Chapter Five: Deerfield

Chapter Five



Deerfield









The road went on forever. Brookfield, Springfield, Hadley, Hatfied, and finally, Deerfield. The English were reluctant to venture much beyond Deerfield. Mohawks, French Indians, bears, who knew? The closer you got to Canada, the more things ate your chickens. Deerfield was the farthest you could go. Not a seaport, but right on the big river, with another little river behind it. No ships, but it was far enough from Boston that lawyers didn’t bother to stop there either.

There was a constable, a sergeant called Big Stubby by everyone that knew him, Stubby because of his stature, which was seriously truncated, and Big because of his personality, which was considered excessive, even among folks who prized individuality. But his signed his name Philip Stebbins, and no one dared call him Stubby to his face. Big Stubby was not inclined to ask the sort of intrusive questions that had so fired and animated Madame Grace. Big Stubby was a live and let live sort of fellow. When he wanted to know something he asked. If you weren’t asked, you didn’t tell him. Big Stubby was primarily a farmer, and not much conflicted about his second job as constable. People got drunk sometimes, and he helped them to bed. So when Angelique and Will rolled down the main street (Pretty much the only street, really) of Deerfield, Big Stubby noticed first of all the two very fine if somewhat over-excitable horses, which, though they’d missed breakfast and lunch, still showed a remarkable spryness in their step, compared to the heavy-footed drays Big was accustomed to. Then there was that brougham, a slight, waspish vehicle, with leather seats and a varnished singletree, a trap that no one on God’s green earth had any business spending money on when you could get everything a man needed into a cart. Lastly, his eye fell on Angelique and William. ‘Domestics,’ we would call them today, but Constable Stubby looked at them and thought ‘Servants.’ Constable Stubby was well aware of where he was, though, which was on the frontier, and in that fine American tradition that was to last for the next two hundred years or so, the frontier was the place you went to start over. So Constable Stebbins decline to inquire too pointedly about the where and whyfor of Will and Angelique’s possession of the two very fine horses and that silly rig. Put aside for the moment the cognitive dissonance engendered by the two lost-looking folk in the shiny carriage, —though it might come in handy later—put that aside and hired the two of them on the spot. Not even sure yet if it was constable Stebbins or farmer Stebbins that was doing the hiring.  But both aspects of his existence were served. Will knew how to turn a field of grass into a haystack, and Angelique was handy about the place. Constable Stebbins knew, all day long, the near-exact whereabouts of the people he had already labeled fugitives. They claimed to have come up from Hartford, which Stubby knew to be a lie. Stubby had helped found Hartford, and knew everyone. He had come out from Cambridge with Thomas Hooker, when Hartford was no more than a flat place beside the river that might sprout corn, and it was only in the last few years that he had removed from that place, life under the constant supervision of church authorities having proved just that little bit tiresome.

Angelique found Deerfield a pleasant sort of town. Not as fine and established as Marblehead, with its harbor and legendary taverns, but it was surrounded, as the name implied, by fields, peaceful green fields where the bees droned and the cattle lowed gently in the evenings. The grass put forth grass, birdsong was general, and the geese in the watermeadow were ready to beat any intruders to death.

In point of fact, , rumors of intruders came thick and fast, that summer. There was another war, to no one’s surprise, and anyone coming down from the north brought tales of a gathering of raiders, up beyond the Northern end of Lake Champlain. Came so thick and fast, in fact, that the sharp corners of vigilance became loose and rounded over as time passed and the raiders failed to appear. People just got tired of living all on edge. While the warnings were fresh, though, no one took them lightly. Some, having survived previous Indian attacks, were ready to drop everything and scuttle back to more developed areas, having no wish at all to relive the experience. Some looked around at their investment in back-breaking labor: the plantings, the stumps, the very stubborn boulders, the houses and the barns, which hadn’t built themselves, and professed a steadfast determination to stay put. Some thought they’d just wait and see. Angelique was not concerned. She was French, after all, and figured that whatever the raiders had in mind, she could talk them out of. That summer nearly everyone had something to say about the raiding party up north. Geese would be of small value in the event of a determined attack by armed bipeds. Everyone in town was on pins and needles, ‘til they got sick of it, and decided that it wasn’t going to happen. Wood had to be cut, berries had to be picked, cows had to be milked. No one had time for the antics of kings.

At least Angelique and Will had a place out of the rain. Boris and Sharkey grew even sleeker, and more rounded. Farmer Stebbins was happy, as he had someone to till the fields and water the chickens. Plus, Big Stubby’s wife Natalie was getting on, and not so able to spring about the place when the roof leaked or there was a dead mouse in the well. It was good to have someone able to take care of these things.

On the one hand Angelique was somewhat distressed to be away from the shipping and the —admittedly remote— chance of ransom, on the other hand she was happy to be away from the treacley clutches of Lawyer Fleece, and pleased to be in Deerfield with Will. Deerfield was a fine place, if you were spry enough to keep away from the geese when you went to look for eggs in the meadow.

Finally though, it grew cold enough that the grass died and the geese had to be driven into the barn and the hole closed up behind them. Winter was coming. Angelique could hear squirrels in the attic. The much publicized attack had never materialized, but no one was much disappointed, least of all Constable Sergeant Stebbins, charged with the defense of the town. The attack never materialized, but two young men, out after stray cows, just disappeared one day. Trackers were sent out and tracks were discovered. The men, it appeared, had been joined by sets of other, more seasoned moccasins down among the alders by the river. There were signs of a canoe, dragged up high on the bank and covered with birch saplings. The men were never seen again.

There was talk of rebuilding the palisade surrounding the town, but nothing much came of it. It was a question of funds, and the question was, where would they come from? Meanwhile, ants and mold, having no need of funds, had been busy all summer, the ants leaving a fine dusting of sawdust at the base of the wall, and the mold creatures outdoing themselves in turning the logs green. Finally, of course, the snow flew. Christmas came. Will and Angelique gifted each other with sweet-smelling soaps, candles, and a knife that folded in half. Even Big Stubby found his material possessions increased by a wooden duck, carved and painted with preternatural realism.

“It’s a wood duck,” Stubby announced. He put it right on the mantel.

Time marched on. Snow piled up on the north side of the palisade, higher and higher, ‘til it was nearly at the top. This presented one of those operational dilemmas that so frequently vex our municipal authorities: Go out in the cold and shovel, or wait ‘til spring. Once again, budgetary considerations ruled. Once again, there was general shock and dismay when the palisade budget was shown to be a poor sickly thing. With nothing to pay the shovelers, no time was lost informing Constable Sergeant Stebbins that there would be no shoveling, and that the sun was free, so far as anyone knew. Constable Sergeant Stebbins declared himself aware that the sun was free, but those Canadian bastards had snowshoes.  In Constable Sergeant Stebbin’s opinion, waiting for the sun was not a viable option. It went back to committee. Committees, of course, are famously incapable of achieving anything meaningful in a timely fashion. They did manage to agree, though, that the sun was free.

What the sun did, and any fool could have seen this coming, was to melt only the top layer of snow, which froze again at night, forming a crust, handy for walking and not slippery at all. So by the time those French and Indians finally pulled on their snowshoes and set out for Deerfield, you could march right up to the wall in the moonlight and hop over. After that, it was a simple thing to open the gate and let everyone else in.

It was night, it was cold, they’d walked hundreds of miles without much to eat. The Canadians were tired, and all on edge too, not having killed anyone in weeks. So the normal standards of disciple that would normally govern this type of operation were not in effect. It was a mob, and the French were not much better than the Indians. The French Canadians had grown up in a harsh land, too cold to venture out six months of the year, and if you did, those Mohawks were just waiting to shove burning splinters under your fingernails. Mercy was not a quality with which they had any familiarity. The Deerfield people were fast asleep, safe, they thought, in their beds. The French and Indians were there to wreck and terrify, to illustrate what a bad idea it was to live on the frontier if you were English. Go somewhere else, like hell, was the message, and the killing, burning, and taking of prisoners only served to underline their profound animosity. The French knew the English were getting big ideas; no one could tell how extensive the continent was, but they each knew they wanted it all, and with God’s help they’d get it. The French and Indians were there to administer a good downsizing to Britain’s dreams of conquest.

Angelique was fast asleep, dreaming dreams of home, a home populated pretty much exclusively by herself and that priest from the Marie Etoile. She sat right up in bed when the screaming started. Will was only semi-conscious, mumbling what? as a stocky figure wrapped in furs burst into the room brandishing an evil-looking hatchet. There was screaming everywhere, and gunshots, and axe blows against a heavy door somewhere . Downstairs, Stubby’s wife was trying to yell something, cut off in a gurgling moan. After that, things happened even faster. Will leapt from the bed, all a-bristle, and threw himself at the intruder. The hatchet sent blood everywhere. “Stay,” said the attacker, but Angelique had nowhere to go. Even running seemed fruitless. Outside there was nothing but snow. The next town was twelve miles away. On the floor, Will kicked and clutched at nothing as he pumped out his blood. Angelique’s breathing slowed enough so that she could tell the gunshots and the pounding came from somewhere outside. The neighbor’s front door was still holding out. The front door still held, but the house itself was breached by the simple expedient of going in through the back door. The children were taken prisoner. Meanwhile, the adults made a determined rush across the yard and into the Stebbins house. The Frenchman in the upstairs bedroom was the only Canadian in the house. He pushed Angelique to the window. He swung the window open and gestured with the hatchet. The snow looked far away. The window opening was not large. Her fall drove most of the snow away and the Frenchman had the breath knocked out of him when he hit. Angelique thought this was probably a good thing. She wondered if he thought she was English. So far the only word he had spoken was ‘stay,’ like you’d say to a dog.



         The French now faced the age-old problem of what to do with the thing you have while you go look for something else. They needed a place to put the loot while they looked for more. Hostages weren’t the sort of thing you could just let wander around. A good hostage, once ransomed, could set you up for life, or even become an adopted nephew. Women, children, anyone capable of the hard march back to Canada could be worth a great deal. If you were from a good family, so much the better. Angelique’ youth and vitality, not to mention that the only words out of her mouth were French, made her an obvious candidate. If she caused trouble later, a good rap on the head would fix things. So Angelique was taken by the arm and led through the group shooting at the house, into the blowing smoke and flying embers, to the room where women wept and children wailed.  The empty-looking house at the bottom of town was not burning yet, so they stashed the prisoners there, along with the pewter and the guns.  Angelique had never been inside before. Now it was full of Indians and women that had just had their husbands split open like bean pods.

  Houses on the East side of town were burning. The flames roared and popped, embers streamed away across the fields. Stubby’s house still held. The glass had been broken out of the windows and Angelique could hear shouting. A number of Canadians had been shot trying to get in, and the ones who hadn’t been shot yet were enraged.

Frustration grew exponentially. The people in the house seemed to have an endless supply of bullets and powder. The attackers were furious, and the only thing that might cool them was a death spasm, preferable by someone of English extraction. They had been led to believe that the English would meekly line up to be taken North, once their homes were burnt, and now the meek were shooting back and killing people. After the first shock, the defenders stiffened. The attackers were taking casualties at an unconscionable rate. There was grim fury. Some of the Canadians wanted all the prisoners killed immediately to teach those still holding out a lesson.

Sean Leduke, a courier-du-bois of uncertain parentage, and incidentally the fur-clad creature who had killed William, was determined to get home with something to show, and resisted the murdering of the prisoners with an iron will. His reasons were all wrong, but in a situation where everyone was going to hell in a handcart, standing up for anything as meek and helpless as a new-made widow might be considered above average. Terrifically unpopular, but Sean was lucky. Lucky Sean they called him, and he hadn’t been shot yet.

Many of the French, having been raised in an environment that valued highly the more war-like skills, felt an obligation and desire to lead the charges on the Stebbins house.  They nearly all got their wish. The front rank received most of the enemies’ attention and all of their bullets. Stepping into the gap left by a fallen comrade came naturally. Life was short and fame was long. Pain was better ignored.

Sean’s luck was running out, though. A stray musket ball ripped through the window trim right where he stood talking, and a great oaken splinter lodged itself in his hand. He pulled it out with his teeth. “That’s going to hurt tomorrow,’ he laughed, little knowing the very complex and time-consuming operations that would be required to stop it hurting.

The Stebbins house continued to hold out against the massed volleys of the attackers.  There were perhaps 15 French and 150 Indians, all of them mad as hell and eager to smell the blood of the Englishmen in that house. But time was drawing short. A number of English had been seen running off south, where the town of Hatfield lay, rumored to be home to men who could shoot and ride. It would be bad to be trapped inside the palisade.

Sean wrapped his hand with a rag, shoved it into his pocket, and went out to see what he could see. He gave the hatchet a few swings with his left hand and guessed it was all right. Desultory musket shots disturbed the air, and occasional screams as another hiding-place was found, but really, it was a mopping up operation now.

Stubby was at a loss to find Natalie. He hoped to hell she hadn’t tried to run off wrapped in that quilt. He started asking, but people only looked away. They didn’t have time. They had their own calamities to look after. She wasn’t in the house, or the cellar, and when some of the Canadians went off to burn the Williams house, Stubby bolted out the back door and across the yard. Someone stood in the shadow of the big maple. There was light from the burning houses but you couldn’t get anything to stand still. “Natalie?” Stubby called, and there was a glint of something that could have been a bracelet. Or a hatchet. Sean stepped out from behind the tree and swung the hatchet hard. He wanted a scalp. A scalp without a long fight.  The old man had no gun, but his knife was in his hand. Sean swung again and missed. The English was aged, but deceptively nimble. A couple of Abenaki, trotting their captives toward the North gate, stopped to watch. Sean just wanted a scalp to take back. He could hang it on his belt and walk around, or he could sell it. One of the Abenakis said something and the other laughed. The Englishman eyed him belligerently. An old man with a knife. And Sean only had his left hand He swung a third time, but the English was no longer there. The Abenakis were laughing openly now. This was taking too long. People were wandering away from the burning houses. The Englishman’s friends would be along soon. Sean made a quick feint, and thought he saw the old man’s foot slip a little in the snow. Then he saw the sheet of ice. A frozen puddle. If he would work the old man back a little, it would be finished. He made another feint and the old man stepped back. The Abenakis were silent now, watching closely. In a moment it was over. Sean swung, the old man stepped back and went down. Sean was on him in an instant. One quick slash and they all knew he was dead. The Abenakis stepped back and nodded. After a moment they went trotting off toward the gate. In the light of the burning houses the blood was black on the ice. Sean gathered his scalp and walked away without looking back.

Sean wasn’t one to be overly concerned about what might have been. So he stayed clear of the house that was still shooting. He had his scalp and his captive. The sun was coming up and it was time to go home. More English would be here soon. It would take a month to get back to Canada.



They said it would take a month to get to Canada. The raiders were impatient at any delay, and murderous. No one knew if the English were behind them. Anyone who could not keep up was killed, as it would be cruel to leave them to starve. A quick death was a good death, and a quick death was all the Canadians had to offer. There was little food. The snow was waist deep, with no good place to walk.

One of the women from town noticed that Angelique could at least say things that got listened to. Her words usually called forth much eye-rolling and bad temper from the French, but at least they understood what she was saying. This was impressive. The woman attached herself to Angelique. It was risky for her to associate with a papist, but Angelique could ask for food, or help when help was needed. All her hopes were in vain.

Angelique complained of everything. Sean came to hate her, and would have killed her, except the priest would have disapproved. It is one thing killing someone who might otherwise have to be carried, quite another to kill someone simply because they were annoying.

For her part, Angelique would have killed for a slice of bread and a nice cup of tea. Roots and moss left you feeling you hadn’t eaten.  Once or twice, she had filled her belly with snow, some of it none too clean. You couldn’t do that often, though, there was nowhere to get warm after. She had no affection for Sean, none at all. He had killed William, right in front of her. Now he seemed to think it was all right to order her around and feed her on roots. The whole thing was disgusting. There was no privacy. He never let her out of his sight. Where did he think she was going to run? There was no privacy anywhere, and shouting at Sean only caught the attention of people who had no business  wonder what she was shouting about.

“So. You can speak French.”  The prim little thin-lipped woman, slightly older than Angelique, who had come to shadow her every move. Her name was Phoebe. There was a note of disapproval along with the grudging respect.

“Not only that. I was born there.”

“So you are Catholic.”

“True. But I cannot see there is much difference.”

“It’s common knowledge. You pray to idols. Your priests are the worst sort of magicians.”

“Magicians? I had no idea.”

This theological discussion, promising as it was, had to be put aside while they struggled to negotiate a creek.

“Careful, that ice is rotten.”

“I guess I know—Oh!” And the woman disappeared, having dropped through a hole in the ice and into a hole in the stream bed. She would have risen to the surface like a cork, her many loose-fitting coverings being rife with air-pockets, yet the film of ice was just sufficient to trap her beneath it.

Angelique stood in a shallow place in the center of the stream, watching the dark shape beneath the milky ice. The water was near freezing, but Angelique reached deep and brought up a rock. Gauging the Englishwoman’s likely path, Angelique dropped the rock where she felt it would do the most good.

The ice shattered, the woman broke the surface and gasped “Help me!” Her eyes were wide and frightened. In a moment they stood together on the high place in the center of the stream bed.

It was March, and not the sort of weather where you’d stand around with wet clothes. There was little time. 

“What can I do?” cried the dripping woman. “I have nothing. I’ll die.”

It was true. Already the edge of her dress was stiffening. Plus, any sign of weakness and she’d be knocked on the head.

There must be something,” said Angelique. “Alors!”  She spoke rapidly and furiously. For once the Canadians did not take exception to her words. Soon the woman was dressed all in seal skin, with the fur side inside.

“There,” said Angelique, “now you look Canadian.”

“Please,” said Phoebe, “I would rather freeze than burn in hell.”

“Take them off then.” 

“Certainly not.”

“Suit yourself.”

”I would if I could but I can’t.”

There was something intrinsically amusing in the way the English expressed themselves.

Perhaps it was only the tension of recent events catching up with her, But Angelique laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Phoebe held no truck with being the butt of anyone’s joke.

“Do you think you’ll go to hell for wearing fur?”

“Catholic fur. I wouldn’t be surprised if it had been to Rome for the Pope to slaver on.”

“I would,” said Angelique, “I’d be very surprised.”

“Move along there. What’s the trouble?”  Sean had no desire to spend winter in the mountains. “Enough chin music.”  Yet he proved to be quite solicitous of Phoebe. The lure of the unfamiliar is ever strong. Phoebe had just that lemony zest that made foreign incursions so beguiling. It was a simple matter to arrange a trade, and soon enough Angelique found herself prodded along by Calixite Marchonterre, another Canadian, of whose depredations during the Deerfield raid she was blessedly unaware. Calixite had small interest in hostages, having learnt, at some cost, the rather unpredictable, but marked, vagaries of human behavior. Calixite’s interest was in scalps, which never talked back or had any wish to return home, much less to see what lay on the other side of the river.

“No feet, no foul,” was the way Calixite saw it.

So soon, in fact, was the trade accomplished that Angelique found herself just that little bit piqued, annoyed, even, at the ease with which the care and custody of her personhood had been transferred over to another Frenchman without her knowledge, even. It left her feeling that she was no more than a parcel, like chattel. Like a house or a cow, Angelique was owned.

This did not take many lessons to learn.

She was on a high bluff overlooking the river. The ice below was covered with snow. The smooth undulations went on forever. It was early afternoon of a bright sunny day. A hawk circled. The high ground had been blown clear.

So serene and peaceful, so unmarred, such a pleasant surround that Angelique nearly forgot the circumstances of her captivity.  Until Calixite stepped out of the shadow of a hemlock, threw down a dead squirrel, and told her he wanted it cooked.

Angelique had never built a fire in her life. She was a member of the up-and-coming bourgeoisie. Until her trip to America, any meat she had encountered had been presented, perfectly browned, on really nice porcelain. Squirrels were busy little animals who ran up and down the trees. The connection between this dead animal and actual food was tenuous at best. So she did what any self-respecting young woman in similar circumstances would do. She looked at him as if he had just gone mad. Calixite, though, had grown up on the banks of the mighty St. Lawrence. He’d fought Indians and bears and catamounts. For him the connection between the dead animal and food was real and important. So the suggestion, even unvoiced, that he was a few bricks shy of a load bordered on treason. He hit her. She went right over backward into a patch of wet snow. The pain in her cheekbone, though, was nothing compared to her astonishment. She had always been a well-behaved child, and now this backwoods person, whom, it must be admitted, Angelique considered to be somewhat inferior to herself, had decided it was all right to strike her.  He stood looking down at her as she endeavored to shake the annoying granules of snow from her sleeve. Stood looking down at her with a sneer that was all the more annoying because now she was wet to the elbow.

Calixite supposed Angelique to be English. They had not spoken, aside from a few very rudimentary exchanges having to do with moving right along and not wasting time, —all in English—so when she began to berate him in clear precise French, a type of French he was not the least accustomed to, a French that to his ear was a bit over-inflated and gentrified, he found it vastly amusing. Amusing until the implications of what was being said began to sink in. Fun was fun, but there were limits. Calixite began to wish he’d followed his own rules and stuck to scalps. Those words about his mother were cruel indeed. Calixite had grown up in the forests, with only his dog for a friend. Hence, the varieties of human expression were just that little bit difficult for him to negotiate. Sarcasm was lost on him. People should just say what they meant. Even a bit of gentle irony was enough to send him into spasms of rage. Angelique’s harsh words, so clearly calling into question his competence, shot right through to that part of his brain that specialized in threat assessment, saw a slave, and lashed out like a wounded animal. Angelique lay in the wet once again, snow up her sleeves and anger in her heart. Really, she had done nothing. Calixite’s response had been inappropriate, if not downright insane. She would have to be careful.



After about a week of running, never sure if the English were behind them or not, they came to a town, of sorts. An Indian town, on a plateau where two rivers ran together. It was  called Koasuk, Place of the Small Pines. The pines were small because people had lived there so long.

Koasuk was a place well-known to the Canadians. They had been aiming to stop there to rest all along.

It was not Canada, but there was a French priest. Angelique was happy to see him. Religion was a consolation when there was so much death about. He spoke to her in the sort of French she remembered, language like clear water, not something bubbling up through a mess of porridge. He too assumed she was English, until she spoke, and it was gratifying to see the change in his expression when he realized she was not one of those heretical British witches.

She was a captive from Deerfield, but the bruise on her cheek was fresh.

“What happened to your eye, child?” he asked.

  She tried to explain the still-puzzling circumstances of Calixite’s outburst, but she had brought her story only as far as the raid on Deerfield when he nodded and turned away. She had expected more of a priest. Still, he was a comfort. His robes were cloth, rather than the fur and leather she had grown so used to seeing. It was charming to see them billow in the wind. She tried hard not to notice the filthiness of his collar or the dirt beneath his nails. She much preferred to watch his eyes, which reminded her of the young priest on the ship coming over.  Eyes that were warm and friendly, not flinty, like the Indians, or filled with mistrust, like the Canadians.

He seemed to have no fondness for his countrymen.

“France is full of greed,” he told her, “greed has crossed the ocean with us. It is all about.”

“Well,” she said, “it didn’t come with me.”

“Are you positive? Every ship that stops here, French or English or Dutch, brings a little.”

She was about to offer a vehement sarcasm, but instead found herself speaking calmly.

“People have to get along,” she said.

“Yes, but not on the backs of others.”

“But is that not the human condition?”

“Look around you. These are the most spiritual people I have met in my life.”

“Spirtual? I am a slave. Everyone I have met is either a slave or wishes to own one.”

“Officially I am to tell you to accept your lot. Unofficially I can tell you that we are working to end the practice of slavery.”

“And the torture?”  One of the younger men from Deerfield had attempted to escape. The few Iroquois tagging along had brought him back. For three nights they had placed his feet in the coals of the fire. No one had slept. The Iroquois had laughed at his screams. Finally he died.

“Loving your enemies is the hardest thing. Some day we will all live in peace.”

“I look forward to it.”



The people of Koasuk were happy to see the Canadians. It was well they had brought only captives, and not the usual militia that only wanted to burn everything and kill people. They gave everyone robes to sleep in. Still, Angelique could not get over being afraid.  She had no desire to be tortured. She was careful never to gaze off toward the South.  Many of the other captives believed she was a spy for the French. How else had they known about the weakness of the stockade? There was Phoebe, of course, but she had serious limitations as a conversationalist.

Everything about the village irritated Phoebe. She kicked at the dogs and frightened the children. Someone had given her a loaf of bread. She tore off great chunks and ate them as she made sure that they all, Indian and French alike, understood how firmly she stood against the papists. The priest especially seemed to earn her wrath. Her eyes narrowed with menace as she watched him chop wood.

“Look at him, is that anything for a man of God to be doing?”

“He gives wood to the old women.” Angelique told her, “so they can be warm.”

“They’ll be warm enough in Hell.”

The priest had taken a woman, an Abenaki from Maine, into his hut. Whether they lived as man and wife no one could say. Phoebe was convinced they were living in sin. 

“It’s disgusting,” she chirped, “A man of the cloth like that. You’d think he’d try to set an example. What if there are children?” Phoebe’s husband had died of the fever a year earlier.



All too soon a line of captors and captives snaked up the hill behind the village, heading for the long lake that would take them into Canada. Unhappiness was general throughout, as this was the splitting-off place, some heading up the lake to Montreal, some over the hills to Quebec.  Children were separated from mothers, husbands from wives. Friendships were torn apart.

“Good-bye Phoebe.”

“Good-bye, Angelique, I know you will find happiness.”

“Good-bye,” Angelique said to the priest, “I’m afraid I don’t know our name.”

“Andre Lessard.”