Bride of New France (15 page)

The goddess at the ship’s prow is bare-breasted and armless. Her chest juts out over the open water, although Laure can see only the curls of her hair and shoulder blades from where she is standing. Below the waist, the sculpture takes on the scaly form of a fish. The lamps on deck make her golden skin luminescent. It is easy to believe that she really is guiding the ship into the powerful black waves.

Behind her, Laure hears a passenger asking about the weather. “I cannot tell any better than you by looking at these waves what kind of storm this is. But when a man who has crossed the sea eleven times tells you to get below deck, you had better listen and not stand around asking questions about the size of waves.” The sailor then makes his way over to the Jesuit priest and two nuns, huddled in prayer.

Their mumblings are being swallowed up by the wind. Each new wave seems larger than the last, and the water far below churns with white foam.

Laure looks again at the figure on the prow, cutting her way through the sea spray with her chest outstretched. The lamp on deck goes out and Laure feels her hair being whipped around her neck by the wind and water. Someone grabs her arm and thrusts her toward the hatch. She is one of the last passengers
to go below deck. In the Sainte-Barbe the Salpêtrière girls are already lying prostrate, clinging to the slimy floorboards when she stumbles over to them.

As the storm deepens, the animals begin to groan and kick. Laure imagines that their stomachs must also be rolling with the rough weather. But when the rocking becomes so frantic that it seems the ship will split in two, the animals, like the passengers, grow quiet. Each living creature is concentrating on keeping itself fixed to one spot on the floor and the contents of its stomach intact. The silence is broken only by the occasional scream as the ship is struck by a particularly strong wave. Laure hears Madeleine beside her make a monstrous retching noise before they are both covered in a spray of vomit. A steady murmur of prayers in French and Latin is maintained in the Sainte-Barbe.

Just as quickly as the storm came on, it passes. Girls who were ill a few minutes before are now sitting up, still pale but bright eyed. They look surprised that they no longer have to hug the damp planks of the ship, uttering prayers of salvation. Rosaries and talismans have been stuffed back inside skirt pockets and trousers. Only the evidence of the churning storm surrounds the passengers: the contents of an overturned latrine bucket, vomit, and bits of uneaten sea biscuits. Otherwise all is calm, and the sea’s only movement is a gentle quavering like a mother idly rocking a baby’s cradle. Madeleine is the only one who did not sit up when the waters grew calm. She is shivering and rolling back and forth as if the storm had not stopped at all.

Laure hears a click as the hold’s latch is unlocked. A young man descends the spiral steps. “Come up and breathe some air,” he says, and a few of the male passengers, lying with their belongings on the floor, let out feeble cheers. “We’re planning
a dance. The sky is clear. Stars are out. After surviving such a storm, we have reason to celebrate.”

The young sailor doesn’t seem to have been affected at all by the storm. It is as if he missed it altogether. A few of the sturdier men scramble up and crawl toward the staircase. In their haste, they trip over other passengers and the bags of salt and plates of stones added as weight to balance the heavy cannons on deck. The young officer raises his lantern and turns it toward the women in the ship’s bow. The girls from la Pitié and the Salpêtrière, along with those they picked up in Normandie, are sprawled across the floorboards like an abandoned doll collection. Before the storm, the sailors had frightened the girls with stories of pirates and corsairs and what they would do if they came upon this ship filled with women in addition to the usual spoils. They tell the women that the many bays along the shores of Canada are the perfect hiding place for these dangerous men.

A few of the girls smile weakly at the men. Madame Bourdon has finally fallen asleep. While the storm raged, she had led the terrified girls through every Catholic prayer she knew; her voice had risen a degree with each new assault. Madeleine whispers that she will be fine and that Laure should take this chance to get some air, so she crawls among the girls and their blankets and grabs hold of the ladder. She goes up the levels, past the storage area being guarded by the
maître-valet
.

The air is chilly, but so fresh that Laure opens her mouth to swallow it. She can no longer see the land behind them, nor can she make out the familiar shape of the
Amitié
beside them.
The
Saint-Jean-Baptiste
is surrounded on all sides by open water. They are alone at sea. The sailors are scrambling around the deck, assessing the damage done by the winds. They are ordering the carpenters to nail down the planks that came loose in the storm. Some of the men set about sewing up a tear in one of the sails, while others work at pumping out the water.

One of the passengers has brought a violin on deck. The music starts quietly, a single warbling string, bringing the passengers back to life. Laure sees that it is mostly men who have come up from below, with the exception of a few wives looking out into the night with their husbands’ coats around their shoulders.

Laure hugs her chest, looking up at the sky. A man approaches her. It is the red-bearded
quartier-marin
who talked to her about the sculpture. The
quartiers-marin
stand guard in four-hour shifts over the ship’s operations, but must remain in their uniforms at all times, even while they are at rest, in case an emergency should arise. He extends his arm to her, but Laure hesitates to take it. She has never held the arm of a man. Madame Bourdon and the Jesuit priests have worked ceaselessly for the past few weeks to keep the single women separated from the men. They have been more successful with controlling the girls, who are generally accustomed to obeying orders at the hospital. The men have been harder to keep from gambling at their card games and from drinking from their supplies of
eau-de-vie
.

“That was quite the storm. It must have scared you.” He has a strange accent.

Laure shrugs. She wonders what makes this little fox of a man think he can speak to her.

“So are you going to Canada to find a husband?” He smiles, and Laure sees the gaps between his teeth.

Laure looks beyond the
quartier-marin
at the tall masts. She nods.

“And what sort of husband are you looking for?”

“I don’t know the slightest thing about husbands,” she replies, turning away from him to look out over the water.

He laughs. “Neither do I.”

Laure turns to look at him. “Have you seen Canada yet?”

“I have. Well, some of the coast, anyway. I haven’t been on the fur trade, though. Some of the men say it’s a profitable venture.”

Laure shrugs again. “It seems to me like the best way for a man to earn a fortune is in sugar. At least that is what they say in Paris.” In fact, Laure heard this only yesterday while the soldiers were making the
nègres
dance and the men of the
Saint-Jean-Baptiste
were wishing they had the mettle to transport the slaves.

“Yes, and it’s a finer climate in the Islands too. But there are more black slaves than French men there. I think it’s better to make a smaller fortune killing beasts of the forest than trying to run a sugar plantation with slaves.” He narrows his eyes as if thinking deeply about these two prospects. They both sound equally reprehensible to Laure. She really doesn’t see much in these men. They couldn’t make a decent living for themselves in Paris or in their countryside towns and so have set off to conquer new places with their same meagre talents.

“You might find that Canada lacks in a few of the comforts you’re accustomed to.”

“I am not accustomed to very many comforts.” Laure has been wearing the same simple hospital dress since they have
been on the ship. Because they are sharing the quarters with the men, Madame Bourdon has forbidden the girls from changing their clothing. They will do so only before they arrive in Québec.

He is gazing at her with playful eyes. “A tough one, are you? Good, then, shall we dance?”

Laure, not wanting to show her nervousness, takes his arm this time and lets him lead her to the centre of the deck. The tap of the dancers’ shoes against the soggy wood makes a hollow rhythmic sound. A few men whistle and cheer when they see the sailor with Laure on his arm. The violin takes on a more energetic tune. The ship is between storms and all those who have the strength do not hesitate to dance. A few of the more reckless men jump overboard for a night swim. Their nervous companions hold lanterns out over the water and prepare to reel them in should the winds suddenly pick up.

The whole time the
quartier-marin
spins her across the damp boards, Laure looks up at the sky. The stars are so numerous they almost hum. Laure feels far away from everything: Paris, the hospital, Mireille, her father, the country she is going to. The sailor holds his hand over her head as she twirls. Her dress snakes around her hips.
Look, it’s Amphitrite come to life
, someone says. A new man, older and stronger, takes Laure’s hand from the young sailor.
Delphinus has brought her back. She will marry Poseidon after all
. Laure feels like she will come crashing to the ground or spin right over the side of the ship. Everyone has stopped dancing and is watching her as she is twirled from one man to another.

Laure steps down the stairs and back into the stinking hold. Upstairs the men found a barrel of
eau-de-vie
. Once they started drinking, they began thrusting themselves without restraint onto the few women on the deck. A fight even broke out between the husband of one of the women and a loudmouthed sailor. Laure had stopped dancing by then.

While they were on deck, a sailor had gone below with a pail to splash water on the soiled boards. He had come back up saying the worst of the storm had been washed away, that they were now ready for the next onslaught. But Laure doesn’t find the air in the hold any fresher. A single lantern burns at the stairwell, but otherwise the cramped space is dark. She does her best to avoid stepping on the fingers and outstretched limbs of the sleeping bodies, feeling her way through the families. When she gets near the place where her friend is lying, Laure sees that someone is crouched next to Madeleine. It is a man speaking in a soft whisper. Laure leans her back against the hull and tries to strain her ears. Madame Bourdon and most of the other girls are asleep.

Laure dozes, sitting propped against the hull. Her body is still tingling in the places where the men’s hands had been: on her shoulders, the middle of her back, her hands. Her legs are still filled with the violin’s tune. She can discern some of the words the man whispers to Madeleine. He is praying in Latin. It is the young Jesuit priest. Madeleine’s suitor is restrained, his voice reassuring. He intersperses his prayers with conversation. His words aren’t spoiled by too much drink and wandering hands. The words Laure makes out are: confessor, passion, relinquish, rapture, union. The priest doesn’t even know he is in love. They likely think their exchange has nothing to do with the world of men and women, of dancing. But they must
know that they would still both be punished for being together, a priest and a young woman, alone among the sleeping passengers.

Laure hugs her arms around her chest. She wishes she could be like Madeleine, satisfied by prayers, trusting the words of priests and women like Madame Bourdon and the Superior. Or at least like the other girls who do not hold their rosaries with Madeleine’s intensity, but who already dream of the lives they will live in Canada. They are turning themselves into colony wives even now while they sleep on the sea. Laure is something different, a goddess from Antiquity, a serpent woman who doesn’t know where her body ends and the waves begin.

    10