Louisbourg

A novella by Thomas Hurtt

Part Four
Lieutenant Francis Dubois stopped dead in the alley and stood his ground. His
treatment at the hands of this army officer, this Lt. Bouchard was insulting to say the
least. His dignity recoiled, to be accosted by such a one and in so outrageous a manner.
It had been his misfortune to have Bouchard as a bunkmate on the Belle Fleur’s
last crossing. The lieutenant simply had no affinity for life at sea. For Dubois, it had
been a very long seven weeks. Daily routine was irksome enough when one shared a
cramped cabin. But this time had been worse. This soldier had no notion of how to
conduct himself shipboard. The man had the unsavory habit of pitching up his stomach
whenever the ship encountered even the mildest of swells. And when he wasn’t being ill,
he was monopolizing the cabin space with his pile of charts and sheaths of plans.
Upon making landfall in Louisbourg harbor, Lt. Dubois felt an acute relief to well
rid of this bothersome human cargo. And he had quite hoped that he had seen the last of
him. So when the navy man had heard Bouchard’s rumbling bass behind him at the
whisk table, it jangled him. It reminded him of that most disagreeable occurrence near
the end of that seemingly endless voyage. A card cheat, indeed! This baseless accusation
had probably been spurred by Bouchard’s own ineptitude at the table. Or possibly by his
erratic compulsion to continue play when he knew he was outmatched.
And now he had surfaced once more, his behavior more monstrous than ever. He
even had the gall to be pressing some sort of suit, to be craving a favor! The man was
demented, perhaps even deranged. But his threat of violence was so ominous that the
Dubois decided the prudent course would be to humor him for now. He certainly could
listen to Bouchard’s proposal, if listening meant that he could get back to his ship without
bodily harm.
“What do you want from me?” he demanded, putting on his best air of injured
defiance.
“Simply this,” Bouchard said tightly. “I want you to deliver a letter for me upon
your return to Brest. He held before the two of them several folded sheets, sealed with
red wax. “You are to seek out the head official at the customs house, Joseph-Arnaud
Giraud de Villeray. Deliver this to him. He will see you if you mention my name to the
clerks.”
Dubois could feel the world sway about him as he was rocked by disbelief. All
of this – the antics in the gaming parlor, the manhandling in the back garden – all of this
agitation - just so that he deliver a message? Almost unbidden, his hand accepted the
letter.
“It goes to him and only to him, do you understand?” Bouchard’s eyes sharpened
as he emphasized this last instruction.
And Dubois felt his stomach twist in confirmation of his darkest suspicions. It
was as he feared.
 The man before him was clearly insane!

***
Corporal Roche’s mind whirled as rapidly as it could in the circumstances, until it
latched on to an idea that simply couldn’t fail. He needed only to get rid of that naval
lieutenant, that was the one difficulty. Once he had been0 banished, Boucher would
loosen his purse strings and then, all would be well.
Roche managed to stumble across the street without losing his way. This task
may not be so hard, he thought, as he approached the two officers at the mouth of the
alley. They both appeared as though they despised each other.
“Pardon, Monsieur,” Roche cut into their snarling discussion. His plan was very
clever and he impressed himself with his ability to conjure up such brilliance on the spur
of the moment. And the genius of it was this – he addressed only the naval lieutenant and
ignored his friend Boucher, as if he didn’t know him. “Pardon, Monsieur,” he repeated.
“A moment of your attention, if you please.”
Lt. Dubois turned a jaundice eye at the bothersome creature hovering nearby.
“Surely you cannot be addressing me, Corporal.” He used the appellation ‘Corporal’ as if
it was something unpleasant that he had just stepped in.
This rankled the good corporal for a moment, but then he remembered his
objective and he beamed a gapped-toothed grin.
“Oh Sir, but I am! I have been sent to look for you. You are an officer from the
Belle….um…from that ship out in the harbor, no?”
This got Dubois full attention, and he turned to face the pathetic excuse for a
soldier that reeled drunkenly before him. The portly man was beyond disheveled. He
presented a woeful image of the mighty arm of France, clad as he was in a muck-sullied
uniform, unshaven and with hat askew. He swayed on his feet as though his legs would
buckle under his overbearing weight at any moment. Dubois pressed a handkerchief to
his face and recoiled, the breath that assaulted him was so putrid.
“What could you possibly want with me, loathsome wretch?” he sneered in
disgust.
Roche noted that Lt. Boucher was playing his part admirably. He had taken some
steps back from them and looked on in a very creditable counterfeit of amazement. It
was almost as if the he and Boucher had rehearsed this beforehand.
“You must return to your ship at once, Sir! There’s some sort of emergency that
requires your…um…for you to be there.”
Both Bouchard and Dubois turned and looked out over the harbor. The rain had
ceased by then and a faint glow of moon struggled to cast a feeble light over the water.
Even so, the Belle Fleur was clearly visible. She sat peacefully at anchor, with only a
solitary lantern gleaming dimly from her quarterdeck and not a flicker of commotion.
“What sort of emergency?” Dubois demanded.
Roche’s mind whirled furiously. He hadn’t thought this part of the plan through,
there simply hadn’t been time. What he needed was something that was believable,
something that would spur the naval officer into action.
“There’s a…leak. Yes - a big leak! And the captain need you right away to…
um…make the water stop coming in and to…dry some things.”
 Even Corporal Roche thought that this last bit was weak, and he winced and
waited to see how it would be received. But to his great delight, the lieutenant seemed to
honesty swallow the bait. His whole demeanor changed and he suddenly looked quite
concerned.
“The ship is sinking, you say? Mon Dieu, that does sound serious. I’d best go
and see what can be done about that. Pardon me, Lt. Bouchard. It will be necessary to
continue our discussion another time, I fear. Adieu, gentlemen.”
Francis Dubois strode down to the quayside, his spirits lighter now that he had
made good his escape. He felt self-satisfied and a bit jaunty. His sharp intelligence had
given him the boldness to seize upon the whims of fortune. He had turned a chance
encounter with a sodden lout into an opportunity to finally shake off that madman
Bouchard. And so, he was quite pleased with himself.
Bouchard had watched all of this unfold before him with a certain amount of
suppressed amusement. He did not care that the Belle Fleur’s 4th lieutenant had slipped
off into the night. Dubois had taken possession of the correspondence, and that was all
that could be done for now. It was reasonable to believe that his report would make swift
passage into the hands of the ministry at Versailles.
If Dubois failed to comply, no doubt there would be hefty consequences in store
for him. Both in terms of his career and his well being. Fate would cross their paths
again, of this Bouchard was certain.
The only person on the street who wasn’t amused or pleased was Arsène Morjuet.
The rogue had witnessed this entire farcical play from his shadowy vantage point. It was
enjoyable while it lasted. But now that the scene had ended, he found himself torn by
predicament, force to make a key decision.
He could continue to pursue Bouchard, but somehow he didn’t think that this
would yield up anything else useful tonight. The officer was already making for the
nearest tavern, his slovenly, stumbling companion in tow.
Or he could pick up the trail of the naval officer, and give him a good scare.
It’s funny – if you shake something hard enough, you never know just what might
tumble out…
***
Lise Guyon began in on her second pastry batch, a savory this time. Her brow
glistened with a fine sheen as she deftly kneaded the lard, flour, water and salt. A
whispered little tune escaped her lips, but it was audible only to herself. She kept her
head down and lost herself in the task at hand, while all about her the kitchens churned in
a sweaty, troubled milieu.
Yesterday’s dinner had not been well received upstairs. Even the Governor, who
was not overly demanding, had found his appetite desert him during the second course.
His wife, Madame Drucour, had marked this and taken swift measures to rectify the
situation. The result was that the cook, Madame Vienneau, had received a verbal
drubbing, which she took very badly. And now her underlings were paying for it too.
She fussed about the two crowded chambers, bawling directions in an agitated,
counterproductive fashion that only succeeded in disconcerting her help.
She was a large, imposing woman, with stout hips and an ample, protruding
bosom. Her menacing figure toddled about the kitchens, prying into and meddling with
every dish. She loomed suddenly over Lise’s shoulder, poking a sausage-thick finger into
the dough. Scooping a taste to her critical chops, she pronounced her assessment.
“Salt! You need more salt, Lise!” and continued on to harass another kitchen
maid. Lise sampled the pastry, decided that the woman was an idiot today, and resumed
her kneading.
She watched the cook, however, from the corner of her eye, estimating how much
time she had till the next circuit would bring her back to the pastry table. A slight smile
tugged at the corner of Lise’s mouth when the cook looked in on Claudette’s doings.
Claudette was a bit of a flighty thing who had recently been moved up from scullery duty
and didn’t know much beyond chopping turnips and peeling onions. She could be
counted on to keep the mistress of the kitchens occupied for a while.
Lise resumed her unobtrusive singing. Her song was short-lived, however.
Sooner than she could imagine it possible, she was the focus of Madame Vienneau’s
attention once more. And it happened in this way.
A lackey from upstairs arrived with a missive for the cook. They stepped into the
passageway while the women and girls exchanged looks and whispers, wondering if this
was some new edict from on high, one that would result in even more disturbance for the
staff below. When Madame Vienneau returned, she appeared agitated, but no more then
before and the anxiety abated somewhat from the wary kitchen crew.
“Back to work! Back to work!” she commanded, waving her hand in a
preoccupied way. “We still have a dinner to put together.”
Lise turned back to her pastry, but Madame Vienneau was soon at her elbow.
“Leave that for now, Lise Guyon. Someone else will finish it. There’s something
of much greater importance right now.”
Lise cast her a questioning look.
“Leave that, I say!” she demanded, when the girl made no move to disengage
from her task. “And clean yourself up. You are going out.”
Lise wiped her hands on her apron before taking it off, and puzzled over what this
something could be. Of course, anything that would get her out of the kitchens today
would be a blessing. Madame Vienneau then pressed a paper into Lise’s hand.
“You know how to read this, I assume?”
Lise nodded absently and looked over the list she had been given. She found
written there an inventory of spices, dried herbs, oils and other ingredients that the
kitchens had exhausted over the course of the winter.
“These are things have come in on the supply ship. They were to be sent over as
soon as they had been off-loaded. I can tell you that Madame is more than annoyed to
find that they had not yet been delivered.”
The Madame she referred to was Madame Drucour. It was no sign of disrespect.
All Louisbourg esteemed her with the simple title of ‘Madame’.
“What is it that you want me to do?” Lise asked, though an inclining of
understanding was dawning in her mind.
“Find out what is causing the delay, of course! You will go to the King’s
Storehouse and see if these things have been unpacked. If so, make arrangements to have
them delivered here as soon as possible.”
Lise knew something of the men that ran the warehouse – she had heard the
rumors of how difficult they could be.
 “And if they can’t be found? Or if they were never shipped? What happens
then?”
“Then there will be a great deal of trouble!”
It almost sounded to Lise as if the cook was accusing her of negligence. But that
was not credible, this had nothing to do with her. It was not in her duties to have
responsibility over inventory. The larder was the jealously guarded domain of Fantine
Chabert. Not for the first time, Lise wondered how the cook had risen to such a
responsible position without possessing any of the necessary talents.
“Why do you want me for this? Surely there are others who…”
“I very well can’t be expected to go down there myself!” Madame Vienneau
snapped. “I am needed right here!”
“What about Fantine? It is her responsibility…”
“No, not Fantine Chabert!” Madame Vienneau leaned in closer to Lise, almost
whispering in her ear. “I don’t want half the items to disappear in transport.”
“Well at least let me take someone with me. I won’t go alone.”
“Who can I spare? I ask you that! You know how busy we are.”
“Mariette,” Lise offered. “Let me take Mariette for an hour. She knows Monsieur
Morin de Fonfay personally. Her husband and he are friends, I believe. The clerks at the
warehouse give us any trouble if she goes.”
“Impossible. I’ve got Mariette on the hearth kettles just now. We can’t afford to
have anything burn again tonight. Besides, you won’t have any difficulties – just show
them the requisition.”
Why was Madame Vienneau so insistent that Lise be the one to go? Surely if this
were a high priority, the task would not be delegated to her. She was competent at what
she did, but this was very much beyond the scope of her duties. She didn’t know the first
thing about dealing with the bureaucracy at the warehouse. It was almost as though the
cook was trying to get rid of her for an hour or so. But that was preposterous! Why
should she do that?
“If you want me for this, Madame Vienneau, you must know that I won’t go there
unescorted. You can not put me in that position – not with my husband away in Port
Toulouse.”
The cook thought this over for a minute, biting at her ugly protruding lip while
she came up with a solution.
“Fine. Take Claudette, then. I suppose I can spare her. She’s practically
worthless today, anyway.” Madame Vienneau saw the protest forming in Lise’s eyes and
moved swiftly to extinguish it. “No, don’t argue with me. I’ve given you what you
wanted. Any more discussion and I’ll put you on scullery duty for the month.”
Lise bit back the objection, but it was hard. The new girl was practically useless –
in and out of the kitchens.
“Go, now. Take Claudette Daudet. Be back within the hour.”
Lise watched the cook’s receding form waddled away, and wondered just exactly
why she had been chosen to lead this unlikely expedition.
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