Louisbourg Part One

Louisbourg A novella by Thomas Hurtt

Part One March 17, 1757 Bouchard leaned heavily on the window casement and peered down over the tatty street to the quay beyond. His head throbbed from the impromptu fête the night before – a revel filled with too many glasses raised, too many bottles emptied. The ship that had landed Bouchard had brought in a cargo of much needed supplies. And the bottles of French wine in her hold were among the first of these to be off loaded. “Boucher,” a rough voice sounded behind him. “Boucher. Come and join us. You should eat something, no?” “It’s Bouchard,” the Lieutenant replied, not bothering to turn around. He recognized the voice as belonging to Roche. Bouchard had met him last night and was less than impressed. The man was a dolt and a drunkard, but his offer had been made good naturedly enough. “You don’t look so good this morning.” This was followed by a guffaw of gruff laughter from some of the others crowding the breakfast table. These, the garrison he had joined up with last night, seemed professional in their drinking, if nothing else. “Maybe he has no head for wine?” offered another helpfully. It wasn’t the wine. The lieutenant could drink as hard as any gentleman when the occasion called for it. But the long passage from Brest, seven weeks of pitching and tossing, had left him racked and drained. He was physically wrecked before he put even the first drop to his lips. “Maybe Louisbourg doesn’t agree with you?” Bouchard turned his head, pulling his lips into a queasy smile. “Don’t fear. It’s not your piss-stained little town. I didn’t look so good when I was on the ship.” He regretted his quip though, as he caught sight of the slimy bacon Roche was pushing into his maw with sullied fingers. He stomach lurched, and he suppressed his rising gorge by sheer will alone. Pull it together, he steeled himself. You are a king’s officer. This is not a good way to begin. Bouchard grabbed his sword belt, wig and tricorn and managed a hasty descent of the steep staircase. In the central room below, a gaggle of the provincial guard was milling about and he had to roughly push his way past them to gain the open air. But out in the dawning light of the Rue de l’Etang, he felt better. The clean sea air cleared his head a bit and the nausea receded. He unconsciously touched the commission in his pocket, thinking of the eloquently penned words, the signature of the King’s minister, the trust that had been placed upon his shoulders. You have a real opportunity to make your mark here. A real chance to make a difference in this war. But no amount of flowery language could mask the difficulties his orders portended. The need for absolute secrecy and discretion.

He walked a while and climbed to the top of the Queens Bastion rampart. The view was quite good from up here. Standing near one of the dark, cold cannon, with the brisk sea breeze ruffling at the tails of his coat, he watched the solitary guard dully patrolling this section of the wall. He turned his back to the town just beginning to bustle below him in the foggy morning half light, and gazed out over the moorland. His commission worried him. He was given a certain amount of independence, that was true. But would it be enough for the task at hand? Bouchard did not even know the extent of the problem, but if it went as high as the Governor’s office… He also wondered how much impact his report could ultimately have. Versailles was noted for it’s corruption, too. His fingers tapped at the pommel of his sword as he pondered this over. The lieutenant had no delusions about his own personal safety, at least. He knew that if word of his inquiries came to the wrong ears, the protection of his Ministry was a long, long way off. “You have come in on the Belle Fleure?” a woman’s voice asked behind him. Bouchard turned his head and looked into the fresh young face behind him. The girl had bright green eyes and was comely in the soft dawn that enveloped her. There was a delicacy about her, Bouchard thought, that the harsh climes had not yet marred. He also noted the small infant she cradled, wrapped warm against the morning chill. “We anchored yesterday.” “And you are here to inspect the fortifications?” “Yes, but…how did you know…?” “It is a small town, Monsieur. News gets around quickly.” “I see. Of course.” “We were expecting you sooner, you know.” Her tone seemed to hold a note of reproach, though Bouchard could not fathom why it should. “There was some trouble in our crossing. Quite a lot of heavy weather. It’s still very early in the season.” Why did he feel the need to make excuses? This woman un-nerved him with her forthrightness. “I am glad you arrived safely. Yours is the first supply ship we have seen in months.” “You are lucky we did not meet with the enemy,” he quipped. “Then you would have to wait a bit longer.” Bouchard could joke about it now, but the threat had been very real at the time. The British had been snapping up an awful lot of French shipping. “Lise Guyon,” a voice called from below the rampart. “Lise Guyon!” They both turned to see a stout matron rubbing her grubby hands on a greasy apron. “Come along, now. I am sure your husband will soon be wondering where you are.” “I should mind my own affairs if I were you, Fantine Chabert. The walls of your house are not so proof against sound as you might think.” The matron left them in a huff, but she did leave. Lise turned back to the lieutenant. “She is right, I am afraid. I must go soon. But first, I need to ask you something. Will you deal plainly with me?” “Madame, I will endeavor to do my best.” “Some say that the enemy is assembling a great force to come against us. That they could be at the gates of this fortress as soon as this summer.”

Bouchard said nothing, but on his face, Lise read volumes. “Will the king send soldiers – real soldiers – to protect us?” she pressed. “You have little faith in Governor Drucour then?” “No,” she answered flatly. “Why not?” “This new governor – you will see, if you meet him. He is nothing if not arrogant.” “And you fear his overconfidence will undo him?” “Yes. Of course it will.” “I see.” Here was someone unafraid to speak her mind. Bouchard thought that this unvarnished information could be useful, so he pressed her a little. “And what, Madame, of the garrison?” “It’s even worse there. Our soldiers are nothing but a drunken rabble. Only our prostitutes need be troubled by them.” “But surely you have confidence in his Majesty’s officers?” “The officers here are the dregs of France. This is the last posting that any of them would choose. There is not a one of them that cares for this town or wants to be here. And when the time comes, they won’t be the ones to defend it. They won’t protect us.” Her babe began fussing and she broke off to tend to it. Bouchard averted his eyes while she quieted her little one with her breast. He looked out over the moor instead, his mind drawing back to his task ahead. Surely the situation here could not be as bad as she perceived. “That’s the way they came, the last time,” Lise noted bitterly, following his gaze. “Who?” he asked, as her voice penetrated his thoughts. “Those whoresons, the English. Them and their colonial swine.” She turned her head and spat on the rough stone parapet. “They landed out there, beyond that point. Duchambon was governor then. And he did nothing to oppose them. He cowered behind these walls for two weeks while the English dragged their cannon across that marsh.” “You sound as if you were here.” “I was.” “Mon Dieu,” Bouchard gasped. “I was only nine then, but I learned what it really is to know fear.” A dark comma of hair had escaped from under her plain bonnet and was dangling before one eye. She swept at it with an unconscious gesture, but it stubbornly disobeyed. “And your family…what of them?” A distance came into her eyes and they softened a bit at the edges. “My father and my sister were killed during the siege.” Bouchard grasped for something to say. He wasn’t sure what she wanted of him. “I’m sorry,” he settled for. And then a new wrinkle occurred to him. “But after Louisbourg fell, all the habitants were deported back to France…” “Yes.” “That means that you came back.” Bouchard had not yet been in this new world a full twenty-four hours and yet he knew that once he departed, he would never willing return. “But…why?”

“I have my own reasons. They are my concern only. I think, Monsieur, that I have answered enough questions. And it is time that you answered mine. Will our King be defending us with something other then these cast-offs?” This cut to the heart of the matter. His Majesty wanted the war to be a European affair, wanted to use it to enlarge France’s sphere on the continent. He wasn’t interested in a distant backwater. The prevailing thought was to concentrate resources in Prussia. If colonial possessions were lost, surely they could be retrieved at the treaty table. Both Quebec and Louisbourg had fallen before, in earlier conflicts, and both were returned in this very way. All this might work out in the grand strategy, Bouchard thought, but for those in this barren, forsaken land, it was a bitter dram to quaff. “I don’t know,” he simply said. Her eyes flashed at him with an unexpected, inexplicable anger. His answer was not good enough for her, not by a long chalk. “I think there is much that you know, Monsieur, but are unwilling to say.” He wanted very much to tell her it was going to be alright, that she need not fear for her safety or that of her child. But he couldn’t find it in him to lie to her, even if it was a pitying, merciful lie. When he spoke again, it was not from that cagy, calculating place in his mind, the one that had pulled him through so many a tight spot before. He was too un-nerved for that, shaken too off kilter by his ill health, by her sudden anger, by the painful loveliness of her face… “Look, I can tell you this. The defense of New France and Isle Royale, it all that is spoken of in the halls of Versailles…” He broke off abruptly, catching himself, but maybe not in time. He should not have mentioned the palace. Besides, he did not know if what he was saying was strictly true. He had only been there but twice. Defense was on the mind, however, of the king’s chief minister – which is why Bouchard was here now. She gave him a disbelieving look, mistrust clouding in the deep verdancy of her eyes. “Pardon, Monsieur?” she asked incredulously. “Do you really expect me to believe that you were at the King’s palace?” She looked again at the braiding on his uniform. “You, a mere lieutenant? No, I am not so much a fool as that.” What could he do? He couldn’t un-speak his words. To try to explain himself would make it worse. She wouldn’t believe him. And it could be dangerous, too, jeopardizing his mission here. Bouchard opened his mouth to speak, but could think of nothing effective to utter. He was a fool – he should not have allowed himself to be cornered in this way. “I think you are giving yourself airs, Monsieur. Perhaps you are used to impressing simple country girls with your talk of the royal court? Is it not so?” She spat full in his face. “I think you will find that your words are wasted on me. Adieu, Lieutenant.” She turned from him in disgust, hastening to make good her escape. Bouchard still made no reply, made no attempt to call her back. What answer could he make? When she reached the bottom of the earthen rampway though, she whirled on him again. And as she spoke, her eyes were very hard, indeed.

“I think you will do very well here at Louisbourg, Monsieur. You already know how to drink – yes – don’t deny it, I have smelled it on you. I can give you a word of advice, though, if you’d like one,” she spat the words at him like musket fire. “Save your lies for the quay-side whores. They will believe anything, you need only pay them enough.” When she was lost from sight, Bouchard wiped the spittle from his cheek and lifted his gaze out over the town, towards the sea. Some small fishing shallops speckled the harbor and the horizon beyond, white dots bobbing on a field of azure. Nearer to shore, gulls played over the waves, innocently frolicking with the sea breezes. But beyond it all, out at the edge of his vision, where the fog banks still held sway, a coming menace loomed. He knew it was out there, could feel it in the core of his being. And he also knew it was steadily drawing closer. (To be continued…)