Storm the Fortress Page 7

  “It is General Montcalm,” Vairon explained. “He has a house here in the lower town where he lived for a while. These days he is almost always at his headquarters at Beauport. Perhaps he has come into Québec for a council of war.”

  What I saw was a man of middle years with a white wig upon his head, and a tricorne upon the wig. He had the look of an aristocrat, although he did wave and smile. It was a weary smile. What the people saw was clearly a saviour. The cheering rose and rose as the crowd followed along behind him.

  “They say he has been in the army since he was a boy,” said Vairon.

  “They say the same thing about General Wolfe,” I told him as I watched the general move away. What if Wolfe and Montcalm had met as boys the way Vairon and I had? Would it have made any difference now, I wondered. But it was a foolish thing to wonder, and there was ground to cover in our errands. I set the thought aside.

  There was also listening to be done, and the best place to do it was right there in Monsieur Fidèle’s stable. The man had tavern keeping in his blood, and so it had not taken long for him to open an establishment in that outbuilding. Like Mrs. Walker, he brewed his own spruce beer. I believe his was even worse than hers, but the men who came here seemed to like it.

  The army was on short rations in spite of the fact that supplies had come overland from Montréal. It was the reason many of them bought Fidèle’s food, which was a thin eel soup. To avoid being shot by the enemy, Vairon went out at night during low tide to check the weir he had constructed of twisted branches. He had placed the woven fish trap down at a cove they called L’Anse au Foulon. When the tide was low, he could easily check the trap and bring back eels for the tavern’s pot.

  However, I believe the real reason that men came to the tavern was the entertainment. Monsieur Fidèle, as it turned out, was not only a tavern keeper, but a musician. His instrument was an odd thing called a hurdy-gurdy, which looked a bit like a guitar but with a fat, rounded body, strings and a crank. Monsieur Fidèle scoffed at this English name.

  “Hurdy-gurdy. My instrument should properly be called a vielle à roue, which means wheel fiddle,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked him. “Hurdy-gurdy is what the English call it.”

  Vairon made a rude noise. “Because hurdy-gurdy is an insult to a beautiful instrument, as well as to us. I’ve been told that hurdy-gurdy has something to do with wriggling your rear end. Perhaps not, but it makes for a good story.”

  The air of Fidèle’s tavern would turn bluish as the men smoked their clay pipes and listened to the whining music. More importantly, the clients grew more and more loose-tongued. I listened to all the conversations and slowly pieced together as much as I could. Bougainville, Montcalm’s assistant, continued to patrol the north shore of the river upstream of the city. Governor General Vaudreuil and General Montcalm despised each other, and everyone despised Intendant Bigot. As for the British, Wolfe had all but abandoned his camp at Montmorency in early September. His army had burned all the houses there and off he went. Now he had taken up a position on Pointe Lévis. So had most of the British ships. Although the French had done their best to blow them out of the water, the ships had managed to sail up past Québec.

  * * *

  “If you ask me,” said Vairon as he wiped a table, “it makes no difference where your ships anchor. We can outlast them. And your General Wolfe is unwell. It seems that he suffers from a fever.”

  “Not good,” I said. It had been raining heavily for several days, making the first week of September miserable. I had been assigned the task of sweeping up the mud the clients tracked in.

  “On the other hand, there has been talk of an attack for some time. But then some say that our General Montcalm is also unwell,” Vairon went on. “Imagine it. Two generals waving swords about while their aides-de-camp hold basins for them to vomit into.”

  “Not a pleasant picture,” I replied slowly.

  Vairon must have caught something in my voice. He turned and looked at the doorway. But it was not my tone, it was something else. Someone else. There stood a tall man. He gave Monsieur Fidèle a message.

  “There is to be a prisoner exchange,” Fidèle told Vairon. “The English are returning one of our brave soldiers to us. Take this one to Capitaine Vergor at the new barracks tomorrow. Do you hear me, fool?”

  “I hear you, monsieur,” Vairon replied.

  My eyes were fixed on the tall man. Since he had entered the tavern, his attention had been fixed on me. “Well, shipmate, imagine finding you here,” said Blue Sam. He smiled, but it was a smile that was as cold as that of a dead man. “Did you jump Pembroke? Or are you a spy?”

  “Hello, shipmate,” I said quietly. “No spy or deserter. Simply a prisoner.”

  It was dark, but I could still read his eyes. There was defiance in them and not a small bit of shame. He had deserted, after all. But what exactly had he deserted? Was he an American sailor, a servant of the king, or an Indian? He had been dragged from one life, thrust into another, and then been pulled unwilling back into the first. Besides, who was I to judge?

  “Ah. Well, it could happen to anyone. And now you will go back. What a sweet welcome you will have on Pembroke.”

  “As you would have yourself, Sam. After all, you … fell overboard. Accidents can happen to anyone,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “There is no black mark against your name.”

  How he laughed at that. “Fell overboard, did I? Well, Jenkins, good luck to you. Anyone who would not betray a fellow sailor deserves it. May you survive this war, return to Halifax, and live there until you are a very old man.”

  I might have said something similar, but I did not. Blue Sam was a deserter. If captured by the British, he would be executed. If he returned to the Abenaki, he would be an outcast in the white world. I did not think he would live to be old at all.

  “Fair winds to you, Sam,” was all I told him.

  It was difficult to sleep that night. All I could think of was returning to Pembroke and what a great stroke of luck this prisoner exchange was for me. It had happened a few times during the siege, of course. A flag of truce would go up and the fighting would stop. Officers or their representatives would meet and chat politely to make the arrangements, and then back would go the prisoners to their own sides. Once when an officer was captured and taken to the hospital here, arrangements were made for his own clothing and bedding to be brought up to the city. It was as civilized as that. And as simple.

  The next day was the 12th of September, and promised to be as hot and humid as any had been that summer. Just after dawn, Vairon and I left the stable and walked through the quiet streets. We did not speak. It felt as though Québec was holding its breath, just as I was holding mine.

  Although I could not see her, I knew that Pembroke was out on the water riding at anchor. And soon I would be on her again. If there was a patron saint to thank for that, I was more than willing to thank him or her all my life. So it was with a light step that I passed by the bored sentries and entered the barracks with Vairon. It was with an even lighter step that I followed him down the hallway and into a small room where Capitaine Vergor and a second man stood. Then my feet faltered. For the other man in the room was Boston Ben Fence. Would there be no end to vanished people suddenly appearing!

  He had changed a great deal since I’d seen him take an arrow and fall into the water. He must have made it to shore, only to be taken prisoner. The swagger had gone from his shoulders. Now they slumped. His hair was matted and his eyes dull. Whatever had happened to him since the day of his capture had broken him. There was still his anger simmering below the surface, though. That had not changed at all. But he was here, and although he was not a man I liked, I have to say it somehow pleased me.

  “Were you too tough to kill?” I asked him. He looked over and gazed at me blankly. “I suppose Boston Ben Fence was more than a match for the Indians,” I went on. “It is me, Ben. William Jenkins.”

  “Jenkins?”


  “Yes. Jenkins from Pembroke. I am to be exchanged, and I thank my stars.”

  Capitaine Vergor cleared his throat. “There has been a mistake, Monsieur Fence, as I told you. Whoever brought you here to me did so without my orders. It is this officer who is being exchanged today. You will remain here with us.”

  “Officer! This man is no officer. He is not even an ordinary seaman.”

  “Of course he is not an officer, Monsieur Fence. Do I look like an idiot? Do you think I was taken in by such a flimsy lie? But he is the one your Mr. Cook asked for by name.”

  “I care nothing for that! I must see my son.” Ben turned to me, frantic. “Another fellow from Pembroke is here — captured a few days ago. He says that supply ships came in from Boston. My cousin crews on one of those ships, and was trying to find me to let me know that my son took a terrible fall — he lies unconscious back home and nothing anyone does can stir him. The doctor thinks he may never waken. I must talk to my cousin to find out more.”

  “I am sorry for your trouble,” I said, and I meant it.

  Ben opened his mouth to say more. I could see it in his eyes, but the words did not come out. Let me go free in your place, he wanted to beg, but he simply could not. Begging was not his style, and so Ben squared his shoulders and stiffened his spine. “Enough said,” he snarled. “Take me back to my cell then, and good riddance, Jenkins.”

  “Mr. Fence must take my place,” I said before Ben could leave the room. “I am quite content to bide my time here picking up garbage.”

  “Your Mr. Cook will not be pleased,” said Capitaine Vergor doubtfully. “His message made it very clear that it is you who is to be exchanged.”

  “He will understand. Mr. Cook has also always been clear on the matter of honour. After all, this is the only thing, the honourable thing, to do. And if I were an officer I would want my honour to be above question.”

  Capitaine Vergor looked at me thoughtfully, then shrugged his shoulders. “Very well. You could find yourself in a far worse situation here, however. Our native allies do make demands on us, as you probably have heard. Ah. I see you have.”

  He must have seen me flinch. How could I not recall the fate of those French prisoners from Fort Niagara who were handed over to the Iroquois because the Iroquois thought it their due? Those prisoners had been slaughtered. “Perhaps I will be luckier,” was all I could think of to say.

  “Perhaps you will.” He turned his attention to Vairon. “I am returning to my post in a few hours. Boring work, if the truth be told, but then someone must watch that wretched Foulon Road.”

  I inclined my head to Ben and said, “Give my best to our comrades, shipmate. And I hope you get word that your son has wakened.” Then before my nerve was completely gone, I left the room, Vairon behind me.

  “You are a fool, you know,” Vairon said cheerfully as we walked back to the stable.

  “I suppose I am.”

  If Monsieur Fidèle was surprised to see me at his doorstep once again, he did not show it. I suppose that after all he had seen in this war, nothing would ever be a surprise again. So he ordered me to my wheelbarrow, and I spent the rest of that day salvaging articles from what had been his kitchen. A kettle, some spoons made of horn, a brass candlestick, a cracked chamber pot. I had no idea what use he would find for that last treasure.

  That night there were few patrons at the stable, and all of those were civilians, since most of the militia was out with Vergor in the woods. Cannon fire sounded continuously as our guns bombarded Québec without mercy. Moths fluttered in and out of the open windows. Now and again one would hurl itself into a candle’s flame, and with a small snap was gone. It lowered my spirits even more to see this, and all at once the siege seemed hopeless. Were we the moths flinging ourselves into Québec’s flame, or was it Québec that was dashing itself against all of England’s burning glory? I fear there was no answer to that question, and so I served beer and wiped tables until the sweat ran into my eyes.

  Monsieur Fidèle put away his hurdy-gurdy and went up to bed, saying that he may as well sleep through the invasion.

  It was too warm up there to sleep. Vairon agreed, and so the two of us spread out blankets behind the tavern. I fell into a restless sleep in spite of the cannon fire. A while later, it was not cannon blasts that woke me, but the whining of a mosquito. I had become that used to the sound of war.

  Around three in the morning, shouting erupted from people running in the streets. The British were coming ashore at Beauport, they cried.

  “There is no hope for sleeping,” said Vairon. “I think we will go down and check my trap. At least it will be cooler for us by the river.”

  I could scarcely believe that he had invited me to join him, but he had. I felt the curse of my promise not to escape hanging over me. Leaving the stable’s yard, we walked out into the night. It was very still and quite dark, since the new moon cast no light at all. We crossed the entire city and exited through the St. Louis gate. The guards, recognizing Vairon and knowing his errand, waved us through.

  After so many days of being within Québec’s walls, I felt a wild rush of freedom. It seemed as though the air out here was sweeter and the sound of the crickets more pleasant. For the next hour we followed the Foulon Road, down a long field that stretched between wheat fields and pastures. A few houses, their windows dark, sat peaceful. Although I could not see it, I knew that the St. Lawrence lay some distance to our left at the bottom of the cliff. Finally, an owl called from one of the groves of trees that lay ahead, and another answered. That is when Vairon stopped.

  “Capitaine Vergor’s camp is just beyond those bushes. He has eighty or so men, militia who are seasoned fighters. Indians, too,” he told me. He pointed in the opposite direction. “A path starts over there, about thirty paces away. Since to continue down this road would take you right to Vergor, the path is your only choice. It leads to the beach. You need to be very careful when descending, and you need to be as quiet as possible.”

  “What path? Why are you telling me this?”

  Vairon had turned and was walking towards the camp. He stopped and faced me. “Mostly because if someone were to come upon an Englishman in the dark, I suspect that Englishman would lose his hair and his life. Take care, now.”

  “I have given my word not to escape.”

  Vairon sighed and rolled his eyes. “You gave your word to not escape from Québec. You may notice that you are no longer inside Québec. Enjoy your freedom and practise your French, Capitaine Rosbif. When the French army has helped the Canadians win this war, it will be the only language you need.”

  I hardly knew what to say. What would this cost Vairon if he was caught releasing me?

  “What is your business out here at this hour?” called a voice in the distance.

  “It is a matter of eels,” Vairon shouted back, and there was great laughter as unseen men welcomed him.

  I walked as quickly as I could pick my way forward in the dark. Where there were a few soldiers, there might be others. I felt that unpleasant prickling between my shoulder blades at the very spot where an arrow might hit. It remained with me as I worked my way through the trees, listening, listening, my body damp with sweat. When the trees opened up, I knew I must be near the edge of a cliff. Below me I could hear the St. Lawrence rushing along.

  I clutched at tree branches and dug in my heels as I climbed down the steep, narrow path. As I descended, the air grew cooler and the scent of the river began to fill my nostrils. I slipped and slipped again, my shoes skittering on the shale. The branches of trees were the only things that saved me. I could have said something very foul about the route Vairon had sent me upon, but I was making enough noise as it was. I kept the remark to myself and concentrated on not falling.

  The path ended at a small cove, the one they called L’Anse au Foulon. Now that I was here, I had no idea what I was going to do. Hide until it was near daylight, then move to the beach and hope that someone on one
of our ships might spy me? Try to swim for it? But the current was very powerful.

  My thoughts flew back to a small cove near Louisbourg where Vairon had taught me how to swim. If I made it back to Pembroke I would be facing him in battle. That was as certain as the coming and going of the tides. Could one friend find the courage to kill another? How much loyalty to a king would that take?

  I heard splashing and then silence. Perhaps a duck had taken off. Perhaps a muskrat had chosen to dive. Perhaps it was a French soldier with his musket pointed at my back or an Abenaki ready to fling a tomahawk.

  It was none of these. I knew the shape of what was out there as well as I knew the shape of King Louis’s head under my hand. How could I ever mistake one of our navy’s flat-bottomed boats? The faint light of the coming dawn glinted dully on the coat buttons and bayonets of the men in them. I could make out the red cloth of their coats as the boats turned and began to head for the cove.

  I watched in silence as the eight boats came closer. Other smaller vessels were behind them. Waves lapped against the bows and water splashed as the oars dipped and rose. Officers gave their orders in low voices, the oars were raised, and one by one the boats crunched onto the beach. I raised my hands to show that I carried no weapon, and began to walk towards them.

  “Stop where you are or you are a dead man!” an infantryman hissed. The soldiers next to him levelled their muskets at me. I stopped, not wanting to be a dead man at all.

  “I am not armed,” I told them.

  “Come forward,” said an officer. He lifted a handkerchief and coughed into it. “Although what I shall do with another deserter at this point is beyond me.”