Catherine sat in a circle of women to which she had been welcomed for the first time and tried hard to concentrate on her piece of the quilt.
If the Edward community agreed on anything that November, it was the strength of the winter. Nobody could recall one which had arrived with such early severity. Since those September flakes had floated down out of the skies, the snows had stopped only long enough for the sky to clear and permit an overnight freeze to pounce like a hawk on its prey. When the clouds re-formed, it was without the thaws that traditionally loosened winter’s grip, at least momentarily. The winds had come, hard and bitter and straight from the north. Unyielding and fierce, they were called lazy winds, for they would blow straight through a person rather than go around. January winds in November. And staying. Like the snow.
Though the sky was finally clearing from yet another snow, still the wind blew so fiercely the ice pellets struck the shutters like tiny hammers. They beat upon the glass, timed to the wind’s hostile growl. Catherine stared out the window nearest her chair. She shivered and drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
“Andrew will be fine, my dear,” Mrs. Patrick, the vicar’s wife, murmured from the seat beside Catherine’s. “How long has he been making these patrols?”
“Five years.” Though she had been married only four and a half months, already the other women of the village were treating her as a woman, as an equal. “This will be his sixth winter.”
“So. And not once has he lost a man, not even a horse.” Mrs. Patrick nodded over her needle. “Andrew Harrow is a careful man and a good officer.”
“And handsome.” The Widow Riley cackled over her corner of the quilt. “You’ve got quite a prize there, missy. If I’d been fifty years younger, I’d have given you a right run for your money, I would.”
The cackle was repeated, and Catherine smiled with the others working on the quilt. Such activity was a chance for the village women to meet and talk and draw strength from one another during those months when winter chills mostly kept them indoors. She was not totally sure if she was pleased to be welcomed into the housewives’ circle, rather than relegated to the corner of the hall reserved for unmarried girls. But in her heart she felt a bit of pride. Her life was now inextricably entwined with Andrew’s. The thought made her back straighten just a bit as she plied her needle through the woven fabric. But she did wish there was someone in the group her own age. All the younger wives were also new mothers and had infants at home to take their time and attention. But my turn will come soon, Catherine thought with cheeks turning pink.
The Edward community great room was a long affair, running almost the entire length of the northern wall of the town hall. A great fireplace flanked the western expanse, large enough for those who were chilled or elderly to step into its warmth. Light flickered and danced from the flames on the faces of the village’s younger children playing games on the floor in front of it.
“When is the gallant officer due back, dear?” asked a neighbor who had known Catherine all her life.
“Tonight, at the latest tomorrow.” Catherine did not raise her head. She was still learning the complicated stitching, and it required all her attention. Which was not altogether a bad thing, she decided. “He couldn’t be certain with the snows so heavy so soon.”
“Seems sure to stop, at least for a bit.” Widow Riley made a pretense of sniffing the wind, though all that could be detected in the close hall was smoke and melting tallow from the candles. “But not for long, you mark my words. This will be a winter for tales to our children’s children’s children.”
As though in confirmation, the wind rattled the shutters with another fistful of icy needles. Widow Riley nodded sagely, her fingers finding their own familiar way even as her eyes gazed at the fire. “I remember such a November as this.” The voice, coarsened with age, grew soft. “Seven years of age I was, perhaps eight. Ice formed almost the whole way across the bay, it did, and wolves came down from the hills almost every night, snarling and howling about the lanes like it was their village and not ours.”
The children looked up from their play. Another old woman, a grandmother who was watching the children, joined them in listening, nodding to Widow Riley’s words. “You were seven. Three years younger than me. I remember it too.”
Fingers gradually grew still about the edges of the quilt. Widow Riley did not notice, for her own failing eyes had returned to the needle. “Saw my first Indian that winter. Three days after Christmas, it was, I remember it as though it was yesterday and not nigh on seventy years ago.” The crackling of the fire was all that filled the pause.
“The week before Christmas it had snowed every day, a snow so thick a body could get lost within reaching distance of his own front door,” the story resumed in the quavery voice. “The fort had just been built that very summer. My pappy, he was one of the first English settlers to till this land, he didn’t hold to having soldiers so close at hand. Not until that winter. The young lads were kept busy shoveling and clearing the trails from house to house, farm to fort, hitching chains and drag-poles to horses and walking them back and forth, day in and day out. Carving valleys through drifts so high they looked like mountains to my young eyes. Walking from my door to church for the Christmas service was like hiking through white canyons taller than my pappy.”
When she stopped to rethread her needle with trembling fingers, a young voice finally piped up, “What about the Injun, Miz Riley?”
She turned and squinted at the watchful faces. “What’s that, young’un?”
“The Injuns.” This time a half dozen voices joined the first. “You saw ’im,” and “What happened?”
“See ’im I did. See and touch both.”
Catherine waited with the others as the widow counted her stitches, her fingers moving at a snail’s pace. And she had the sudden impression that Widow Riley had known all along what effect her story would have.
“Three days after Christmas, I woke to the first clear dawn in what seemed like years. I was the first out of bed those days. Moved a sight more sprightly than I do now, and I took pride in being the one to light the fire and warm the cabin. I had to use the tinderbox that morning, for the ashes were stone cold—see the things I remember? I chipped and chipped and finally drew a light, and I blew on the tinder until I was near red in the face. By the time I got that fire drawing strong, I was all in a lather. So I took the bucket from the kitchen and went out to gather snow, since the well and the creek had both been froze for nigh on three months. Well, I’m here to tell you, I threw back the door and walked straight into the biggest, foulest-smelling man I’d ever seen in all my born days.”
When she stopped yet again, a tiny voice piped, “Did he eat you?”
“No, child, I still got all my fingers and toes—the Injun didn’t eat me. Though he could have, for I fell back straight onto the ice and just sat there, too astonished and scared to even draw a good breath. And he didn’t move neither. A stiller person I’ve never seen, not one who ain’t been laid out for the final wake. Tall and dark and strong. And hungry. I remember that clear as the day itself, how his cheeks were sunk in so far they looked like caves a squirrel could’ve used for his winter sleep.
“But I couldn’t lie there forever. I finally got my wits about me enough to realize I was looking a real-life Indian square in the face. I leapt to my feet and hollered like a stuck pig, then raced back inside. Straight back to the bed I shared with my sisters, and I leapt in there and burrowed deep as I could go, screaming all the while.”
A child cried, “What did he want, Miz Riley?”
“Food, child. He was starving. Whole Micmac village was down to almost nothing. Which was passing strange, for there ain’t much better a body for seeing the winter through comfortable than a Micmac Indian. But the summer before they had not had much in the way of game. We didn’t have much food either, since the summer’s crop had been bad, but we gave ’em what we could.” The widow sewed on for a time, then said, “For three years after that we didn’t have a single attack on our market wagons. Not a single solitary one. Only good thing that came out of that winter, far as I can recall.”
“Hmph,” the grandmother by the fire snorted. “I wouldn’t have given them nary a thing. Thieving Injuns, the lot of them.”
There were a few nods from about the quilt but most frowned at the words. Mrs. Patrick gave her head a single shake, nothing more. Widow Riley kept on with her sewing, commenting only, “Maybe things were different back in those days. The times, they surely do change.”
Catherine completed stitching in her square. She rose to her feet and brushed the threads from her skirt. “I must be getting back. I have some supper preparations to make in case Andrew does return tonight, so I bid you all a good afternoon.”
Smiles and murmurs followed her to the door, and Mrs. Patrick rewarded her with the words, “You are making into a good wife, Catherine Harrow. Andrew should count himself among the fortunate.”
The compliment kept her warm throughout the walk along meandering snowbound lanes. The sky had cleared and the wind died, but now the temperature was dropping sharply. Though the sun was an hour and more from slipping behind the western hills, already the air bit sharp and hard on her face.
These few afternoons each week spent with the village women meant much to Catherine, especially when Andrew was away. As she hurried down the lane toward home, the new-laden snow rose like delicate white dust behind her. Catherine found herself recalling something she had not thought of in years. Back when she had been a very little child, a woman of the village had been banished from the church for a winter. She had never been told the reason for it. But now, when she was struggling with the new experience of running a home and living with a man, she truly understood the need for the company of other women. Though the unfortunate woman’s name had long passed from memory, still Catherine felt a pang of sympathy and sorrow for what must have been an excruciatingly lonely winter.
In the months since her marriage, she felt as though her whole life had undergone transformation. Not just her home, but her body and mind and heart were all being changed to fit around the presence of this man. She recalled from Scripture the passage about two becoming one, and felt the wonder of this anew. Catherine glanced at the surrounding white hills and sent a swift little prayer lofting upward. Bring my husband home safely.
She was doing more and more of that these days, little words of entreaty or thanks. In the past, her prayers had remained locked into the same traditions as the rest of her worship, dictated by the church and formed around the attitudes of her staid and rigid father. But for three months now she had been studying the Bible every evening, joined by Andrew whenever he was not away on sorties and duty. Though much of what she read she did not understand, still there was a sense of slipping free of thought patterns and negative perspectives she had scarcely recognized before. God was still very much a mystery, but His presence seemed closer. Close enough to speak with whenever worries or joys, fears or love, emotions of all kind filled her heart to overflowing and she needed someone in whom she could confide.
She quickly went into the house and lit the candle she kept burning in the window whenever Andrew went away. Part of her said it was an expensive folly, what with the cost of tallow. But day or night, whenever he came home, she wanted him to see the glimmer of the light that was burning for him and him alone.
She completed her chores as quickly as possible, then glanced out the window. The day’s final light turned the shutters into sheets of solid gold. She peered through windows already frosted with the cold of coming night but saw nothing except the sunset’s gleam. Catherine walked to the chair by the fire and tried not to look at the empty seat across from her. She picked up the Bible from its place on the small table. Though her mind could scarcely take in the words, she found her mind and heart returning to peace as she read. She watched the flames dance in the fireplace for a time, knowing she should rise and eat her own lonely supper, but not yet willing to accept that Andrew would spend yet another night in the hills away from her.
She placed the Bible back on the table and reached beneath its covering to the lower shelf, drawing out another book. She felt a quickening of her breath as she opened the pages. Even as she worried over her husband sleeping out in such cold, she could not help but feel a little thrill.
Yet there was another sensation as she began to whisper the longforgotten words and phrases aloud, a slight chill which flickered across her heart. Catherine stopped her repetitions and nodded once to the flames. She did not want to have any secrets from her husband. Somehow, someway, she was going to have to tell Andrew.
Her gaze came back to the window and saw that the daylight was nearly gone. Once more her heart spoke the silent prayer. Bring my husband home.
Andrew reined in his horse near the crest of the ridge. His steed halted gratefully and stood blowing great plumes of white so thick they looked like froth from the sea. He slid from the horse’s back, flipped the reins around a tree limb, and waited for the others to move up.
This time there were only four in his patrol, all mounted. He had selected the best of the new recruits who had arrived that previous June. He could now trust these men in particular to move with stealth and react to his hand signals as readily as they once would have obeyed the sergeant major’s bellows. Without being told, they tied their horses where the trees would mask them, then unstrapped their muskets and moved at a crouch up to where he waited.
The garrison contained only sufficient horses for the officers and a select group known as outriders. These men were intended to function as scouts and messengers, roles with prestige and the promise of swift advancement through the ranks. This was their first foray with the commandant, and the sense of new pride shone from four earnest faces.
Carefully Andrew moved from tree to tree, showing through example how they should use whatever cover winter provided when approaching exposed space. The closer they came to the knoll, the lower he crouched, until he moved onto the rocky mound on his knees. He scouted the horizon carefully, then motioned the others to join him. One by one they approached. There was no flashing or clinking of metal this time, for all exposed buckles and buttons had been blackened, all knives and utensils wrapped in burlap. Regiment regulations were put aside, for this was not the parade ground at Windsor Castle. This was Acadia, and silence was by far their greatest shield.
The four of them crouched and watched and waited for their commander to speak. Andrew stared out over the white waste of winter shimmering in frozen splendor under the setting sun. It was hard for him to imagine that anything living could exist here except a frozen desert of brief days, long frigid nights, wind, and snow.
He turned to the men and said, “This is your enemy. Not the French, not the Indians. Winter. Never turn your back on it, never think you have conquered it, not even for a minute. It is a fatal error.”
They nodded in somber understanding. From these heights the world stretched out white and stark, countless hills pointing snowy peaks toward a gradually darkening sky. Though the wind had died, the night would be bitter cold. Andrew had already decided he would try to make it back to the fort that evening.
Swiftly he sketched out the points of interest—where the trails emerged from around lower bends, points where Indians had been spotted in previous hard winters, places where bandits had planted ambushes—though none of these since he had taken over watch of this region. He was striving to teach these men to track the trackers, to stop danger before it happened.
One of the men pointed to where the snowy landscape fell in gradual stages to join with Cobequid Bay. From their aerie they could see twelve, perhaps fifteen villages along the frozen shoreline. The man asked, “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but which of them hamlets is Papist?”
“Almost none of them,” Andrew replied, not at all sorry to have the question asked. “Almost all the Frenchmen who have settled this region are Huguenot.”
That brought a murmur of surprise. “They’s Protestant, sir? Those Frenchies?”
“To the core.” Andrew could have told them more, information he himself had gathered from journeys to towns up and down the valley. How the Huguenots had broken from the Catholic church in France, just as the Lutherans had in Germany. How they had suffered persecution so harsh they had fled to lands all over the world. There were even Huguenots in England now, sheltered by the breakaway Anglican church and good English law. More still in Switzerland with the Calvinists, many others here in the northern colonies, even some with the Ottomans, if rumors were to be believed. Andrew looked down at the peaceful setting, wondering if a stranger could tell which houses belonged to the English and which to the French. He added quietly, “The same as you and I.”
“Don’t seem right,” one man muttered.
“The sergeant major, he said all Frenchies suffer from a severe case of genuflection,” continued the first man with a wry grin.
“The sergeant major’s humor sometimes goes amiss. No, almost all of this region was settled by French fleeing persecution because of their religious beliefs.” He stretched out a hand, pointed off to the south. “The first major Catholic enclave is Cobequid Town itself, at the very tip of the bay. Unfortunately, the canon there considers himself responsible for all this region, although many of these villagers have never even met him. He is a troublemaker, not because he chooses to be Catholic, but because he chooses to be militant. He is a man who lives to stir the pot of politics and twice has urged his villagers to rise up in opposition to the English fort at neighboring Chelmsford.”
Andrew turned his attention back to the region directly below them. “But these Huguenot villages have never responded to any call to arms, not even ones coming from the French king’s own envoys. They are an independent lot, from what I have heard. They have a loose council of churches, but each vicar stands alone. Much like our own way. They even call their vicars by the same names we do—reverend, pastor, preacher. Or so I’ve been told.” He felt a familiar tension over the injustice of being neighbors and presumed enemies. “Which is why the English have asked them to swear allegiance to the Crown and be done with it.”
A moment’s pause, then, “So why don’t they do it, sir?”
Because those addle-headed officials in London had insisted on putting in a clause stating that the French might be forced to bear English arms, Andrew wanted to say. The French had no more interest in fighting on the side of the English king than they did with the French. Yet because of this horrendous error on the part of English politicians four thousand leagues away, the French had refused to sign the oath, and were thus branded as enemies.
But all Andrew said was, “We have been in this region for almost fifty years now, and our settlers for twenty years more. In that time we have fought the French army twice and attacked their forts on four different occasions. Never have the local villagers taken up arms. Time after time the French government has called upon them to fight alongside the soldiers. But they have resisted. As I said, they are an independent lot. They farm their land and mind their own business.”
He paused to let that sink in, then went on. “Remember, we are here to preserve the peace and protect the innocent.” And he added to himself, If only I could convince my fellow officers and the officials in Halifax of this simple truth.
One of the men demanded, “But what if there’s war, sir?”
Andrew pushed himself half erect and started back down the knob. “Then may God help us all.”
It was an hour after dark by the time he had seen the horses to the stalls and the men back to their barracks. His heart quickened as he turned into his own lane and caught sight of the candle flickering in the window—for him. He paused outside his door for a moment to collect his thoughts and emotions. The risk of war was real; he knew that as well as anyone. As acting adjutant, he had access to the reports filtering down from Halifax, and the news was ominous. What disturbed him most was his own helplessness.
But he tried to put that all aside as he pushed through the door and caught sight of his wife bounding to her feet from her place by the fire. “Andrew!”
“Catherine, my dear.” His arms enfolded her.
“Oh, Andrew, I had given up any hope of seeing you tonight.” She held him with a strength he could feel through his greatcoat. “I am so glad to see you. I was worried.”
“Why should you be worried?” He peered down at the shining brown hair and tried to see the beloved face pressed hard against his chest. Andrew had the fleeting thought that if he were to die at this very moment, he would be able to part from this earth as complete as he had ever been. “We were just out on an ordinary sortie. I have done hundreds of them.”
“I know, I was silly. I told myself not to be concerned. But it is so cold and getting colder.” She looked up at him. “That must sound rather foolish.”
“It sounds delightful. I never knew what a pleasure it could be to have someone fuss over me.” He plucked at the buttons on his coat. “Let me get this off so I can greet you properly.”
“Oh, of course, look at me, what kind of greeting is this, keeping you here in the doorway.” Hasty fingers helped him with the buttons and the scarf and hat, then she bent to help him ease off the high boots. “Come, take this seat by the fire. Are you hungry?”
“I could say that seeing you is enough food for my soul,” he teased, “but I truly am hungry. Especially after days of trail fare.”
“I would like to think that my countenance is enough to nurture both body and soul,” she retorted, her eyes glinting with mischief, “but I do have some stew I can heat for you straight away. And dough I had set aside for bread tomorrow that will nicely make into biscuits.”
“Thank you, my love,” he said, easing into the chair. He picked up the book from the floor. “What on earth is this, Catherine?” he asked in astonishment.
Slowly she retraced her steps. She said very quietly, “A French grammar.”
“I can see that. Why would you study that?”
Her arms folded across her middle, her hands clasped her elbows and held tight. “I used to be quite good at French when I studied it as a girl.”
Andrew took a deep breath and kept his voice even. “So you just decided to return to your studies, after all these years?”
“Yes. Well, no.” A hesitant breath, then, “I have met someone. A young Frenchwoman.”
He leaned back in his chair. Of all the things he might have expected to hear upon his return, this certainly was not among them. “Here in the village?”
“No, of course not. Up in the meadow. The first time I saw her was the day I went up to pick our wedding bouquet. She was there for flowers as well.” A smile lit her face. “Her wedding day was the same as ours, Andrew.”
“Remarkable.”
She didn’t seem to notice any sarcasm in his laconic response. “I’ve seen her twice more,” Catherine said, her voice gaining animation as she added to her explanation. “She gave me the syrup you enjoyed so. She is a lovely young woman, so nice, I think about my own age. We tried to talk together, but my French was so rusty it was the very heart of frustration.” She stopped, eyes searching his face. “Are you— are you angry with me?”
“No,” he said slowly, unsure how he felt but certainly not angry.
She twisted her hands together. “Please don’t tell me not to see her again, Andrew. Please.”
“No, I won’t do that.” Though for the moment he did not quite understand why. The logical step would have been to forbid it. But he could not bring himself to do such a thing, even with the possible jeopardy he would be in with his superiors. “But you must be careful.”
“She is no danger to me. Of that I am certain.”
“That’s not what I meant. Word of this can’t get out, Catherine. You must be extremely cautious. The garrison would view this in the worst possible light.”
“I understand,” she said solemnly.
He was as curious about her fervent desire to see this Frenchwoman as he was about the woman herself. “Tell me about her.”
“I don’t have much to tell. I don’t even know for certain if I will ever see her again.” She turned back to the kitchen and he followed, settling himself at the table. As she prepared his supper, she recounted the three meetings with Louise, lingering over the last time. “I wish I could have found the words to talk with her. Really talk.”
Andrew watched her face. “Why is that?”
“Just think about it. I have lived all my life in this village, separated by only a few miles from Minas, and I have never set foot over there. I’ve never even spoken to the French, unless it was by chance in a market.” She whirled to face him, cheeks flushed with emotion and her wooden spoon waving in the air. “Imagine, Andrew. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to know what they think, how they are, who they are? These are our neighbors.”
He thought about her words and found, to his surprise, that the strongest emotion he was feeling was pride. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, it certainly would.”