Louisbourg Part Two

Louisbourg A novella by Thomas Hurtt

Part Two March 19, 1757 Lt. Bouchard had completed a preliminary inspection of the town’s defenses and he was appalled by what he had seen thus far. Simply from a structural standpoint, not even taking into account the quality of the soldiers on station, the fortifications were a disaster. That the fortress design was outdated was no surprise, of course. He had studied the plans and specifications in great detail during the long weeks of his Atlantic crossing. The defenses had been conceived in a time before long range, high trajectory bombardment was a possibility. They had been built to withstand a breach in the wall and a storming of troops through the gap. This construction had become obsolete in recent times. The enemy now had the capability of lobbing mortars over the bastions, raining terror down on the town within. But this was a problem that Bouchard knew of in advance. Long hours had been spent shipboard, projecting angles and measuring distances on plans and profiles, conceptualizing strategies in three dimensions. It was not wasted time. He had already developed some ideas on how to counter the design’s shortcomings. But plans are a poor substitute for reality. And that reality was disturbing. The shock that reeled him off his moorings was the poor craftsmanship of the whole affair. Where was the fine cut block that had been shipped from France at such expense to the Treasury? The walls before him were constructed of some sort of provincial stone, quite inferior in quality, much less durable in these harsh climes. Bouchard leaned on the parapet pondering this over, his fingers unconsciously drumming the clammy masonry. His fingertips felt gritty, slimy, and he wiped them on his breeches. A tingling feeling began creeping along the base his spine, giving him the sensation of being watched, up here upon the parapet. He turned and looked about him, but nothing remarkable caught his notice. The town’s activity stirred below him in the same ordinary way it usually did. Sailors and soldiers, merchants and tradesmen, women and children, all noisily pursuing their own cares or nosily gossiping everyone else’s. He was aware that he’d become a subject of curiosity and speculation among the inhabitants. This was only natural, he supposed, in a town so remote, so isolated. One that hadn’t seen strangers for quite a while. Shrugging off the nagging feeling that his actions were being monitored, he returned to his contemplations. What had become of all the imported stone? It was nowhere in evidence, not in any wall, not in any building. None, that is, except the Intendant and the Governor’s residences. It wasn’t nearly enough to explain the missing amount. Bouchard had seen the shipping manifestos, knew it had come over in vast quantities as ballast. So where did it go? He could only suppose it had been diverted to…to somewhere else.

Possibly, it could have been sold to the English settlements further south. Only, a wholesale pilfering like that was just too big an enterprise… Unless, of course, it was done in collusion with some very high official – the Intendant or the Governor himself. And it must also have been going on for an awfully long time. Years, perhaps. An disagreeable sensation pulled the lieutenant from these dark thoughts. What the devil was on his fingers? Bouchard looked at his soiled hand and then at the top of the wall he had been drumming upon. The mortar was crumbly, sticking to his fingers damply, staining them. A dawning sense of horror blossomed in his mind as he realized what he was looking at. He scratched at a masonry joint with a fingernail - and left a shallow furrow behind. The blood draining from his face, he sought the little folding knife he always carried in his pocket. Chunks of mortar broke loose under the pressure of the blade’s point. He crumbled them in his hand, making a grainy paste. “Mon Dieu,” he breathed. “It’s just sand. “They’ve used common sea sand to make the mortar.” *** Corporal Roche was thrown headlong into the street, but he barely felt a thing. Not in a physical sense, at least. He was quite rumbled in spirit, however. And also a little shocked to find that he had been put down so easily. He was a large man, and once powerfully built, but he had to admit now that much of that muscle had become corpulence. He lay on the smooth cobbles for a while, the town’s people that walked past giving his prone form a wide berth. He used this time to good purpose, though. Feeling around in his mouth with his tongue, he discovered that most of his teeth were still there. That was good. He also tried to recollect the course of events that led to this pathetic condition. It was something that he said to La Vache - of that he was sure. Something about La Vache’s woman. Or possibly his mother. His memory was a bit foggy on that point, and the fumes from his breath were making any thinking difficult at the moment. The corporal picked himself up, brushing at his justaucorps with fumbling fingers, wiping at the muck that he was sure was there, but could not see in this light. Not that it mattered much. His sergeant wasn’t a stickler on such things. He steadied his feet, considering whether he should attempt to retake the tavern. It might be best to let Jean La Vache alone for a while. Another tavern, La Chevre Mauvaise, was just a couple doors down… He could manage to get himself as far as that, if he needed to. They did water the brandy there, though… It was another factor to consider. He made up his mind to make the trek to the other tavern. As he walked, the corporal patted his pockets confidently. He was still flushed with money, having recently received his pay. He was not met, however, by the comforting jingle he had expected. He groped deeply, thoroughly, vainfully through his pockets, but it was quite useless. They were empty. A vague memory floated up before him then, a remembrance of pushing his last coins into a pile with those of La Vache and Bellec. And the pretty serving wench leaving a full bottle on the table in exchange. They had barely started in on this new bottle when La Vache had got maudlin about his woman. Or his mother. Roche wasn’t sure which he meant. But he was sure that no woman was that virtuous, and he made his boon drinking companions privy to this truth. And now, for his troubles, he found himself out in the cold. Literally. While they sat before a crackling hearth and

finished the bottle with that comely wench, Veronique. The bottle that was in part his own! Merciful heavens, it was a lot for a man to bear. He had just made up his mind afresh to take what was rightfully his, when something across the street caught his eye. Something that saved him from making a dreadful, painful mistake. *** The Belle Fleur would be departing soon and Lt. Bouchard thought he could use this to his purpose. His masters at the Ministry would be anxious for a report, even if it was just his first impressions. And he could give them something, a confirmation of the fragmented suspicions that had already rattled Versailles. He penned a few hasty pages and sought out an officer from the vessel. He had made a good contact in the 4th lieutenant, Francis Dubois, on the outbound voyage. Bouchard thought the naval officer could serve as a reliable courier, if the request could be framed in the right way. Some inquiries at the quay led Bouchard to Les Trois Fleches. This was an upscale parlor where gentlemen of quality could play at cards or other games of chance, beyond the prying eyes of the common. Bouchard had known of its existence, of course, but had purposefully avoided it until now. This was not from any scruple about vice, but rather from the knowledge that he had too much fondness for this sort of entertainment. It was something that had tripped him up before, something that had almost broken his military career, in fact - and had ended his engagement to the enchanting Marie-Louise Devere. Now he had been given a chance to redeem his honor, at least. He knew the obvious pitfall when he saw one, so he guarded himself while he scanned the tobaccofumed room for his man. Bouchard found Dubois seated at a whist table, a handsome pile of coin before him, concentrating intently on the table’s play. He watched for a quarter hour, but saw nothing in the man’s actions that would indicate he was cheating. But a card cheat he was, nonetheless. He was just very, very good at it. Bouchard had lost a fair amount to him, shipboard, before he caught on. And at his first private opportunity, he had call him on it. This was met with an outraged denial, of course. That was only to be expected. But Bouchard wasn’t interested in a payoff. He didn’t even want back the money he had lost. Dubois could even carry on fleecing his fellow officers - if they didn’t mind, what business was it of his? Bouchard’s price had been this - if he found himself in need of assistance, it was expected that Dubois would have his back. He had thought at the time that he would never need to trouble the naval officer. Danger, if there was any, probably wouldn’t manifest itself for weeks, or even months and by then the Belle Fleur would have sailed. But he found that he liked having the insurance, anyway. “You’re having a run of good fortune, my friend,” Bouchard confided in the lieutenant’s ear. Dubois stiffened in his seat, but did not turn around to see who had addressed him. He knew. It showed in his play, which turned reflexive, almost wooden. “I beg a few words, if you could spare me the time,” he continued. “When you are at liberty, of course.” Bouchard could feel his discomfort, though the other players at the table seemed not to notice anything was amiss.

“I will be with you shortly, sir. I must play this through.” “Certainly. And perhaps we can talk out on the street? It’s rather close in here.” “Yes. Of course.” Bouchard left the smoky den, clearing his lungs in the cool night air. After a few minutes, he wandered around behind the club. The garden here was a dismal blight, and he walked carelessly amidst its ruin. But by the time the back door had swung open, as he knew it would, he had taken a position beside it . His hand shot out and caught hold of the fleeing Dubois. Slamming him roughly against the side of the building, Bouchard put an abrupt halt to his flight. “Were you thinking of going somewhere, lieutenant?” “Unhand me! What is it that you want?” “Come, let’s take a walk together,” Bouchard soothed. “I might even make this worth your while.” “And if I don’t?” the officer snapped defiantly. Bouchard laughed, but it was just to himself. A private joke. He took the lieutenant’s arm and guided him through the alley to the lit street beyond. “I think I can promise that you’ll wish that you had.” *** Corporal Roche couldn’t believe his luck. Across the street was Lt. Boucher! Roche knew it was him, from the purposeful way he bore himself, with that newcomer’s self-importance. The corporal also knew that this would fade to indifference and lethargy with time. Louisbourg had a way of doing that to everyone. The sheer boredom of being posted in this backwater station, with none of the delights and diversion of home, corroded professionalism very quickly. Roche hadn’t seen Boucher in days. He wasn’t sure where the lieutenant was keeping himself, but it wasn’t in any of the parts he frequented. And he hadn’t missed him all that much - the man wasn’t as goodly a drinking comrade as Bellec or Roussel or even La Vache. But he did have money. Roche remembered that. Boucher had paid for a fair amount of the wine, last time. And this gave the corporal an idea that he might be so generous again. Boucher was in the company of another gentleman, one that looked uneasy, almost to the point of distress. Roche observed this second man closely, trying to make out if it was someone he knew, someone that would make a good third for their drinking party. Disgust overran his features as the corporal realized that the man was a naval lieutenant. Why was Boucher rubbing elbows with that sort? Roche had credited him with better tastes. He, personally, didn’t care for any ship’s crew and avoided them whenever he could. And this was not so easy a thing to do, in a port town who’s only communication with the larger world was the sea. But a naval officer? They were the worst. Roche needed to consider how he would get Boucher away from this unseemly company. And he set his mind to the task as he crossed the street to intercept them. *** A few hours previously, a dark cloaked man had left his offices and stepped out onto the slick, muddy cobbles. A misty drizzle fell, had been falling all day, making the

streets gloomy and casting the shabby town in its most depressing light. Dusk was falling also, an event the man had been waiting for, shadowiness to hide a fell purpose. He slouched down the black tricorn, a borrow - not his own, and pulled up the lapels of his cloak. It was not so much a proof against the rain, but to mask his own too recognizable features. In this guise he appeared quite unremarkable, as he slogged through with mucky boots, the streets now an open running sewer. One hand held a perfumed handkerchief to his face, an attempt to ward off evil vapors. In the other was a silver-headed cane, secure beneath the folds of his cloak. Only the tightness of his grip betrayed his agitation. Down along the waterfront, he entered in through a low doorway. It was one of the rougher taverns on offer here, one that had never seen a high government official or any of the regular soldierary. Even Louisbourg’s provincial guard rarely ventured inside, and their standards were notoriously low. The tavern, La Mouette Noire, was crowded tonight, despite all this snubbing. A motley assortment of wharf rats, the denizens of this most squalid section of the town, together with the liberty crew of recently moored privateer held sway. They cavorted boisterously with the local drabs. Sooty tallow candles, too few to illuminate the room beyond a vague dimness, cast a pall in the air as thick as the rolling banks of fog outdoors. He breathed hesitantly in here, the perfume losing out to the loathsome stink of packed damp humanity. One of the painted trollops, a virtual walking contagion of venereal disease, attached herself to the man’s arm as he surveyed the room. He shook her off violently, his flesh creeping at her mere touch. The dark man pushed his way through the lively throng, taking a care not to get drink sloshed upon his cloak, and failing in that one respect. His way became blocked, at a point, by a ruffian pair too stupefied by liquor to move on their own accord. A few judicious knocks of his cane, however, gained him the successful passage. The object of his quest, Morjuet, was amusing himself with a trull when he entered the room. The girl, for she could not have been more than fifteen, gave a start at the rap the cane made as it kissed the doorframe. She jumped off Morjuet’s lap, wide eyed as she tugged her chemise back over her shoulders, modesty still holding some influence, even if innocence had been banished. Morjuet leaned back in his chair and laughed, enjoying deeply this unexpected parody of virtue. When he had collected himself, he wiped at the tears forming in his eyes and addressed the newcomer. “Oh, it’s you! I haven’t seen you for some time, Monsieur. Please,” he gestured, “seat yourself, my friend. Take a little wine” And then to the girl, giving her backside a playful smack, “Off with you, little one. But don’t stray too far. We shouldn’t be too long, I think.” The girl gave the stranger a curious look as she took her leave, but his face was still cast in shadow. She only came away with the impression of a man who didn’t belong in this part of town. A man who was powerful, and perhaps, dangerous. Only once she was gone, and the door had been locked from within, did the visitor remove his hat and cloak. He did not avail himself of Morjuet’s hospitality. He fixed himself in the doorframe, instead, leaning against it to take the weight off his gouty leg. His hearing was still quite good and from this perch he could monitor any motion in the corridor behind his back. One could never be too cautious.

Morjuet waited carelessly, slouched in his chair, absently fondling the chipped goblet before him. “I have a problem,” the guest said calmly. “It’s something that will interest you, I think.” This was a good way to begin. Morjuet was a fixer, a problem solver. “I always like your kind of troubles,” he replied. “They solve themselves so easily.” Looking up into the visitor’s face, a smile began to form at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me who you need me to kill.” (To be continued…)