Captain Andrew Harrow walked from the fort to his house. He tipped his hat to Widow Riley but did not stop. The latest dispatches from his regiment’s home fortress in Windsor offered official congratulations for his promotion, but that was the only good news from England.
He paused at the point where his cottage path turned off from the main lane and looked out over the bay. The waters sparkled like burnished pewter beneath a cloud-flecked sky. He could hear calls of several boats but could not determine the language. He was struck by the fact that out there upon the waters, French fished alongside British, yet did not speak nor acknowledge the other. With no borders out there upon the bay, there was no way to define which patch of water might be English and which French. Andrew sighed. If only it were that simple to forget boundaries and histories and conflicting claims.
Reluctant to turn away from the lovely sight below, he thought about the golden days of summer and how aptly they described this Acadian season. So brief, these days of warmth and light, yet so packed with goodness and life. For a too-brief period each year, the entire world exploded in a frenzy of recreative power. The bay was packed with fish. Sometimes the boats coming back were so full with the day’s catch that water sloshed over both gunnels at once. The village farmers were predicting another bountiful harvest, the seventh in a row. Game almost jumped into the pot. Andrew himself had shot a wild turkey in his back garden just three days earlier. There was so much beauty to this golden land, so much offered to all who called it home. If only—
“Ah, Andrew, good to see you. Were you waiting for me?”
Andrew turned to greet Catherine’s father coming up the lane. “In a manner of speaking, yes. How are you, sir?”
“Passable. Bit of the grippe … hits me every year about this time.” The older man was indeed limping more heavily. “Always say I know the coming of winter long before anyone else in this land.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Good of you and Catherine to have me over for dinner tonight.” John Price began making his way up the path. “My empty house seems to echo most loudly after sunset.”
Andrew did not know what to say. John Price was not a man given to speaking of his own internal state. The older man filled the silence with, “Can’t say how good it was to hear that Catherine is with child. A little one about the place will do us all a world of good. How is my girl holding up?”
“She was a bit under the weather at first, but she seems to be doing fine now.” Andrew did not mention the days and nights of horrid sickness, leaving her so weak she could hardly stand. Nor was there any need to mention the fact that the cure had come from Minas. “The midwife seems most pleased with her progress.”
“Good to hear. Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything else from my Catherine. She always was one for getting on with things. I’d imagine the pregnancy hasn’t slowed her down a whit.”
“I wish it would,” Andrew chuckled, then turned serious. “She does far too much for a woman in her condition.”
“Nonsense. You mustn’t worry so, man. Catherine has always been hardy.” Price limped onto the stoop, then said, “I suppose the dispatches confirmed your appointment as fort commander.”
“Yes, they did.” Andrew did not ask how Catherine’s father had come to hear of the dispatches’ confidential contents. As the controller of Fort Edward’s supplies, John Price wielded considerable influence, both within the fort and the town. He had sources that preceded Andrew’s tenure by some years.
“Then accept my congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir.”
John Price halted outside their door. “The rest of the news, it affirms what we long suspected?”
“Yes.” The word was almost a groan, its burden of worry was so great. “The king has ordered that we attack France upon all fronts.”
“That’s as it should be, then.” John Price stared out over the forested hills rising on the fort’s other side, beyond the river, which sparkled as it fell into Cobequid Bay, out to where ribbons of smoke rose from the unseen village of Minas. He thumped his fist upon the doorpost and muttered, “We must teach those Frenchies a lesson they will never forget. Never.”
Andrew bit back his angry response. Arguing with John Price would not change the man’s way of thinking one jot. Which was as sad in its own way as the dispatches themselves, for John Price represented the attitudes of Andrew’s superiors in Halifax and Annapolis Royal, almost to a man. He waited until the possible outburst was safely stowed back down deep, where it would not disturb his wife’s welcome or the evening repast. But he could do nothing for the sense of futile helplessness, which left him so weary he felt his words carried little more strength than the evening breeze. “Shall we go inside?”
Captain Andrew Harrow led his troop along the mountain trail but did not make the turning at the fork. Instead he continued straight down from the watcher’s knob. He heard the guard corporal spur his horse forward and readied his response. The man reined in alongside Andrew and said, “Begging your pardon, sir, but did you mean to take this trail?”
“I did indeed, Corporal.”
“But, sir,” the young man hesitated. He knew his captain was approachable, but no doubt was uncertain how far he should press it. “If I’m not mistaken, this leads down to the Frenchie village.”
“Correct.” Andrew kept his voice calm, though his heart was racing far ahead of their steady pace. “Tell me, have you ever seen the French village?”
“Me, sir? Why, the only Frenchies I’ve ever seen, face-to-face like, are the traders that come into Cobequid and Annapolis Royal.” The corporal gave a nervous glance down the trail. “They’ve their ways, we’ve ours, and never the twain shall meet. Least, that’s my way of thinking, sir.”
“Indeed. But if we are to engage the …” But he could not even say the word “enemy,” could not include it as part of the ruse. “It may do us good to have a look at their own preparations.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“Right. Go back, make sure the line is dressed and the men are fitted properly for a visit. And order the standard unfurled.”
“Yes, sir.” The corporal wheeled his horse about. Andrew did not turn to make sure his orders were carried out. His thoughts remained locked upon what lay ahead. The corporal’s sharp commands to one private to button up his tunic and straighten his braces came and went without conscious acknowledgment. Finally the corporal returned to say, “Requesting the captain’s permission to carry the standard.”
“Granted.” The regimental standard was a colorful flag, triangular in shape, sewn in gold and red and russet hues of finest silk, with tassels to catch and snap in the breeze. It was always carried in a saddlebag whenever the commandant or adjutant were leading a troop. The corporal moved his horse to a half pace behind Andrew’s, the standard strapped to a pike riding high upon his pommel.
The village of Minas was silent, as would be normal in the middle of a workaday afternoon. The first person to catch sight of their arrival was a young girl, not more than five or six, dressed in a starched white cap and a sky blue dress. The little one turned, caught sight of the company of riders, and stood as if transformed to stone.
Andrew winced at the look of stricken terror on the young face. It reminded him of the expression in Catherine’s eyes the night before when her father was staring into the fire and spouting forth about the coming conflict. The uncertainties and tragedies of war for women and children were all too clear, and he felt anew his own helplessness.
Catherine had told him last night, when they were alone, of Louise’s request. During their last meeting upon the meadow, Louise had spoken of how the village wished they could have some solid sense of the world’s events, not just rumors and bits of gossip picked up on market day. It would so help them in making decisions for their future. Andrew had heard Catherine out, knowing from the first instant exactly what was to be done, asking when she was finished only if she knew which of the villagers might speak English.
His thoughts snapped back to the present when the little girl found her voice and gave a shriek that seemed to go on forever, too high even for the birds to imitate. She turned to flee, only to fall headlong into the dirt. She did not seem to even notice, did not halt her shrieking for an instant. Finally she regained her legs and raced away, screaming as she fled. Andrew’s face blanched. She was but a child.
“Troop, slow walk,” he called, reining his horse back and patting its neck to calm it. He did not know exactly where he was going, or how he would ask for the vicar.
A woman’s frantic face appeared in a window. He called out, “Where is your priest?” He was answered with yet another shriek and a slamming of the shutters. Andrew led his troop onward, to where their lane intersected a broader way. He breathed a sigh of relief when up to his right he spotted a steeple. “Troop, right face!”
The village itself seemed to unfurl away on either side like a scroll. Andrew’s mind was so captured by the risk he was taking and the need that squeezed his heart that he rode almost to the church courtyard before his first impression of Minas actually registered. That notion was of history. Every house he saw here in the center of the village spoke of an age more in tune with what he recalled in England than anything in Edward or the other English settlements. The church itself was lime washed in an ancient style, built of stone and wood and roofed with silver birch bark. The effect was stunning, a stately crown set upon the green of the village.
A black-robed figure appeared in the church doorway. Andrew slid from his horse’s back and walked to meet the man, carrying the reins. But not too far. Not too quickly. He did not want to alarm the vicar, and he could not afford for his men not to hear what he was about to say. The vicar hesitated a long moment, then walked toward him. To Andrew’s vast relief, the man called out, “You are English?”
“We are that, sir. My name is Captain Andrew Harrow.”
“Ah.” Relief softened the man’s features, but only for an instant, for Andrew frowned mightily and gave his head the tiniest shake. Immediately comprehension lit the cleric’s eyes. “And why are you here?” he demanded.
“I was hoping that a man of learning might know English, for alas, my French is nonexistent.”
“Slowly, my son.” He kept his tone low. “Slowly and I can understand, though it is many years since I studied your tongue.” The vicar gave a stiff little bow, ignoring all the soldiers but Andrew. “Jean Ricard, vicar of Minas, at your service,” he acknowledged, raising his voice to a stern level.
“Honored, sir.” Andrew took a breath and said what he had planned, what would go over well if any of the men were to speak at Fort Edward of what transpired here. Which they were bound to do. He also raised his voice. “I am here to respectfully request that you convince the others of your village to sign the Oath of Allegiance to His Royal Highness the King of England.”
“I am only the vicar, Captain. Such things are decided by our clan elder. He acts as—how you say—the mayor? Yes. The village mayor.”
“Does this elder speak English?”
“Alas, no.”
“Then I must deal with you, sir.” Andrew continued to pitch his voice so that the troops could hear him clearly. “Time is growing short, sir. Very short indeed.”
“Sir.” The corporal sounded tensely nervous. “Behind us.”
Andrew turned, drawing the priest with him to where they were no longer shielded by the horses, and saw a group of men bearing pitchforks approaching warily.
The vicar called out something in French. Answered in the same tongue, he spoke more sharply. Reluctantly the men began to disperse.
The vicar turned back to him. “You have news, then? From England?”
“Indeed I do, sir. And it is my sad duty to inform you that the conflict in Europe is worsening with every passing day.”
“Oh, this is bad, this is very bad indeed.” The vicar held his hands tightly in front of him. “You are certain?”
Andrew kept his voice carefully neutral. “Sir, I assure you I did not ride here to deal in rumors.”
“No, no, of course not, forgive me.” The vicar drew himself erect. “Sadly, Captain, I am afraid I must tell you that the people will refuse to sign your oath.”
“Even with the fact of imminent conflict?”
“Please, what means imminent?”
“Definite. It is coming. The conflict has already started in Europe. It is certain to arrive here.”
“Ah.” The vicar nodded his head, acknowledging with a single glance that he understood. It was for this Andrew had come, to confirm the rumors, not to request once more what he knew would be denied. “The conflict, it will arrive this year?”
“No. The last ships of the year have already arrived from Europe.”
The vicar smiled only with his eyes. “Then for once we must give thanks for the winter storms, yes?”
Andrew willed the man to see beyond his harsh tone, hoping against hope the vicar would understand just how much the news hurt him as well. “It is hard to say exactly what will happen with the spring, since such conflicts have risen and fallen within a season before. But your entire village is at risk unless—”
“Impossible, Captain.” The vicar held to form with his response. “They have refused to take up arms for the king of their home country. This is—how you say—their very nature. How could they be expected to do such for the English king? You ask from my people what they cannot give.”
“Not I, Vicar. But my superiors in Halifax and Annapolis Royal are unanimous in their opinion that such a document must be signed.”
“Yes. So the rumors say.”
“These are not rumors.”
“Some of our young people …” The vicar hesitated, clearly uncertain how far he should go. “Some are thinking that it would be better to move north. Start over in a distant outpost, beyond Tatamagouche or farther still.”
“It will make no difference. All the land east of Quebec Province is now under the dominion of the same man, Governor Lawrence in Halifax.”
“All land not controlled by the French forts,” the vicar corrected.
“Sir, not a single French ship has managed to land and service the remaining forts this entire summer. You yourself must know this, as you have not seen a French ship in Cobequid Bay for four years. I hope you will understand me when I say that soon all Acadian land will be under British dominion.”
The vicar’s brow furrowed, his frustration obvious. He finally noted in a tentative tone, “We have heard rumors of battles to the west of us, even at the gates of Quebec itself.”
“These rumors are true.”
The vicar stiffened. “Then Quebec has fallen?”
It was Andrew’s turn to hesitate. In an instant’s flight of reason and thought, he decided this was important enough to risk. “Sir, I have received dispatches which state a regimental force gathered from the southern American colonies was soundly defeated by the defending French garrison. I tell you this only because I am certain that such a loss will only harden the resolve of the government in Halifax.”
“But why!” The vicar’s cry startled several of the horses, causing them to back and snort. One of the troopers reined in sharply with an oath, which caused Andrew to shoot him a furious look. When the man muttered an apology and Andrew turned back, the vicar continued, “Why must the mighty British kingdom see a village of poor peasant farmers a threat?”
“Because, sir, because you are not just one village.” He dropped his voice discreetly. “The number of French settlers is a hundred times greater than the troops at Governor Lawrence’s disposal. Were you to take up arms against His Majesty—”
“But we will not! What can we do to convince you of this?”
“Sign the oath of allegiance. There is no other way.”
The vicar’s shoulders slumped. “This we cannot do. We cannot.”
“Then I must bid you good day, sir.” Andrew snapped off a salute and turned away, sick at heart.
To his surprise, the vicar followed him around his horse. When the tall steed sheltered them from the gazes of the others, Jean Ricard murmured, “You are still studying the Gospel of Luke, m’sieur?”
“Every chance I have,” Andrew softly replied. He could risk no more. He fitted his boot into the stirrup and swung himself onto the horse.
The vicar looked up at him. “You have perhaps heard the story of the Good Samaritan, Captain?”
“I have.”
The vicar nodded, a slow motion of approval, then raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross in the air between them. “Go with God, m’sieur.”