A crowd had gathered by the docks – high society ladies, filles de joie, fishermen, gunners, soldiers as well as seamen from Portugal, Martinique, and Louisiana – in front of an auction tribune on which a black slave stood. This city is more diversified and colourful than Quebec, he thought. The harbour was congested with six ships from the Compagnie des Indes, the largest ships ever seen in Louisbourg, their holds full of exotic products (tea, coffee, spices, porcelain, silk) for the European market. Joseph admired the giants of the sea for a minute, then the heat convinced him to go inside for some refreshment. The taverns were packed because of all the sailors in town, and Joseph spent the afternoon playing cards and backgammon among pitchers of rum, raunchy stories, smoke, and a general hubbub, paying particular attention to tales from the strange worlds of the Orient mixed with more day-to-day concerns. Some people feared a blockade, “The Basque and French fleets haven’t showed up, that means one hundred and fifty fewer ships for trade!” Others were worried about food shortages, “There isn’t even enough food for us, and now we have to feed all the sailors from the Compagnie des Indes’ ships… there’ll be a famine this winter.”
Still others discussed the privateers’ war, which the English were winning. Joseph realized he had to be careful. So he decided not to return to Le Succès.
* * *
St. Louis Day. Because of the war and the famine, there was little rejoicing. No bonfire or fireworks, no military parade, no salvo of artillery, not even a religious procession. No one rang the hundred-pound bell captured from a British ship. But the lack of an official ceremony did little to change the drunken popular festivities where people celebrated to the point of forgetting their own names. It should be said that the public particularly loved the month of August because of its four holidays, including the feast of the Assumption on the 15th.
Joseph took advantage of the St. Louis holiday to rest in his barracks room not far from the Dauphine demi-bastion next to the gunpowder plant. He shared the room with sixteen soldiers who lived there, knocked about, cooked in the same pot, and slept two to a straw mat. But he forgot his surroundings as he savoured in a moment of idleness the wild raspberries he had gathered at the Cormorandière cove and lovingly polished the gold coin with Louis XIV s likeness on it that he had found lying on the beach. The coin came from the wreck of the Chameau, a royal ship that had gone down off Louisbourg in 1725 with its cargo of 700,000 gold livres – the Quebec garrisons pay. The storm had been so violent that all 310 passengers perished, including the Louisbourg engineer and Governor Ramesay’s son from Montreal. The sea raged so wildly not a single pig that washed up on shore survived.
Joseph was just finishing his raspberries when two soldiers arrived. One was a young man named Jehan from Vendée, who had been involved in salt-smuggling operations and had the makings of a revolutionary. He had just barely escaped the galleys. Thierry was the other soldier: a poor orphan from Paris who thought his ticket out of poverty would be to sign up! Were no freer than the black slaves here, Joseph thought. But his gold coin gave him the illusion of wealth for a fleeting second, and he decided to invite his companions out.
“There’s a new cabaret on Rue Dauphine Bastion. They’ve got good rum and leg of lamb at a reasonable price. It’ll be a nice change from the slop we eat! The drinks are on me.”
Jehan and Thierry eagerly accepted the invitation. They stepped out onto the narrow muddy street under a light drizzle. A pig wallowed in the filth.
“Let’s catch it!” Thierry shouted.
Slightly stunned by the noise of all the festivities, the pig still managed to slip from between their hands several times. They finally cornered it in a dead end.
“I’ll hide it in the barracks,” Thierry offered.
An edict allowed inhabitants to appropriate roaming pigs since they had become such a nuisance in the city and a danger to small children.
“I’ll meet you at the cabaret,” he shouted as he walked off.
Joseph and Jehan entered the noisy, smoke-filled tavern. Unfortunately for Joseph and his companion, the tin porringers were empty; there was no lamb left. But there was still rum and wine, and they didn’t deprive themselves! The gloom and the effects of the famine and blockade were more keenly felt on a holiday. Even the liberation of their friends who had been taken prisoner in Boston brought no joy because it increased the number of mouths to feed. Thierry arrived, but since the curfew was fast approaching, they had to head back to the barracks.
* * *
Joseph began eyeing another job. Gunners were better paid: they got six livres more per month and received bonuses for hitting their targets with the cannonballs. Theirs was an elite unit that had certain privileges, including being excused from working on the fortifications. Joseph’s experience with the cannons on Le Succès helped him get hired on as an assistant gunner. He let his beard grow, polished his sabre, wore a blue coat with red trim and white buttons, and learned to lovingly polish the black cannons mounted on their red wooden frame. He threw himself into his tasks as a way of forgetting his troubles. It got to the point where his cannons became a fetish and every shot he fired sounded like music to his ears.
* * *
September passed, then October. On the 1st of November, the Day of the Dead, the weather was particularly foggy.
“Let’s go to the fishing village to my friend DesRoches’ house. Sometimes he serves meals,” Thierry suggested.
“I can’t,” Joseph replied. “After sunset, the fortress is closed and the Dauphine gate is guarded by thirty soldiers. We risk a flogging or, worse, the dungeon.”
“They’ll never know. We’ll come back at dawn with the merchants and fishermen coming into town.”
Thierry’s suggestion calmed Joseph’s fears, for it was exactly what he’d hoped to hear.
The DesRoches home was a simple fishing hut with a thatched roof. Next to it was a big, sturdy rowboat equipped with a sail. DesRoches used it to fish for cod a few leagues off the coast. Inside on the hardpacked ground, the only furniture was a large table, benches, and a few small empty barrels for seats. Any cooking was done in a huge fireplace, and a big pot of boiled cod sat in the middle. On each side of the fireplace were bunk beds covered in straw. Above the entrance, a rifle hung on two wooden hooks. In an adjoining room were fishing gear and a few barrels of spruce beer made from spruce buds steeped in molasses and brandy. The DesRoches were in their sixties and were a simple, hospitable couple used to housing Basque and Norman seamen as well as evening “escapees” looking to get away from the monotony of the barracks. Jean Lelarge, a ships captain at Louisbourg, and his brother-in-law Télesphore Samson were already there. Sitting next to the fire was Pierre Detcheverry, a Basque privateer paid by the French. He claimed the Basques showed Columbus the route to the New World. Detcheverry embodied the two great Basque virtues: through his physical strength and endurance he represented the first, indorra, and through his strength of character and stoicism in times of hardship, the second, sendorra, a moral counterpart to the first. DesRoches was busy giving the latest news. “Valérien Louis, the one they call ‘the Bourguignon,’ who used to be a soldier and stonecarver, refused to plead guilty to theft during his trial, even after they used a hot poker on him several times.”
“It can’t be easy to keep protesting your innocence under that kind of treatment,” Joseph broke in.
“And his troubles are only beginning. The bailiwicks attorney ordered him flogged at the four corners of the city, then tied to the stake and branded with a