Two Times a Traitor, page 12
Morpain said, “Always wear your jacket when reporting to King’s Bastion. The military has standards. You are a messenger, not a fisherman.” He rested his hand on Laz’s shoulder as they walked. “But for today, this is fine.”
They stopped on the outer wall in the northeast corner where a small bastion jutted out. It faced a finger of low swampy land surrounded by crisscrossing waves, and beyond that, open ocean. The air was fresh, tinged with warmth in the breeze that fluttered Laz’s billowing sleeves. He braced his hands on the wall and inhaled deeply.
“With these spring winds, all the bays will soon be clear of ice.” Morpain leaned sideways against the wall and squinted at the horizon. “How are you fairing at Madame Richard’s?”
“Isabelle, the maid, smiles at me every morning. She seems nice. The family mostly leaves me alone.”
A smirk settled on Morpain’s mouth. “Probably because of your strange request to bathe once a week. Very odd, coming from a farmer’s son, if you ask me.”
Laz cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Why are we up here?”
Morpain opened his jacket and pulled out two wooden cylinders trimmed with brass from under his sword belt. He handed one over. Laz telescoped out the collapsible spyglass, revealing smaller sections of all brass. He turned it over, pushed it closed, and lengthened it again. Pirates of the Caribbean popped into his mind. “Jacques said you were a pirate.”
Morpain swept into a courtly bow and straightened. “With a king’s commission to harass any and all British ships I encountered.”
Laz’s eyes widened. “And did you?”
“I did. Some I harassed until they sank, though mostly I captured ships, claiming them for King Louis. And now I serve his majesty as a port commander.” He extended his spyglass. “We are here to search the horizon. The townsfolk are growing concerned at the absence of ships. Supplies are dwindling, and the events over the winter—” He lifted the telescope to his eye. “Look for the smallest hint of a distant sail.”
What events? Laz almost asked, but it was obvious Morpain hadn’t meant to say anything. They spent the rest of a boring morning scanning the horizon. Morpain left and returned with bread, cheese, and spruce beer. They sat and leaned against the warming stone to eat, then returned to their searching.
As they worked it struck Laz how comfortable he felt in Louisbourg. Part of that was probably no longer being a prisoner. But everyone here simply accepted him. He was merely Lazare, the boy from Île Saint-Jean, and Morpain’s trusted messenger. The slow rhythm of the town reminded him of summers at Grandmère’s farm. Everyone worked hard, but no one hurried. They played hard, too, with evenings spent laughing and drinking and making music.
Two hours after they ate, Morpain startled Laz with a loud, “There!” He lowered his spyglass and pointed to the south-southeast. “A sail.”
It took a few minutes for Laz to locate what he’d seen. They continued scanning the rest of the horizon, but mostly focused on that single sail. They both saw when a tiny cloud puffed out from the sail.
Laz lowered the spyglass. “Was that—?”
“Cannon. Yes. There is another ship out there.”
Now they watched with urgency. Laz felt Morpain’s tension. Once Laz thought he saw what might have been a second sail, but it vanished. Morpain started to pace. The first sail continued to grow and angle toward Louisbourg. In the late afternoon Morpain announced they should go to his ship and wait.
On board his three-masted frigate, the Castor, he resumed pacing. Abruptly, he started shouting orders. Laz stayed out of the way on the quarterdeck as his commands brought the ship to life. Morpain sailed the ship out of the bay and anchored off the point. “We must know if we are greeting a friend or attacking a foe. Watch for the ensign, Monsieur Berenger.” On board ship he always called Laz that.
Half an hour later, they both spotted it. “French,” Laz said.
“A merchant ship,” Morpain replied. “Good. Very good.” He issued more orders to raise anchor and turn the ship around.
When the merchant ship came within hailing distance, Morpain had one of his men use flags to instruct the ship’s captain to report to the Castor. As they reentered the bay, Laz struggled with growing dread. He had promised Morpain he’d stay. He had also promised Hawkins he would try to sabotage the French. Part of him wanted to break both promises and escape. Both men trusted him, and another part of him didn’t want to let either one down.
The captain of the merchant ship came aboard and reported to Morpain on the quarterdeck. The man looked pale, with white brackets around his thin lips. He gripped both lapels of his green jacket as he spoke. “Port Commander, we were attacked, almost within sight of Louisbourg.”
“Yes. By whom?”
“The British.”
“A single ship?”
“I engaged a single ship, but two others were sailing into the fray when we caught a timely breeze and outran them. One of the ships was a man-o-war.”
Hands clasped behind his back, Morpain inhaled noisily through flared nostrils and exhaled slowly. “A blockade it is then.”
“Without a doubt,” the merchant captain replied.
Morpain’s bobblehead nod-shake seemed to confuse the man, but Laz had come to recognize it as a sign he was thinking. Morpain faced Laz. “Monsieur Berenger, it seems you might have been correct that the British have mischief on their minds. If you were also correct about numbers, their fleet will soon arrive and our defenses will be tested.”
“Do you still think we will be safe?” Laz asked.
Morpain looked surprised. “Without a doubt.”
The merchant captain added, “God is on our side.”
Laz had heard that before, from the New England men in Canso.
Morpain clamped his hand on Laz’s shoulder and grinned widely. “Your first true battle, Monsieur Berenger? Are you not excited?”
Laz grimaced. “That’s not the word that comes to mind.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Louisbourg seemed to hold its breath as they waited for the enemy to swoop in. Fear was a cold front that chilled conversations and hushed voices.
The next few nights, Laz went to Grandchamp’s Tavern, which was beside the restaurant where Morpain had fed him that first day. He liked the boisterous singing and laughing that had spilled into the street the first evening he’d passed by it. But now it held whispers and quiet ballads by a man who played guitar for a few deniers.
The people in the tavern didn’t have the same confidence as Morpain. They were worn out by the winter and lack of supplies. People spoke about rationing. A few soldiers mostly whispered among themselves and shot angry looks at anyone who glanced at them. Laz knew he was missing something but couldn’t figure out what.
He had gotten used to staying out as long as he wanted. Thirteen was considered practically a man here, and he enjoyed the freedom. He returned to Madame Richard’s close to eleven o’clock. As he turned down the Richards’ street, Laz met the sergeant on night patrol, with musket slung over his shoulder. His crude lantern, a wood frame and glass box with a candle, swayed back and forth. He greeted Laz in a quiet voice and he replied the same way. It wasn’t a night for loudness.
The house was silent, but as she had the last five nights, Isabelle sat in a chair by the fire. She stood when Laz entered and asked if he wanted to warm himself. He refused, took a candle, and excused himself upstairs, knowing it would take her a few minutes to bank the fire.
In the attic, heat still radiated from the central chimney. Laz retreated into his corner, created by wooden partitions the way some offices used half-walls to create cubicles. He stripped down to his long shirt, which not so magically turned into his nightshirt.
After a long day of running messages all over town for Morpain, Laz started to drift off as soon as he crawled under the blanket. Isabelle whispering his name jolted him awake.
“What?” Laz asked.
“Has Commander Morpain said? Will we be safe?”
Laz half sat up and peered at her candle-lit face. He nodded. “He insists we will be.”
She smiled. He realized he’d gotten used to it, and her. He smiled back. “Thank you for waiting up. It’s nice.”
Isabelle blushed and nodded, then disappeared behind the partition.
* * *
Before he reached the guardhouse, Laz remembered to do up all his buttons. He brushed off the navy jacket and reported to the guard. “Is Commander Morpain in the bastion this morning?”
He stared as if Laz were a raving idiot. “Of course. With all the officers on the walls, watching the British land.”
Laz jerked back a step. Where could they be landing? Laz couldn’t get the question out. He stuttered, “Th-the British?”
“Well it isn’t King Louis come to pay us a visit.”
Laz shot toward the tunnel entrance into the bastion like an Olympic sprinter. His shoes clattered over the stone floor, and he raced onto the parade square and toward the ramp that accessed the outer walls. A soldier partway up the ramp blocked his path. Laz lunged at the slope, grabbed a post above him, and pulled. He rolled onto the grassy flat, sprang to his feet, and charged toward the crenellated wall and the row of cannons facing outward.
Beyond a grouping of three cannons, the governor, Morpain, and all the other officers were gathered, facing the land beyond the walls. They were arguing.
Between two cannons, Laz veered to the wall. Twenty or thirty ships were anchored in the bay a few miles west. They looked like miniature toys. Skiffs were dots rowing toward shore.
Laz’s heart thudded like it was trying to kick its way out of a locked closet. He gripped the wall and tried to understand what he was seeing. This wasn’t an attack using ships like Morpain had expected, but a land attack. Laz didn’t think they could do any damage to this massive fortress. They couldn’t get close enough to fire their weapons without the fortress being able to fire back.
Could they?
Twenty feet away, the officers’ argument was getting louder. His back to Laz, Morpain shouted, “You have to repel the attack! We cannot permit them to gain a foothold.”
The governor looked ready to fall apart. He searched the faces of the other officers, and one said, “We are safe behind the walls, Governor. Why risk men for nothing? They will never get their cannons through the morass out there, and their muskets are like shooting peas at a man-o-war and expecting it to sink.” Another said, “They are colonists, not even regular army. They will sink their cannons in the mud, give up, and go home.”
The arguing continued like this for twenty minutes at least, Morpain growing more agitated as time passed. One officer hung back, but remained close to Morpain, as if giving him silent support.
Almost an hour after Laz arrived, Morpain demanded, “Give me 400 men. I will repel them.”
The group fell silent. The governor fidgeted for several minutes then said, “I don’t think…No, no. We cannot spare that many. No.”
Morpain threw his arms into the air and spun around. His frown was ferocious. Again Laz was reminded of a wolf. But his anger wasn’t with Laz, so he pointed to Morpain’s waist, mimed using a spyglass. Morpain tossed it to him then spun back toward the governor and officers. Their argument dropped into restless murmurs.
Laz took the spyglass and trotted down the ramp and across the parade ground. In the access tunnel, he entered the barracks, and with only two wrong turns, found the staircase up to the bell tower above the center of the long building. A soldier was already there. He made room, recognizing him as Morpain’s man. They both aimed spyglasses at the bay to the west.
From higher up, Laz had a better view of boats delivering men and equipment to the shore, though they were small even in the spyglass. More ships entered the bay. Laz studied them, hoping to spot the Constance. He wondered if he could sneak away, rejoin Hawkins, and get his medallion. Go home.
It was too far to pick out details. One of the schooners was gaff-rigged, but the rectangular sails were almost all Laz could make out. These spyglasses were not the high-powered scopes of the twenty-first century.
On the wall, the endless argument continued. Laz glanced down occasionally, but the activity on the bay was magnetic. The boats were like ants advancing in orderly lines from food back to the anthill. Rising land and scattered clumps of forest hid from view the boats actually beaching. Military procedure was something Laz had avoided learning about, given his dad’s military past, so he couldn’t imagine what the men on shore were doing. No smoke rose from campfires. And everyone kept out of sight below the ridge.
A soldier arrived in the tower, got a verbal report from the man beside Laz, and thundered back down the stairs. The man jogged across the square to the ramp, up it, then saluted and repeated what he’d been told. Laz lifted the spyglass again.
At Canso, more than 3,000 militiamen had gathered. Laz remembered hearing that number. Were they all landing on that one beach? Slow clumping announced the messenger soldier’s return. He was red-faced and looking winded. He pointed at Laz. “Berenger, Commander Morpain said to report downstairs to him immediately.”
Laz collapsed the spyglass and glanced down. Morpain was no longer in the cluster of officers.
“Now!” The soldier barked.
Laz startled and squeezed past the man, who cuffed the back of his head as he passed.
In the access tunnel, Morpain paced. When he saw Laz, he grabbed his arm. “Come, my young messenger. We must prepare to mount a counterattack.”
“A what?” Laz tried to pull away. “I’m not a soldier.” Apparently Morpain had won the argument.
“Of course you are not a soldier. You are my messenger. My runner. I will have need of you to keep contact with Captain La Boularderie in the field.”
Shaking his head, Laz said, “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Laz stared as the iron band returned to hug his ribs for the first time in many days.
Morpain grabbed Laz by both shoulders. “Men like you and I, we are made for moments such as these.” Laz felt his brow wrinkle in confusion. Morpain continued, “Today, history is unfolding. And we will make our mark on it. We must face this challenge. Face it and win, Lazare. You and I are not ones to skulk. Carpe diem. Seize the day! We will be recorded as the men who repelled the British colonists.” His voice fell to a whisper. “Not such a hard task, in the end. They are untrained buffoons.”
Win—the word echoed through his brain. Laz hated losing. But this? The clamp on his ribs didn’t ease. Morpain guided him outside the bastion. “We must prepare with all haste. Time is the real enemy, Lazare.”
He continued on, praising the virtues of action, as he marched Laz past the guardhouse. The band loosened as Morpain talked. He made it sound more like an exercise. Here was something more challenging than parkour, something that his dad might even approve of. And then Morpain said, “We must keep our families, our town, safe.”
Laz thought of Isabelle, how she had seemed like a friend last night. And the town. Louisbourg had become a place he liked very much. He fell into step with Morpain, who must have sensed the change for his hand dropped away and he strode toward the troops’ barracks in the neighboring bastion.
For Laz, the next few hours were a blur of delivering Morpain’s orders. Rushing, rushing. It wasn’t until they were ready to march out the Dauphin Gate that Laz took time to look around. He tapped Morpain’s shoulder. “This doesn’t look like 400 men.”
“The governor wouldn’t release 400. Our victory will be all the sweeter,” Morpain said, face glowing with excitement.
“So how many men do we have to repel the landing?” Laz asked.
“Eighty.”
Morpain swept Laz alongside him as the other officer gave the order to march.
Eighty. Against thousands.
Chapter Twenty-Two
They marched out in a column, three men in each row. Morpain and the other officer, Captain La Boularderie, were safe in the middle of the column, so Laz kept close. Also trailing right behind Morpain was his slave, Georges, carrying some gear. Laz guessed he was in his thirties. It was obvious he was very dedicated to Morpain. That seemed to Laz to be most people’s reaction to him. Me included, he thought. Laz still couldn’t believe he was doing this, but it was like every day of the last six weeks. One day at a time. One step at a time. Moments like this felt so unreal to Laz that it was hard to think of them as anything except playacting. His mind blanked as the red gates swung open for them.
Not thinking might be best, he decided.
There was something grand about being part of the column, a living, breathing weapon. All the off-white jackets with buttons glinting, muskets dark and deadly. Marching in step, which Laz found was harder than it looked, especially over uneven ground when they left the road.
Morpain nudged Laz. “Take one of my pistols.” He held it out as they walked.
“I don’t even know how to load it,” Laz said.
“It’s loaded. All you have to do is cock the hammer, aim, and pull the trigger.”
“I won’t hit anything. I’ve never fired a pistol,” Laz protested.
Morpain pressed the pistol against his chest. Laz clenched his fingers around the curved handle, nowhere near the trigger, and kept it against his body so the barrel rested on his upper arm. The weight of it tugged at his wrist. “What do you do with it after you fire the musket ball? Drop it?”
“Use it as a club. That’s what the metal butt plate is for. Do not drop my pistol. It’s been my constant companion when boarding enemy vessels, and is a fine weapon,” Morpain said. “Use it if you get attacked at close range. That won’t happen. Our muskets will keep the enemy at bay.”
