any such thing. I have become fond
of her, after all. Besides, it might have been worse. He could have brought me a moose.

  Le 26 avril 1759

  It seems that Chegual did not return to the town alone. That fact I learned this morning as I worked in the herb garden. There I was, bent over with a watering can in my hands, giving the plants a drink, when someone said, “Salut, Geneviève.”

  Salut, was it? Not bonjour? I was not certain I wished to make the acquaintance of such a brazen fellow, so I did not turn around at once.

  But then he said plaintively, “Come now, Geneviève, surely you do not still bear a grudge against me? It was only a small piece of ice, after all. Surely such a thing could not come between old friends.”

  Only one person would have known about the ice dropped down the back of my chemise long ago. I turned then. It was Étienne, of course, with Chegual standing beside him.

  Old friends, were we? Not only had he dropped the ice into my clothing, he had stood there grinning, knowing perfectly well I could do nothing since we were at Christmas Mass. I tried to keep my voice stern and my expression cross, but I could not. Étienne’s smile has always been one that makes other people return it.

  Welcome home, I said then, as lightly as I could, for he was staring so. If Chegual had not been there I would have been somewhat uncomfortable. It was Chegual whose words made the discomfort evaporate. If we must gape at each other, he told us, we could close our mouths so that insects would not get in. We laughed then and we were but two friends who had not seen each other for a long while.

  Now though, alone in the quiet of my room, I have had time to turn over in my mind what I have learned today. When Chegual left Québec, he wished only to return to our people. Étienne though, having no family to keep him here, sought adventure.

  He certainly found it when he was adopted by the Abenaki, for like Chegual he is now a warrior. In truth, except for his dark blond hair and blue eyes, one could think him Abenaki. If he had remained here, it would be his duty to fight with the militia should the British attack, since he is more than sixteen years of age and required to serve. Instead, Étienne is an ally to the French, along with the other warriors. When I told him that was very confusing, he simply laughed and said he saw it as a simple thing.