The Death of My Country Page 9

  Lieutenant Stewart apologized to Mme Claire for not introducing himself earlier. It was only that he had been unprepared to find a such a lovely lady here. And such a learned one at that, if her splendid library be any indication. He kissed Mme Claire’s hand, bowed to me and then saw himself out.

  Later I asked her what she made of this fellow. She sniffed and said that she knew little of Scots and nothing at all of Lieutenant Stewart.

  “He is literate,” she allowed. “He cannot be all bad.”

  Le 8 décembre 1759

  Lieutenant Stewart returned today. He and Lieutenant Doig went for a walk to take the air.

  I was able to enjoy the library alone at last. Wigwedi watched me while I searched for a book. She stared, her nose slowly wiggling. Later, I pared vegetables in the kitchen. How her nose wiggled then! I think perhaps her nose wiggling means that she is interested in what is happening around her. I started to think of what Étienne would have made of it, and then stopped myself.

  I still cannot believe he is gone from us.

  Le 9 décembre 1759

  Just now, I crept downstairs for a glass of cider and saw light coming from the library. The lieutenant was writing in what looked to be a journal. He neither heard nor saw me, and so, glass in hand, I went back to my room.

  Now I am writing this, and it feels so strange to think that another person is recording his thoughts as well.

  Le 10 décembre 1759

  It is a thick book with a cover of dark green leather that he leaves on the library table. On the front is inscribed, Un journal historique des campagnes en Amérique du Nord, pendant les années 1758 et 1759. I have heard that many of the British officers speak French, but to be writing in French a history of the battles he has experienced? Nothing this man does makes sense.

  It sickened me. Within those pages is written the death of my country.

  Pendant la nuit

  I have read parts of his journal.

  Today the lieutenant was escorted by other soldiers to the monastery to meet with his superior, Général Fraser. I decided that the library needed dusting. In particular, the library table. I picked up his journal and gave up all pretenses. I had come here to read it and so I would. Perhaps there would be some useful information within its pages that I could pass on.

  Now I wish I had never touched it.

  It was written in French, although certain passages were in some other language. It told of battles and skirmishes, of the devastation at Louisbourg and then of sailing up the river to Québec. I read quickly — his hand is neat and clear — for I was uncertain how long he would be away. It was so strange to see the siege through his eyes.

  He told of the horrors he had seen this August, of not only what the British and the Rangers had done, but of acts that their enemy, we French and our allies, had committed. No one was innocent of murder and atrocities.

  Then I came to September 13, the day of the battle here on the Heights. I read of the wounding of their Général Wolfe. When the général heard that the French were retreating, he said, “Now, God be praised, I will die in peace.”

  It was hard enough to read of cruelty and war. It was harder to read of how it revolted Lieutenant Doig. One thing written on July 27 remains in my mind.

  Général Wolfe has strictly forbidden the inhuman practice of scalping, except when the enemy are indiens or Canadians dressed as indiens. For the love of all that is holy, I can see no difference. They are the enemy, yes, but they are warriors and deserve to be treated as such. I will not permit my men to commit such acts, reminding all of the carnage and cruelty of Culloden. I am an officer, not a butcher.

  I put the book back just as I found it. But still, everything is changed.

  Le 11 décembre 1759

  As carelessly as I could, I asked Mme Claire about this Culloden.

  She thought for a moment and then said, “It was a battle that took place thirteen years past in Scotland. The British crushed the Scots, and they have been subject to them since.”

  The same thing has just happened to us! We Canadians and Abenakis have lost everything.

  Le 12 décembre 1759

  My conscience.

  I wish I did not have one, but there it is and it pained me dreadfully. I confessed to Père Segard this morning, telling him of my deceitfulness in reading the lieutenant’s journal. There was that horrid silence while he considered my sin and what suitable penance he should give me.

  I am not certain I can do this penance.

  Plus tard

  I thought it best to complete my penance quickly. I went to the library and stood before Lieutenant Doig, my hands behind my back. He asked if he might be of service.

  “Yes,” I answered, and I brought out my hands, one of which held my journal. “I wish you to read this.”

  “Your journal, mademoiselle? It is doubtless a very private thing. Why should I violate what privacy you are managing to have, with me here?” he asked.

  And so I told him what I had done and how my penance was to let him read my journal in return.

  He said he accepted my offer, “so that your penance may be fulfilled,” but he refused to read my journal. “And furthermore, you may read mine whenever you wish.” He went on to add that he was not the only officer keeping a journal. A certain Lieutenant John Knox had been writing his account of the war as well. Then he said, “But Lieutenant Knox is a British officer, and I suspect his perspective is rather different than mine. I intend to have this journal published some day, so that all may read my account of what has happened here.”

  I am not certain how I feel about that.

  Le 13 décembre 1759

  There is something growing between them, between Lieutenant Doig and my brother. The lieutenant is but three years older than Chegual. I had thought him much older, but then he is a soldier and has seen and done many difficult things, I suppose. One would think they had little in common, a Scot and an Abenaki. But they are both warriors, and Chegual’s breechcloth is much like a kilt, which is what the lieutenant calls what he wears. The Scots have clans, as do the Abenaki, Chegual has told me. And they have chieftains.

  The kilts, though! At least a breechcloth covers a man, while a kilt is simply a skirt. And there is worse. The Scots wear nothing at all beneath them! Since the Scots have no breeches, the Ursulines are calling them les gens sans culottes. They are knitting long stockings for them so that they will not, well, so that …

  I shiver to think of such a thing during a Québec winter.

  Mme Claire, who never throws out anything, still has some of her drowned cousin’s clothing in an armoire. She has insisted that both Chegual and Lieutenant Doig wear these things. How comical Chegual looks in breeches!

  Le 14 décembre 1759

  Today, soldiers who were going out to cut wood said they would deliver some here. Lieutenant Doig, who would not have been cutting wood under any circumstances, watched them leave and then walked away with a disturbed expression on his face.

  I found him in the library, staring out the window. I saw him before he saw me. I walk like a nun, he told me. Silently. Unlike my rabbit, whose claws make a sound against the wood floors. Shall I pound my heels? I recall thinking. I did not say it aloud, though.

  I set a cloth-covered bowl on the table. Ointment. I told him that if it is massaged onto his wound twice a day, it might speed the healing.

  To myself I thought, And my penance will mercifully be over.

  Le 15 décembre 1759

  Chegual has confessed to me in private that he likes Lieutenant Doig. He said, “I should hate him. I should call him out to battle, but I have no heart for more killing. Not for the sake of Québec.”

  Chegual is a warrior. I have accepted that. What will he do with his life if he never goes into battle again?

  Le 16 décembre 1759

  A day of surprises.

  Lieutenant Stewart escorted Mme Claire to Mass this morning. They walked behind the rest of us and
Lieutenant Doig walked next to me. He was not escorting me, of course. He had to walk next to someone, I suppose, and it happened to be me.

  Then this afternoon! I was startled when I saw Chegual and Lieutenant Doig armed with muskets, knives and tomahawks, until Chegual said that they were going out to hunt. I stared at the lieutenant’s arm, at the place where his hand should be. He had pinned the cuff of his sleeve closed.

  Chegual left the house but I asked the lieutenant to wait while I ran up to my room. “Here,” I told him a moment later. I had made this and several more like it for him, I explained — only as part of my penance, he was to understand — but I did not think he would require them so soon. It was a straight stocking of soft, red wool. It would protect … Then, I fear I faltered.

  “My stump, mademoiselle? Merci for your kindness. Will you please assist me?”

  For all my nursing, for all I have seen and done, slipping the stocking over the end of his arm was somehow one of the hardest. “Will it do?” I asked.

  “Aye,” he said. “It will do well, mademoiselle. It will do well.”

  Lieutenant Doig came back exhausted, as did Chegual, but I believe both of them were content. Between them he and Chegual had devised a method so that the lieutenant may fire his weapon. Neither of them shot a single thing. Still, I believe the hunt was successful.

  What can aye possibly mean?

  Le 17 décembre 1759

  Lieutenant Stewart arrived on our doorstep yet again today. When Madeleine told him that Lieutenant Doig was not here, he did not seem the least bit disappointed.

  “I am calling on Mme Pastorel,” he said. “If she is at home and receiving visitors.”

  Madame was at home, and she received Lieutenant Stewart and called for a pot of hot chocolate. Then they went into the library. Madeleine and Cook could not stop giggling. In time, Lieutenant Stewart left, a book in his hand.

  I asked what he had borrowed.

  François de La Rochefoucauld’s Maximes, Mme Claire told me. Lieutenant Stewart said his favourite of the sayings is number 119: We are so used to disguising ourselves from others that we end by disguising ourselves from ourselves.

  Now that I think on it, that sounds like me.

  Le 18 décembre 1759

  Wigwedi is able to jump amazingly. I have calculated that could I jump as high as she, I would be able to leap onto the roof of the house. Today she leapt onto the table in the library. I offered to remove her, since Lieutenant Doig was seated there reading, but he waved aside my offer.

  “She is an interesting creature,” he said thoughtfully. “One would almost think she had a mind of her own.”

  “Of course she has a mind,” I countered. “It is a rabbit mind, but a mind nonetheless.”

  He laughed. I have never heard him laugh before.

  Le 19 décembre 1759

  Général Murray is generous. He is not a man I can easily like, but it is the truth. He is stiff and impatient and cannot seem to understand ordinary people. Still, he has made certain that the monastery has been kept supplied with not only wood, but with food. Because our household shelters an officer, some of those courtesies are extended to us.

  This afternoon the cook from the Porcupine is coming to our house to prepare a meal for Lieutenant Doig and so, of course, for us. At Mme Claire’s invitation, Lieutenant Stewart will attend. I can remember the wonderful food we had aboard Capitaine Guyot’s ship so many months ago. It is said that British cookery is very different from ours, but it seems they have slaughtered a pig, something that any good cook may be able to prepare nicely.

  What a feast we shall have.

  Le 20 décembre 1759

  Potatoes were brought into this kitchen, much to our horror! Cook nearly fainted. Potatoes are nothing but animal food, as everyone knows.

  “A civilized person will not eat them, even when starving,” I told Lieutenant Doig as we sat at the table awaiting the meal. I could feel the old prejudices rising up inside me. Really! I thought. Surely they cannot actually expect us to eat potatoes.

  He was silent a moment and then his face darkened. I cannot forget his angry words. He said, “But you have not experienced starvation, have you, mademoiselle? Hunger perhaps, but not a hunger so great that you will eat anything, no matter how repulsive. To one facing true starvation, potatoes would be a luxury.”

  The entire table grew silent.

  Lieutenant Stewart cleared his throat and said that I had not truly dined until I had dined upon Royal Navy victuals. He assure me that there was nothing like it in the world.

  Then the cook brought in the food. “Lobscouse and soused pig face,” he said proudly. There lay the face surrounded by greasy potatoes and unidentifiable things.

  “Where is the rest of the pig?” Mme muttered.

  After the meal, the cook announced a dessert was coming. A compote of fruit and eau de vie, perhaps? But, no. It was something all quivering called a spotted dog. Mme Claire is too well-bred to have said a word, but her face said all.

  Lieutenant Stewart laughed aloud. “It is only a boiled suet pudding with currents and prunes, madame and mademoiselle. Not a shred of dog went into it.”

  I may never be the same. The grease has set my bowels to … well, I am not myself.

  I suppose in some ways the dinner was a success, but Lieutenant Doig’s sour mood was not. He barely said a word all evening.

  Le 21 décembre 1759

  Where to begin here? With our apologies to each other for our remarks, Lieutenant Doig and I?

  No. I will begin with starvation. And with Culloden.

  Lieutenant Doig’s father fought against the British in that battle in 1746. The British put down the Scots’ uprising and their attempt to bring back their own king to Scotland. Lieutenant Doig was but a child of six years. He nearly starved that winter after his father died in battle. Many did, for the British had burned their crops. In the end his mother did die — from giving her food to him, he is certain. In the spring he was taken to France where his grandparents lived. Thus the name Guillaume, which is his grandpère’s.

  When Lieutenant Colonel Fraser, Lieutenant Doig’s commander, formed his Highland Regiment two years ago, Lieutenant Doig bought his commission and joined. As a soldier in this regiment, he would again be able to wear a kilt. Since Culloden, no Scot may wear the garment under pain of death, nor may their clans gather any more. It gives the lieutenant great joy to wear his kilt. He has no love for the British crown, any more than Chegual has for the French. They are both but a means to an end, he told me, to redeem the honour of Scotland and his people.

  “In spite of the cost?” I asked him. “How can we forget all that? All the people we loved who are gone now?”

  “One takes strength in memories,” he said.

  I will eat potatoes uncomplainingly from now on.

  Le 22 décembre 1759

  Wigwedi has taken to begging. This she has often done with me, but it is Lieutenant Doig upon whom she now fixes her attention. Cats will jump onto the lap of a person who dislikes them. The lieutenant does not dislike rabbits, but he is an unlikely candidate for rabbit affections. Still, there you are.

  Today she stared at him. Then she nudged his leg. I thought it would go no further, but she raised herself up and stood with her front paw on his calf. “What does it want?” he asked me, clearly amused.

  She, I told him. I explained that she wanted his apple, that she was begging.

  He laughed and said that he supposed that he must give her a bit of it, so he did not insult her. Then he looked at me sideways. “For that would be a grave error in rabbit etiquette,” he said. “A serious faux paw.” He smiled and asked if I had caught the joke.

  “What joke?” I asked.

  He confessed that Mme Claire had told him that I speak some English.

  “Only a little,” I admitted. What else had she told him? I thought.

  “In English, a rabbit’s foot is a paw, a word that sounds much like pas,
and is spelled p-a-w. A faux paw, a mistake in rabbit etiquette?”

  It took me a moment to grasp the joke.

  The lieutenant looked down at Wigwedi as he fed her a bite of apple. Then he said, “She does very well with only three legs.”

  Indeed, I answered, and I told him about Wigwedi and the lynx. An ordinary rabbit might not have been able to survive such a thing, but she is no ordinary rabbit, I said. She had not let the loss of a mere leg … I stopped then, and put both hands over my mouth, for I realized with horror what I was saying and how I would be hurting his pride.

  “I have already taken a lesson from your brave little rabbit, mademoiselle,” he said. “I cannot let myself be bested by a rabbit, can I? Even one that is no ordinary creature.”

  No. I answered, still very embarrassed. That would be a grave faux paw.

  How he laughed at that.

  Le 23 décembre 1759

  Potatoes are one thing, but now it is tea. I have only had the drink when I am ill, and then it is brewed as strongly as possible, so that the most good may be got from it. It is a medicinal drink, after all.

  The day was brisk. When Lieutenant Doig and Lieutenant Stewart returned from a long walk, they asked for tea. Perhaps they are feeling unwell, I thought, and so I brewed a good, strong pot. I poured for them. They were speaking with Mme Claire and so they simply nodded their thanks. Lieutenant Doig took a sip without looking into his cup and immediately began to choke. What was this? he gasped.

  Lieutenant Stewart was coughing, crying out that he was poisoned!

  I assured them that it was tea, black and strong as it should be. How could it do them any good otherwise?

  Any wee lassie could make tea properly, I was told. Lieutenant Doig exclaimed that he could stand his sword up in it! And then I suppose he saw the expression on my face. “Which is precisely the way we like it. Oui, Jonathan?” He sipped again, his eyes watering. I stood there and watched them drink the entire pot.

  From now on, even if he is near death, he will make his own tea, if he cannot find himself a wee lassie — whatever that is — to do it.