Authors: D.A. Woodward
Gilbert received the news with interest. Stirred with fascination by encounters anywhere within the colony, he welcomed an introduction to this fortress vital to colonial interests, both French and English, to which his friend had earlier described. Taken by British forces from Maine years earlier due to its position on Cape Breton Island (as an impediment to communications between Britain and America) and the continued attempt by the French to bar trade and movement by the English further inland, it had since been rescinded to France under the terms of the Treaty of Aix la Chapelle, and enjoyed a prosperous and invigorating society, albeit under the hostile eye of English-American interests.
True to his word, and on the tip of another stormbound assault, they made land; Louisbourg flickered in and out of view like a vaporous apparition, its citadel rising from the low peninsula, as they entered the sprawling harbour. After making mid harbour anchorage, the
Captain, several of his crew, Louise—who was not yet fully recovered though overjoyed to be free of sea travel for the time being—and Gilbert disembarked to a small shallop which took them to the wharf.
No sooner than they set foot on land, then the winds picked up, stirring into swells in sky and sea.
“I think you would do well to stay in an Inn on Rue Toulouse,” Bruge stated quite knowledgably as both he and Gilbert helped the ailing Louise, past sheds and piles of cod under cloth in preparation for the impending rains. As they strode past homes and royal storehouses that lined their path, Bruge added, with a gesture, “the citadel. This town is very well protected. It’s actually a fort within a fortress …the colonial Governors residence …barracks quarters and others …Notre Dame des Anges the chapel …”
Louise wasn’t listening. She had but one objective; to remove her heavy clothing and find a comfortable place to rest her head. The rest would come later...
She was not aware of the rain and although the wind shook the windows, she was not aware of its danger. It was enough to say, she was content to find the peace of a real bed and a loving man with which to share it. He had been very patient with their situation. It had not been a romantic start to a new marriage and it was still no further along as she struggled to right her
health. She reasoned it might yet be sometime before she could bring herself to sail again, but from what little she saw of the town, it would not be unpleasant to stay.
Already, the separation from Shanata was keenly felt, though she must convince herself the action taken was correct; each had reached an awareness of their paths and neither could converge.
The challenge now, was to eventually find their way to Montreal and a meeting with Madame Girald. The truth might be hard to bear but nothing was comparable, despite her newfound love, to the incessant questions and aching in her heart for her beloved son. “If only I had a body to bury,” she thought sadly, a tangible testimonial to his loss…
Gilbert, still asleep, moaned and moved closer to her side, placing his arm across her chest and lips against her temple, hips pressed ardently to her. He needed her and she needed to feel life. Seconds later, the honeymoon began.
………
Had Nicholas been told in his former life, that his world would change dramatically in so short a time, he would have laughed in their face, but here, under the canopy of a society both strange and alluring, he had found his fate?
In the ensuing days of recuperation, nothing took charge of his mind but the when and where of his ability to escape. Carefully administered to by a small succession of young Iroquois maidens failed to subdue his continual fear of what lay in store, for he knew these were not a people to be trifled with and would not expend the energy without a calculated and torturous methodology. Perhaps they will spare me, he thought, but for what? The woman with the clawed hand had shown him that; attacking as, as she had, at his blue uniform with the frenzy of a lunatic, nothing was remotely sane in these surroundings.
As he recovered, bedridden but with little or no pain, most of his waking hours were spent in the analysis that comes of idleness; the confusing study of a people so at odds with his own. Though he understood something of their tongue, fluent, as he was, in the Huron language, they were careful to converse in anything but the most prosaic terms in his presence, thus he was completely unaware of the particulars of his present society or geography. They were a paradox, for in their seeming hatred of the white man, they had saved him from his inevitable demise.
And though his initial fear was that of the lamb being fatted for slaughter, days and weeks passed with no further sign of impending doom. But for the children, who regarded him as an obvious source of curiousity; tickling his face with feathers or tugging on his, now heavy beard as he feigned sleep, he was tolerated rather than accepted, and for this alone was he grateful. He waited for the change to come and instead found himself, while not entirely at peace, no longer imminently fearful.
Still, the clawed woman both fascinated and frightened him. Her actions, though never to be repeated, left a psychological scar almost as deep as the ragged line along the surface of his skin, and since that night, she had been nothing more than a flickering flame; skittering about the longhouse in singular task, giving no more thought to him, than the myriad pelts that hung along the pallet above his head. Even during his worst times, he mentally sought her out; hoping she would be called upon to tend him, though it was not to be. She was still relatively young; roughly his age, he guessed, though nothing in her countenance would suggest an immaturity of spirit. She had undergone more than her share of misery and sorrow and despite himself, he could not help but be affected. Though slightly scarred facially, she was beautiful in a way not noticeable in the others: her long black hair framing features both soft and sensual, in the curving fullness of lip, delicate nose and elliptical eye. Though petite, her arms and legs were long and slender and as she
moved about her tasks, the deerskin tunic shifted about her shapely frame, giving an intermittent glimpse of a rounded breast through the widened armhole, he felt an unwanted passion stir his loins. At these moments, he would close his eyes, angered by his carnal desires and anxious lest an expression from his body betray his hidden thoughts. Even in that, he knew a measure of disappointment at no longer knowing her smell and touch in her healing administrations. He was amazed at the adeptness of the clawed hand when he had initially felt it; emptying, cutting, tending; an item which now inspired admiration rather than revulsion, and he only sought the origin of its condition.
Once able to walk within the longhouse, albeit ungainly, the women outfitted him with leggings, moccasins and a fur cape, whereupon two older women set about cutting the offending beard with less delicacy than he had hoped, and with a titter of satisfaction, sent him into the crisp, clear air for the first in many weeks.
Eyes, which stung at first contact with smoke within the longhouse, felt the bite of a different sort; a pierce of blinding light that sent his head spinning and already tenuous balance, further askew.
A small dusting of snow covered the courtyard adding to his misery. Not wishing to appear foolish he braced himself against a drying hut, and after a period of adjustment, trained his newfound sights on his peculiar surroundings.
A small group of elderly men, talking quietly in a corner of the enclosure, looked up, chuckling in a manner that both disconcerted and confused him. Having spent all of his time indoors, he had seen men only fleetingly and wondered now at their response. Could it be they were innocently amused by his obvious struggle or did it relate to what was in store?
One old fellow cracked a toothless grin, gesturing with his gnarled finger. Nicholas was at odds with what to do, but ignoring would seem the worse of two reactions. Drawing closer in faltering steps, as much in trepidation as in dubious ability, he stooped before him.
The man reached out his hand, grabbing Nicholas’ leg with a tightened grip that caused his limb to ache.
“Willow leg,” he said with a salty laugh, referring to the shakiness in his gait, “You sit with us.”
Relieved by the command, he complied with an effort he attempted to conceal, fanning the cape around himself in answer to the chilly nip. He was not certain whether to admit knowing the language but now thought he might have a better chance if he did.
“I will speak to you.” He uttered simply, his voice as raspy and as foreign to him as the words that he spoke. He watched as their eyes widened in surprise and was pleased that it had the desired effect. Perhaps they would respect him more knowing he was not to be fooled.
The older man recovered quickly and began more seriously without preamble, “It is good you understand, Willow Leg. We have had much talk about you at our council meeting, and the decision has been made to give you to our Headwoman. She is in need of a brother. A slave to help her. She will choose.”
Nicholas involuntarily gasped, though quickly recomposed. So they hadn’t meant to kill him after all … but what was worse… a slave! Could he escape in his present state, barely able to walk a distance with cold still upon them? And what of a return to his former life and duties as an officer, and dare he say, husband? He had tried not to think about Sophie, the betrayal…the slaying of her lover. She was likely enjoying the spoils of his wealth, in the arms of another. Better him then me, he thought wryly. How he loathed her. Now, he was merely exchanging one form of enslavement for another...
But the thought of becoming someone’s chattel rankled him to the core. He was not, nor could ever be, owned. Who might this woman be? What kind of work would he be forced to perform? Would it be of a sexual nature? Was there a choice?
“I willingly accept this honour from the council”, Nicholas calmly stated, nothing in his countenance to betray his outrage and disquiet, “and I am grateful for the chance to repay the family for my life …”
Faces flit across the landscape of his mind: wizened beings. Was it the old woman with the star-shaped scar on her forehead and abrasive tone, whom often stayed indoors directing others in the household. Or maybe the fire-stoker; toothless, half-blind, wheezy with the smoke that filled her endless occupation? The others were far too young to assume the role of Headwoman.
As he spoke, a silent figure wrapped in a bear fur padded up behind him. He stirred at the sound and when he turned, was astonished to see the clawed woman: head half-covered, snow clinging to her long dark lashes, peering at the group in seeming innocence of the discussion at hand. She was as beautiful as ever, and he felt embarrassed at seeing her; wondering what she would think of his new role within the family. She was certain to gloat. Or maybe it wouldn’t reach her. After all, since that first night, their eyes had not met. He had watched her; fascinated by her languid movements and calm efficiency, but she performed her tasks without seeing him. It appeared that she chose to ignore, forget that he was as much human as she, with the same feelings, wants and needs...
“Ah, she has come.” The old man continued, turning to include her in their discourse. “I have told the Willow Leg of our decision and he is in agreement.”
The subtle raise of her lips signalled her response.
“Take him, Ehta.”
His mind opposed his senses. He was not hearing correctly. Was she the Headwoman? He had given himself to the one who could do the most harm? But she was too young to be Headwoman! What did she want with him? There was no telling how she would treat him now...
With the help of an elder, she affixed a hemp and deerskin lace and leather skin collar to his neck, bound his wrist and attached it with a lead to the collar, and thence to her hand. Yanking him with a gesture toward the longhouse, he fumbled to his feet and dragged his aching limbs back into the choking confines, to begin a new kind of imprisonment. No need for questions. The matter was settled. He was about to enter his new life as a slave.
Chapter 17
The tavern was near to closing when Gilbert and Louise were reluctantly roused from their aerie chamber by the need to satisfy a hunger of another sort.
They knew it had been a night of robust conviviality for they had awoken several times with the garrulous tumult, but they had not expected the disparate groups of individuals they now saw. Traders, missionaries, sea captains, fishermen and a few women of dubious moral character, converged about the tables; some playing dominoes or cards while others engaged in Jeux de Quilles or Trique-Trac the more popular games and oblivious to the sudden emergence of foreigners in their midst.
Content to keep a low profile, Gilbert spied a small table by the sidewall, and quickly ushered his bride to an alcove there. The barmaid, florid faced, herself, heavy with spirits, took their order, returning with a tray of fish, bread, cheese and two tankards of ale, deposited with as much aplomb as a farmer dispensing swill.
“I’m sure my lady bride will forgive me the marriage meal, if not, I can scarce be certain she’ll not fling the wedding band away altogether.” Gilbert chuckled, with a wink.