The Death of My Country Read online

  Le 29 juin 1759

  L’après midi

  I slept late today, as did Mme Claire, having been up most of the night, sick with worry over Chegual and Étienne, who had gone off suddenly. Have they been wounded? Has something worse come to pass? I cannot bear to think of any harm coming to either of them.

  A neighbour pounded on our door some time past midnight. “The fire ships are burning,” he cried. Mme Claire and I were both in our nightdresses, and so did not go out into the street, but rather to the fourth floor.

  How horrible it looked with the ships burning on the dark river.

  Très tard

  Sleep eludes me. Worry keeps me awake. Chegual and Étienne are uninjured, for which I should give thanks, but I am more inclined to throttle them for what they have done.

  They were aboard one of the fire ships last night! There was no danger, they told me, laughing as though it were some joke. The darkness hid them. Was I not proud of their daring?

  “It was an adventure, Geneviève,” Étienne said, laughing even more. “Besides, they asked for volunteers and we were willing. This time, anyway. We may choose our adventures, unlike the militia, who are subject to the military.”

  What other foolish things will they be willing to do?

  Le 30 juin 1759

  The sound of musket fire came from across the river this morning. I thank le Bon Dieu that both Chegual and Étienne are here at the house.

  Ce soir

  Five men of our militia have been taken prisoner. Seven were killed. Étienne had been at the tavern and learned of these terrible things from a man who had been lucky enough to escape.

  “There is more, is there not?” asked Mme Claire, who was receiving his report.

  Étienne did not answer at once. He glanced at me and muttered something about the rest not being fit for my ears.

  Chegual said that he must tell me, that I needed to know what manner of men acted as allies to the British.

  “Our dead men were scalped,” Étienne said, scalped by men from the British colonies who call themselves Rangers. They are hard, hard men.

  I am safe here in this house, but still I cannot stop thinking about what Étienne said. It frightens me. I am no innocent child. I know that some warriors take scalps and I have heard that the French and British do also, for the sake of revenge. It is a horrible practice, but one men are driven to in times of war.

  I loathe it.

  But what eats away at me is that Chegual is a warrior. What has he done in war? Has he taken scalps?

  Juillet 1759

  Le 1er juillet 1759

  They say that the British Général Wolfe has sent out a manifesto, a proclamation, to the people whose farms are along the river. I saw this paper with my own eyes today in the market, for a man had torn it from the door of his parish church and brought it here. The habitants may return to their homes and if they remain quiet they will not be hurt. If they take up arms they could expect to suffer “everything most cruel that war offers.” Those were the exact words.

  What sort of man is this Wolfe if he thinks our brave men will not defend their homes and families?

  Le 3 juillet 1759

  Cook does not care to have Wigwedi underfoot in the kitchen. I have told her — Wigwedi, not Cook — that she must be a good rabbit and not interfere with the kitchen tasks. This advice sometimes goes into one rabbit ear and out the other with little effect.

  This morning Cook was chopping cabbage and Wigwedi stood poised to grab at any bits that would fall to the floor. Fearful of stepping on my rabbit, Cook gave her a nudge with her shoe. It was a gentle nudge, but still it infuriated Wigwedi. I have come to recognize the signs. She turned her ears backward, pressed them against her back and stuck her tail out stiffly. Then she growled.

  Cook was not amused.

  “Perhaps we should send Wigwedi out against the British,” Madeleine suggested. “One insult and she would foul their nests.”

  Even Cook laughed at that.

  Le 8 juillet 1759

  Today at Mass I prayed that somehow the British might leave.

  Le 9 juillet 1759

  The British now have a camp downriver of Chutes-Montmorency. How can Montcalm and his soldiers have let such a thing happen?

  Le 10 juillet 1759

  Early this morning our garrison began firing upon the British camp. This continued all day until after the noon hour. The Basse-Ville was white with smoke and, in spite of the heat, Mme Claire ordered all the shutters to be closed over the windows to keep out the stink. Again and again the cannons roared, fire spitting from the barrels. Only a tremendous thunderstorm caused them to stop.

  Hail fell, bigger balls of ice than I have ever seen before. Madeleine and I gathered a bucket of them. Cook poured out cider, and we floated hailstones in the cups. It made a most refreshing drink.

  Perhaps it was a foolish thing to do, but it did cheer us.

  Le 11 juillet 1759

  Chegual no longer tries to spare me the horrors of this war. I know he thinks that he will surely frighten me into leaving with him. This morning he told us that an unarmed man and his two young sons were taken prisoner by Rangers a few days ago. Abenaki warriors who were hidden in the woods saw it happen. It seems that the Rangers feared the boys’ cries would draw the French. To prevent such a thing from happening, they slaughtered the children and their father.

  Later this day Mme Claire and I walked to Hôtel-Dieu. While she visited with Mère Marie-Charlotte, their superior, I went to the upper floor of the building with my small telescope. There I had the most excellent view of our French encampment. I know that the British and their Général Wolfe are on the other side of the river. Are the Rangers there as well? If they are, then I am happy that I cannot see them. These Rangers have given the word barbare a new and sickening meaning.

  Ce soir

  M. Garneau came to call this afternoon. I believe he has a romantic interest in Mme Claire, but I dare say nothing. She has vowed never to remarry and so regards him only as a pleasant acquaintance, even if he is one of Québec’s most prosperous merchants.

  But as to the visit. It seems that a party of merchants and tradesmen — with M. Garneau among them — has presented Gouverneur Vaudreuil with a petition. They said that the British force at Pointe Lévis must be taken out because their cannons are far too close. “We offered to raise a formidable détachement ourselves,” he declared. “At first Vaudreuil strongly objected, but what could he do but agree in the end? It is our city after all.”

  I asked who would fight, and was told that any able man or boy was welcome.

  Étienne, who had been shamelessly eavesdropping in the hallway, was shocked. Inexperienced men and untried boys against the British army?

  I said nothing, only thought that they will not be untried for long if this foolishness comes to pass.

  Le 12 juillet 1759

  Many of the city’s people went out to the Heights of Abraham last night. We watched the merchants’ détachement — I have heard it is well over 1000 souls — march away, and I think I have never seen such a lonely sight. It is true that some regular soldiers volunteered and that there was a good sized group of indien allies, but as for the rest, it distresses me even now to write about them. There was every sort of age and class of male, many of whom had probably not used a musket in years.

  The hardest to watch were the young boys, students from the Jesuit College. Someone made a joke, calling them the Royal Syntax.

  I could not help myself. “Yes, they study, monsieur, but at least they have the courage to fight,” I told him. The man had the good grace to stop his grinning.

  Chegual and Étienne, who could not stand the thought of such innocents marching out, refused to take part in such a reckless thing. Instead, they came back with us to the house, where Chegual argued in earnest that I should leave the Basse-Ville with him.

  Étienne agreed. He said that if we will not leave, then at least all of us must
go into the Haute-Ville to madame’s other house — we will be far safer there.

  “This is my home and Geneviève’s home, and we will not be driven from it! Nor will Cook or Madeleine,” cried Mme Claire.

  Now it terrifies me that we may not be alive to enjoy our home.

  Étienne and my brother have gone to the St. Louis Bastion to watch the outcome of the battle. We will pack tonight, taking only what is necessary, and leave for the Haute-Ville in the morning.

  Tard

  It was a farce. Only the Abenakis and the other indiens, Chegual proudly told me, were able to maintain control of their people. Tonight at the Abenaki encampment, Chegual’s companions told him how they had scouted right to the edge of the British camp. But when they returned to make their report that the enemy was there unsuspecting, panic had begun within the détachement. In the darkness, our civilians mistook each other for British and began firing among themselves.

  “They retreated to the canoes,” Étienne said in disgust. He added that he was certain Montcalm now knows what sort of ragged army he commands. Then he sighed and admitted that at least the French soldiers have a talent for defending their positions.

  I suppose he must have seen the unease on all our faces. Mme Claire and Madeleine are no better at hiding this than I.

  “Never fear, Geneviève,” he laughed. “The walls of Québec and its bastions will keep out the British.”

  Chegual and Étienne have returned to the Abenaki encampment, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I wish I could believe the reassurances Étienne gave us.

  Le 14 juillet 1759

  How to begin? I have little heart for writing now, but my journal is one of the few things that was rescued, and so I must tell this.

  Only hours after the decision had been made to leave the house last night, at perhaps eleven, the British began to attack the town. At first I was not certain of what was happening. I was in my chamber folding and packing clothing, when through the open window I saw a single flare rise into the night sky. Then flames shot out from what I now know were cannons. They were such small flames and on the other side of the river. Surely they would do little harm, I thought. Then I could hear the sound of bombs exploding and of screaming.

  I ran downstairs. Cook had thrown open the door, and we could see that people were already racing through the streets. “They are shelling the Haute-Ville,” a woman cried. “Run! Run!” I thought that surely we would be safer here, if it is the upper town that is their target, and at that moment it seemed as though that must be true. But then something huge hit the wall of our house and we all fell to the floor. We helped each other up, much shaken.

  Chegual and Étienne arrived just then, or I think in our terror we might have stood there and let the house fall down around us. They led us outside, herding Cook and Madeleine ahead of them, Chegual holding tightly to my hand and Étienne assisting Mme Claire.

  Then I remembered. I pulled away from my brother and began to run back to the house. Wigwedi! I could not leave her to be crushed to death! Chegual threw his arms around me, saying that he would not let me do such a mad thing. I beat at his chest and called him foul names and wept and shrieked but he simply dragged me onward.

  I can recall Étienne telling him to take us to the Ursulines. We would be safe there and he would find us. “I will get your rabbit, Geneviève,” he assured me and then disappeared into the crowd.

  It was a nightmare.

  The bombs and cannonballs rained down upon the town, some crashing into the biggest of the buildings, but others exploding into houses around us. Our army began returning the fire and French cannonballs were flying toward the enemy. When we reached the monastery, it was to find that the buildings there had been hit as well. Inside, all the sisters were kneeling in the chapel before the Blessed Sacrament, praying for deliverance.

  Mme Claire and the others joined them, but I could not. Instead, I went to stand in the doorway by my brother’s side as he watched for Étienne. I was sick with worry for him and sick with shame for the way I had treated Chegual. But then out of the darkness and the smoke we saw our friend striding down the street, the cage under his arm with Wigwedi safe inside it.

  “I am wounded,” he said. “I had to chase her through the entire house and then she bit me. She is an ungrateful rabbit.” Then he pulled my journal and porte-crayon from where he had tucked them inside his shirt. “I knew you would want this as well,” he said.

  I wept again, but this time with relief, and when I thanked him, he said it had been his pleasure. Except for being bitten. And when I tried to apologize to Chegual, he shrugged his shoulders. “You were fighting to save something that is precious to you, as was I. I cannot fault either of us, my sister.”

  I cleansed Étienne’s hand as well as I could and bound it with linen. All night we three sat outside the chapel, unable to sleep, listening to the sounds of war all around us. When morning came, Mère Marie de la Nativité ordered that the monastery be evacuated. They would shelter at Hôtel-Dieu. She had a letter from the bishop giving the sisters permission to leave the cloister in just such an emergency. Ten of the sisters volunteered to stay behind. Poor Mère Charlotte and Mère Jeryan had to be supported all the way, both of them in such distress and both with pains in their left arms and in their chests.

  The hospital was far enough away from the enemy that no shells could hit it, but it was packed full of hundreds of terrified refugees. Rather than add to the burden being borne by the nuns there, Mme Claire decided then that we would carry on to her other house. I embraced Mère Esther and she whispered, “Trust in God, Geneviève. He will protect you.” I embraced my brother, who left with Étienne to join the Abenaki.

  And so I am here, alone in this chamber which has been allocated to me. Wigwedi has stopped trembling in fear and is asleep in her cage. No sounds come from Mme Claire’s room, or from the room off the kitchen that Cook and Madeleine now share. There is only the scratching of my porte-crayon.

  And the sound of bombs falling on Québec.

  Le 16 juillet 1759

  A note came from Mère Esther. Mme Claire wept aloud as she read that Mère Charlotte and Mère Jeryan had both died at Hôtel-Dieu the night of the bombing and had been buried in the garden cemetery of the hospital.

  The poor, poor sisters, to have died away from their home.

  A flag of truce was raised by our French army today, so that a message could be sent to the British. It was made clear that we will never cease fighting or surrender. We will never give up Québec.

  Le 17 juillet 1759

  Chegual and Étienne have returned unharmed. They were part of a war party — how hard that is to write — of Abenaki warriors who took three British prisoners who are now in the custody of our French officers.

  The British prisoners said that Wolfe’s army has not more than nine or ten thousand men in it and that he will not try a frontal attack, Étienne told us as they ate in the kitchen.

  “And might you believe this?” he went on, his mouth full of bread and cheese. “An old man and woman are bringing refreshments to the British daily. Traitors!” His table manners have never been courtly, but I was so pleased to see him that he could have stuffed the entire loaf in his mouth and I would not have cared.

  I said they must be lies, and asked whether he expected the truth from the British.

  The firing has slackened on both sides now, which makes it easier to think. What if those old people are giving aid to the enemy? They are traitors, but what sort of things must have happened to them that would let them give comfort to the British?

  Le 18 juillet 1759

  Étienne rented La Bave and her cart today to salvage what he and Chegual could from the house in the Basse-Ville. I was not permitted to accompany them. They returned with what unspoiled food they could find, some of our clothing and all but three of our precious books. I asked Chegual to bring my lap desk if he could find it.

  It all reeked of smoke.


  The house was still standing, Étienne told us, but the damage was bad. And the houses on each side had burned.

  “A house may be rebuilt,” Mme Claire said with tears in her eyes. “But once a life is gone, it is gone forever. Thank le bon Dieu we have been spared.”

  I will try.

  Le 19 juillet 1759

  The British have been moving their ships up the river. Today our French sailors attacked some of them. I could see it all clearly as the British vessels Diana, Sutherland and Squirrel, along with what I now know are transports, made their way up the river. Diana must have run aground. They began to toss her cannons into the water to lighten her. I counted at least twenty splashes. Lying at the bottom of the river, those cannons will do Québec no more harm. How those splashes might have lightened my heart, but for a terrible thing.

  A gibbet was erected upon the Royal Battery in the Basse-Ville today and two sentries were hung for failing to do their duty. Perhaps they did not do their duty, but the British are already killing our men. Why must Général Montcalm assist them?

  Many people went to watch the execution, some even making an outing of it with meals and cold drinks in covered baskets. We did not. Death is a serious business, Mme Claire observed sadly, not a circus.

  I know I should harden my heart to such things, for the city must be defended. But still, all I feel is pity for those two men.

  Le 20 juillet 1759

  The British ships are now in the river above Québec. I am so frightened I cannot think.

  Le 22 juillet 1759

  A flag of truce was flown by the British this morning. We learned later that if a boat containing British wounded were allowed to pass the city unharmed, then some of our people who had been taken prisoner would be returned to us. The British were true to their word and so mostly women — women! — were brought ashore at L’Anse aux Mères in the afternoon. Étienne, who was there, said that a boat of strangely dressed men also passed by, a boat carrying cattle and plunder. The men were laughing at their own cleverness, for our soldiers could do nothing, being under a flag of truce.