The Death of My Country Read online

  “Think of it,” Étienne said with a laugh. “Men who wear skirts!”

  These men sound worse than the animals they were carrying.

  Le 23 juillet 1759

  Our great cathedral in the Haute-Ville has burned, the fire starting before noon this morning. Smoke poured into the sky as everything — the carvings, the vestments, the statues — were destroyed.

  Le 24 juillet 1759

  The shelling is ceaseless.

  Le 25 juillet 1759

  More fires from the heated shot the British use. Last night the Basse-Ville burned. Can anything be left of our home there?

  Le 26 juillet 1759

  Do the British possess every cannonball and shell in the world? It seems they do, for they bomb the city endlessly. My poor Wigwedi. The shelling terrifies her. The louder the sound, the more violently her nose wiggles. I pray that Étienne is correct that our home here in the Haute-Ville is too far for those bombs to reach.

  Le 28 juillet 1759

  A great mass of rafts and small craft chained together came down the river. This cajeux got very close to the enemy before our soldiers set it afire, but to no avail. The British boats towed it aside.

  How are we not to despair?

  Le 31 juillet 1759

  Terrible fighting today when the British launched boats from Île d’Orleans in an attempt to take our position at Chutes-Montmorency. The enemy’s ships ran aground and our soldiers fired upon them from their entrenchments on the Heights. Only a tremendous thunderstorm ended the battle. Étienne, who was there with Chegual, said that the skirted soldiers fought courageously. When they retreated, he told us, they would not leave until every one of their men got safely across the river. “They are brave men,” he laughed, “even though they wore skirts.”

  “Les Écossais,” said Mme Claire. “If they are wearing skirts, I believe those soldiers are Scots” — she spelled the word for my benefit — “not British.”

  “They fight like Abenaki,” Chegual said then. “The British with their lines of men?” — he made a vulgar noise — “I hope to fight these Scots face to face some day.”

  I said nothing, only tried to keep my expression from giving me away as I heard his words. It is only here that I can reveal those thoughts. I am so afraid for Étienne and Chegual. There are times when they almost seem to enjoy the fighting. Surely I am wrong.

  Août 1759

  Le 2 août 1759

  White flags — the Bourbon flag of our King Louis XV — were hoisted on the entrenchments today and yesterday in celebration of our victory.

  Le 3 août 1759

  The Intendant has called for all able people to journey on foot to Batiscan to bring back supplies to the city. I would willingly have gone, but for Chegual’s protests. The first step you take outside this town will be a step with me back to St. Francis, he has told me.

  It shames me that we leave such work to others.

  Le 5 août 1759

  It seems there is a British capitaine who lies wounded at Hôtel-Dieu. Yet another flag of truce was shown by the British, who wished to send linen and bedding to this officer.

  Linen and bedding!

  I have heard it said that thousands of cannonballs and shells have showered down on our town since the British began this siege. The bombing has been constant and heavy today. Their flags of truce sicken me. If it were my choice, I believe that I would take that officer and his precious linen and bedding and —

  Plus tard

  I have walked around the outside of the house a dozen times trying to calm my mind. My mind is not much calmer, but my temper is somewhat cooled. Flags of truce, courtliness, the manners of the officers — it all revolts me. What sort of a war is this?

  Le 6 août 1759

  The oddest thing. Through the large telescope I saw the British bury a man in the sand so that only his head showed. Is there no end to the barbarity of these people?

  Le 8 août 1759

  The shelling has been long and cruel today. They say little is left of our beautiful market. I myself would not have the heart to view it. There are fires and the smoke has poured up and darkened the sky yet again. And there was a great explosion, one that was not a bomb. Brandy in a vault beneath the house of two merchants blew up!

  Étienne said, “Now that was a terrible waste.”

  How he manages to keep his spirits so high is beyond me.

  Le 9 août 1759

  Notre-Dame-des-Victoires has burned. Mme Claire was married there. I was baptized and in time made my first Holy Communion there. To have lost that church … I know in my heart that it was only a building, but it seems somehow that God is turning his face from us.

  Chegual and Étienne left the house early this morning, saying that we must not worry over them. They might as well have told me not to breathe.

  Le 10 août 1759

  The Basse-Ville is all but gone. The British shelling and the fires have finally destroyed it.

  I sat alone in my room today and wept for our loss. Our house, the library, all the memories. At least the British will never touch my memories.

  And there was smoke, so very much smoke, coming from the mainland beyond Île d’Orleans. There are only farms there. No batteries or entrenchments. It is the farms that the British are now burning. They wish to conquer this country and take this town. Why do they seek to destroy it as well?

  Le 14 août 1759

  Heavy, heavy rain.

  Le 17 août 1759

  A miracle has happened, and I thank God that He has given us this small happiness. We have an addition to our household.

  This morning, through the kitchen window, I saw a man beating a dog. He was dragging the poor creature and cursing at it. It was La Bave, the cart dog! She was matted and thin and her hair was burned off in places, but it was La Bave.

  I ran from the house screaming that the man must release her, that La Bave was not his dog.

  He said that her owner is dead, that she is his now, and that he will do with her as he pleases. Then what he said made my blood run with ice. “You look well-fed, mademoiselle. You in this fine house have meat on your table every day, I would wager. Today I will have meat on mine.”

  I have never seen Cook run before.

  She chased him down the street, the bâton with which she rolls out pastry in her hand. The vile man could run faster though, and he soon disappeared. Then Cook walked back to our house to our applause.

  “Mauvaise est la saison quand un chien mange l’autre,” she said with a shake of her head.

  I agreed. It is a sad day when some cur of a man would think to kill and eat such a poor creature as La Bave. How she lapped up the soup we gave her! She is sleeping near the stove, her coat brushed. Wigwedi is not certain what to make of La Bave, but with luck they will become friends.

  Friendship. It means so much.

  Le 19 août 1759

  We have heard the most horrible thing. British soldiers — deserters — have said that Général Wolfe is offering a handsome prize for any indien captured by his men. Whether the warrior be alive or dead matters not.

  I am ill with fear to my very soul.

  Le 20 août 1759

  We have taken to sleeping in the kitchen, all of us together on pallets. That way if the house is bombed we will be able to escape together.

  It was odd, and yet it was reassuring. I have never shared quarters with anyone since I came to Québec from my village. Even Wigwedi seemed to take comfort in it, although I cannot say she cares much for La Bave drooling on her cage.

  Le 21 août 1759

  Yet another flag of truce. Général Wolfe sent money to the soldier who rescued the wounded British capitaine, but Gouverneur Vaudreuil has returned the coins. As though we may be bought!

  Le 22 août 1759

  Word has come that Fort Niagara has fallen to the British — last month, they say. Mme Claire says it is a very old fort and not at all protected the way Québec is. Those words bring
me little consolation.

  No word or sign from my brother or Étienne.

  Le 23 août 1759

  They say that the British capitaine has died and that Mère Marie-Charlotte wept at his passing. My eyes are dry. To weep for the British?

  I will never shed a single tear for the men who are causing such suffering here.

  Le 25 août 1759

  I thank God and Ste. Geneviève and every other saint in heaven that Chegual and Étienne returned in the middle of the night. Their arrival took us by surprise. La Bave set up a dreadful commotion, Cook armed herself with her bâton, Madeleine had a broom and the noise rivaled that of the British bombs.

  I should cross that out. I must not make light of such a dreadful thing. It is only that I am so very weary. Worry eats away at me. Perhaps if I can rest for an hour.

  Plus tard

  They were filthy and covered with cuts and scrapes. I could have wept over those wounds, but I would have dishonoured myself and their bravery. I dare not ask how they came by their injuries, and neither of them will talk of what they have done in these last days.

  For that I am grateful.

  Le 27 août 1759

  A very windy day. How wonderful it would be if the wind blew every British ship back up the river to where they belong in England.

  Foolishness, but pleasant foolishness.

  Le 29 août 1759

  I have prayed and paced and done all I can to calm myself, but my thoughts are disturbed. The Abenaki. Chegual and Étienne’s small wounds are healing, but what of the wounds of the Abenaki warriors? Some have their wives to care for them, but most are alone. And what of the children?

  When I asked Mme Claire and my brother if he would accompany me to the encampment, she refused. As did he. Too dangerous, they insisted.

  I cannot quiet my mind.

  Septembre 1759

  Le 1er septembre 1759

  Étienne. He always knows what to say. That you wished to go is enough, Geneviève, he told me. That you think of your people says much about your bravery.

  I am not brave, only worried, but still his thoughtful words comforted me.

  Le 2 septembre 1759

  Could Sunday Mass this morning have been more joyful? Could the hymns have sounded sweeter? God has answered our prayers. The British are withdrawing from Montmorency!

  Le 4 septembre 1759

  We have only the simplest of meals now, such as pea or vegetable soup with only a bit of meat in it, and our bread has oats added. The wheat that arrived from Montréal’s harvest goes to feed the army. What we have will need to last until the British ships are driven away by winter.

  I wish it would snow.

  Le 6 septembre 1759

  A terrible storm struck us last night. I prayed — it is wicked, but I care nothing for that any more — that the British ships would be sunk or damaged. My prayers went unheard.

  Le 8 septembre 1759

  More rain today and yesterday. Cook says that we may all float away soon. Dear Cook. She tries to cheer me. But how can I feel cheer when Chegual and Étienne have left yet once more? It is only to get news of what is happening, they said.

  Lies.

  Le 9 septembre 1759

  The heat is terrible.

  Le 10 septembre 1759

  A letter written by a notary came for Madeleine today with wonderful news. Her sister has been wed. Madeleine, who like her sister Brigitte can neither read nor write, listened as Mme Claire read it to her. “They have heard of our sufferings and are praying for us,” she told Madeleine.

  I believe they should be praying for themselves, should the British take Québec.

  Le 13 septembre 1759

  Tôt

  Chegual is here in the kitchen, and I doubt that he is asleep. We have argued yet again.

  He pounded at the kitchen door some hours ago, pounded and shouted until the entire house was roused and Cook let him in. He came to say that I must leave with him now. “I am her brother,” he said to Mme Claire. “You have no authority over her and she will come with me. The British army is on the Heights and it will be a slaughter.”

  We women, all in our nightdresses and shawls, stood there gaping at him like sheep. It was Mme Claire who broke the horrible spell, ordering that coffee be brewed and bread and cheese served up. She must hear his report properly and we all needed something in our stomachs.

  Chegual would not touch the food and I, for fright, could not. The enemy had come ashore in boats, he told us. They had scaled the steep cliffs and their army was massing on the Heights, far more powerful than could be imagined. Étienne had seen as well, and had been sent by an officer to alert Montcalm at his camp on the other side of the St. Charles River.

  “Then there is hope!” I cried. “Montcalm will defend the city.”

  “There is no hope,” Chegual answered. There were too many British. He said in a low voice that he had seen what they did when they passed through a village. He would not have such a thing happen to me. I must come back with him to St. Francis.

  Such a heavy silence hung in the kitchen. Mme Claire came and took my face in her hands. “It is your choice, ma chère,” she said, and the words nearly broke my heart. Everyone left Chegual and I then. We argued, and slowly I felt myself weaken, weaken, weaken, until all the fight was gone from my spirit.

  He is my brother. I have changed into the Abenaki clothing that was given to me. It will be more suitable for travelling. I will pack this journal and take Wigwedi. My future is with Chegual, and I have agreed to leave Québec, although I do not know how I can bear to tell madame —

  Plus tard

  They did not believe Étienne! It was hours until he was permitted to speak to Montcalm and even then the général did not order his men to return to Québec. There are French troops moving onto the Heights now — perhaps Montcalm gave the order at last, or perhaps it was another of his officers — and it will not be long before the battle begins.

  “It is not our battle,” said Chegual to this. “I will not fight again for the French. I am taking my sister from here.”

  Étienne looked from Chegual to me and then back to my brother. He said this was my home. “How can you take her from Québec and out into the wilderness to face a way of life she knows nothing about?”

  “She is Abenaki! As are you!” shouted Chegual, adding that our place was with our people.

  “She is Abenaki,” Étienne shouted back, “but what of Mme Claire and Mère Esther and all the others she knows here? It is not only a matter of blood.”

  How those words will be with me forever.

  Then he said the unspeakable. “Or are you a coward?”

  I thought they would fight then, that Chegual would not suffer such an insult, even from his closest friend. The very thought of it tore at my heart.

  He said, “I am no coward.”

  “Then fight with us!” cried Étienne. “And if you will not fight for the French, fight for Geneviève, as I do.”

  He knows Chegual perhaps better than I.

  Étienne asked for a souvenir from me then, a keepsake to bring him luck. I gave him my cross, saying only that he must take care. He kissed my hand, something he has never done before.

  Then I kissed my brother and held him in my arms. And so they left, after Étienne commanded Cook to prepare a meal for their triumphant return, after Chegual made me swear to stay inside the safety of the house, after making me vow not to worry.

  How many promises will I break this day?

  Tard le soir

  I could say that there was a battle and that we were victorious, that there was cheering in the streets and that the British fled in despair. It would all be lies. There was a battle today, a terrible battle. And we lost. It is I who must call upon my will not to give up hope.

  I broke my promises and left the house. Mme Claire tried to stop me, as did Cook and Madeleine, but I would not listen to their begging. I ran all the way to the St. Louis Gate, out of
the town and down the road to the edge of the woods. Behind me I heard the roll of drums and the deep cheers of our soldiers as they began to march forward. I stood as they passed by me, the flags rippling in the breeze, our soldiers’ white uniforms and the straight backs of our militia who marched with them, and I remember how my heart lifted and how I knew we would be victorious. How could such a gallant army fail Québec?

  Someone called to me to go home, to take shelter in the town, that I was in danger here and I must go back. I did not. Instead I followed them, stopping at the edge of the woods. From behind a large maple — I dared not step out into the open — I watched our soldiers march toward where the British must be waiting, watched until I could no longer see them. There was the sound of musket fire. Screaming. White smoke rose into the sky. Cannons boomed out.

  Then it happened.

  It sounded as though an entire army fired at once. I remember that I put my hands over my ears, but I could hear it echoing still. I prayed that it had been our soldiers who fired that volley, for if it was not … If it had been the British …

  I ran back through the woods, sick to my very heart and filled with such fear for Chegual and Étienne that I could not stop from weeping. All those men, good men and boys. The screaming. I will never be able to forget that.

  I could barely see the streets as I went through the town, back to the house where Mme Claire and the others would be on their knees in prayer. Wiping my eyes, I entered the kitchen, and saw that I was wrong.

  “What has happened?” Madeleine asked me. “Is it over?” She was tearing linen cloth into strips for bandages. Mme Claire was rolling them and Cook was packing a basket of food.

  Nothing short of a miracle could save us now, I told her.

  “Go to the front door,” Mme Claire said to me. “Watch for where they are taking the wounded.”