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The Marin Family Chronicles--Volume 3-Book 3

The Invaders by Charles Goulet

Chapter 1 -- Province of Quebec, 1774

Montreal, Thursday, February 17

    Jean-Marie studied the tiny bundle in his arms; the mass of dark hair, the wrinkled nose, the sleeping eyes, the small puckered mouth, the smooth white skin, the tiny innocence, and the infantile vulnerability.  For the first time in his life he felt impotent, almost helpless: his newborn's future was beyond his control.
    Events in the Province of Quebec were chaotic and unpredictable.  Since 1770 a new constitution, a new system of government, was promised; yet on this day, February 17, 1774, nothing materialized: the governor, Guy Carleton, was still in England working on it, while to the south in the English colonies much dissatisfaction and discontent was apparent. Rumors of meetings, petitions, and even riots to show their displeasure with the London government occurred.  He heard talk of open rebellion.
    He banished the unpleasant thoughts from his mind as he chucked the tiny chin and grinned as the child wriggled in protest.  "Jean- Francois Marin.  It has a nice ring to it."  He held the small body closer to his chest.  He lifted his head and smiled at the dark-haired woman who lay in the ample feather mattress of the large bed.
    She returned his smile and settled her head into the plump down pillow.  Her moist hair and wan face still showed the effects of the recent delivery.  "He's perfect, isn't he?"
    Jean-Marie nodded, looked down at him, and back at her.  "Just like you, my darling."
    She smiled and nodded.  "Jean-Francois Marin.  That matches well with Joseph Michel."
    "And Pierre."
    Joseph Michel was the woman's child by a previous liason while Pierre was his by a previous wife.  Joseph Michel was the child of his cousin, Michel Joseph, who died in Nova Scotia--hanged by the English for the killing of an English soldier, this woman's lover.  Pierre was Jean-Marie's half-breed son, the issue of an Ojibwa Indian maiden from the West .
    He met Georgette Le Roy two years previous when he returned from the West after his wife, Neechee, an Ojibwa woman, and all of their children, except Pierre, died of smallpox.  Georgette came to Montreal searching for Michel Marin's family; he returned seeking a new life.  They needed each other so they married during the winter of 1772.  Although it was a marriage of convenience, their mutual loneliness soon made them intimate, and this child was the result.
    Jean-Marie still was not sure he loved the woman who lay in their bed, but she was a comfortable companion--warm and pleasing.  And she bore him a strong, healthy son.  As well, she maintained his house--his bed, his board, their children, and for this, he was grateful.
    He approached the bed and gently placed the child in her arms against her firm breast.  The baby wriggled and snuggled closer, his lips moving, searching.  The woman exposed a full breast and lifted it so the rosy nipple touched the child's groping mouth; the tiny lips enclosed it, his cheeks moving as he sucked contentedly.
    Jean-Marie grinned.  "He certainly knows a good thing when he feels it.  I hope it's always that way with him."
    Georgette nodded her agreement.  "Jean-Marie, did you get the permit?"
    He frowned.  For the past six months he tried to obtain permission from the English authorities to trade for furs in the "up country", in the west that was set aside as an Indian preserve by the Proclamation of '63, but he was foiled at every turn.
    Since his return from the West, he acted as the agent for Francois Baby here in Montreal.  Francois Baby and his brothers were French-Canadian merchants who collaborated with the English military authorities so they were allowed to trade in the up country around Fort Detroit.  Most of the other traders in that region were English--from England or the American colonies; Jean-Marie wanted to try his hand at trading, yet he was having difficulty obtaining the necessary permission.
    Sometimes he was sure that Baby was an impediment to his request although he knew the English traders did not want any more French-Canadians in the area.
    He shook his head.  "Nothing's changed, my dear.  I suppose I'll have to go to Quebec and talk to the governor or Cramahé personally."
    She frowned.  "Do you intend to go soon?"
    He patted her hand.  "Not until you're well enough to travel, my darling.  I think you'd like Quebec."
    She grimaced.  "There are too many English for me there.  I don't think I want to go."
    Jean-Marie was aware of her hatred of the English.  She still dreamed that France would retake New France and banish all the English from the territory, especially her homeland, Acadia.  She still wanted to return, and often tried to persuade him to go there.  Jean-Marie knew that his great grandfather, Pierre Marin, first establish himself at Port Royal, but fled the English in 1690 to come to Canada and take up land on a concession across the St. Lawrence River from Montreal at Longueuil.  Yet he had no desire to go to Acadia.
    How she hated the English!  They killed her mother and forced her father to live a life of poverty and want, a fugitive in the wilds of the Petitcodiac River in Nova Scotia, and they hanged the man she loved, Michel Marin, his cousin.
    Georgette watched through narrowed eyes, as Jean-Marie left the small bedroom.  Her newborn nestled against her breast and sucked vigorously giving her a feeling of usefulness and satisfaction.
    She married Jean-Marie not for love, but for need.  When she arrived in Montreal two years ago, she was indigent, with a small child to care for, the product of her love for Michel Marin, the man she betrayed, the man she condemned to the gallows, the man the English hanged for a crime he did not committed.
    She was confused and bewildered, even a bit overwhelmed by her lover's execution, by her father's recent death, and a first baby to care for, so she did the only thing she could think of: She came to Montreal to seek help from the Marin family who accepted her and her young son, Joseph, as one of their own.
    Jean-Marie, who recently lost most of his family to smallpox, returned from the West with his small son, Pierre 'Wawa', to remake his life.  When he suggested that they join forces and unite their families, she agreed readily.  So they married and moved into this small house on Recollet Street in the south part of Montreal.
    At first the arrangement was platonic, but she realized that Jean-Marie expected more of her than keeping his house and raising his child.  The first time he made love to her she tried to co-operate but Michel's memory intruded, and she felt as if she was betraying him.  She tried to be lusty and pleasing, and although Jean-Marie was gentle and considerate, she could not capture the desire and passion that had existed between her and Michel.
    Last year, when she discovered she was pregnant, Jean-Marie was delighted and treated her with reverence and deference.  As she become larger with child, she felt more and more guilty that she did not love Jean-Marie the way she should although he did not seem to notice.  Maybe he was too busy with his business.  As Francois Baby's agent, he was responsible for the storage and transhipment of furs and supplies to and from Baby's western headquarters at Fort Detroit.
    She knew Jean-Marie hoped to obtain a permit to trade in the West himself, but he was having little success at obtaining one.  It seemed that both the French-Canadian and the English merchants and traders were against his aspirations.
    She dreamed of returning to Nova Scotia, to the Petitcodiac or St. John River, after France drove the English from the region and returned it to the Acadians.  Often she discussed the possibility with Jean-Marie, but he only laughed and seemed to think that was unlikely to happen.  He seemed resigned to the fact that the English were in Canada to stay, that France did not want to return to North America, that it was happy to be rid of its former colony.  But she could not believe that.
    Jean-Marie would never take her back to Acadia.  He was more concerned about returning to the West where he hoped to make a fortune in the furtrade among the Indians of his first wife.  Often he told her about the freedom of life among the Ojibwa, the uninhibited ways of his wife, Neechee, and the leisurely lifestyle.  Then she felt a twinge of jealousy that a native could have such an effect on a man.
    But Jean-Marie treated her gently and lovingly; he helped her when he was home; he treated her son, Joseph Michel as his own; he provided for them well.  They never lacked of food, or fuel, or clothes, yet she felt something was missing; she was not satisfied.
    She called to him.  "Jean-Marie?"
    He stopped and turned back.  "Yes?"
    She meant to say, "I love you,"  but the words would not come.  She smiled inanely and mumbled, "Good luck."
    He waved his hand.  "Thanks.  I'll need it."
    He intended to see Lieutenant-governor Cramahé, who was in town on his annual visit, about his permit.  Maybe this time he would be successful, but she hoped that he would not because that would mean a long trip to the West, to Fort Detroit, and she did not want to go there because it would take her further from her beloved Acadia.
    Guilt and despair filled her mind.  She was lying to herself and to Jean-Marie,; yet she felt trapped and helpless.  She now had two children--no really three.  Jean-Marie's son was also her responsibility; she agreed to assume that when she made her marriage vows before the priest.  She promised to love, honour, and obey for as long as they should live.  Now she wondered if she could.
    Could she obey and follow Jean-Marie wherever he went; could she honor him as a man and a human being; could she love him the way a man should be loved?
    He was an honourable man, sincere and honest, gentle and giving, responsible and providing, so she could honor him, but could she obey him and follow him if he wanted her to accompany him to the West?  She knew she must because she had lived and survived in the wilderness in her father's fugitive camps in the wilds of mainland Acadian on the tributaries of the St. John River.
    Could she love him?  He was a good man, lusty and passionate, but she could not return his affection and desire.  She accepted his lovemaking, but it was sterile and dreary.  She knew that she did not love him; she never had; she never would.  The realization brought tears to her eyes, and she closed them to suppress them.  She sighed deeply.

A small farm near Levis, across from Quebec, Sunday, July 24

    "My darling wife, you can't believe that!"  His voice was sarcastic and sharp.  "This new law is not meant to help us."
    The solid woman, her dark hair tinged with grey, shook her head.  "My dear husband, Monsieur Le Curé told me that it's a good law, it'll make things b..."
    "But for whom, my dear wife, for whom?  The church...maybe...the seigneurs...to be sure...the merchants...yes...the habitants...no!  We still have no one to speak for us.  Don't you see that?"
    "The priests will speak for us."
    "The priests can't even speak for themselves.  Look what they've done to the Church..."
    "Well, look what they've done.  We've been allowed to practise our religion freely, and now they'll be allowed to collect tithe.  That assures us that the heretical religion won't be forced on us."
    "But, my darling, you forget one thing--the government has the power to regulate and supervise everything the Church does.  It can appoint priests to the parishes; it allows priest the right to marry; it gives the Council the power to make regulations for the seminaries; it allows the replacement of our missionaries with Protestants; the Jesuits can be dissolved; the Recollets can no longer recruit; only the nuns have not been touched."
    "But that's not in the act.  How do you know that'll happen?"
    "Everyone knows that these are Carleton's orders."   Albert Marin stated smugly.
    "The priests don't know that."
    "That's because Bishop Briand chooses not to tell them.  He's in the English's pocket...always has been...and still is.  You must admit that."
    Julie Marin nodded her head slowly.  She had to admit that Bishop Briand seemed to favor the English authorities; sometimes it appeared he was more concerned with maintaining good a relationship with Governor Carleton and his faction than in the welfare of the Church.  "Well, at least, there'll be Canadians on the new council."
    Albert Marin threw back his head and laughed disparagingly.  "And who'll they be...the siegneurs, Carleton's friends.  They won't help us...you can be sure of that."
    "At least that's better than it was."
    He laughed again.  "I'm not so sure about that.  They want to make laws that'll help them collect their 'cens et rentes' and to enforce the corvée.  That won't help us a bit...what with the tithe and everything else...we're going to be worse off that we were before.  Now both the priests and seigneurs will be on our backs.  That's what it'll do."
    "But, Albert, we need the tithe and the corvée.  If we didn't have those, nothing would be done...the churches would fall into ruin...the roads would be impassable.  No on wants to do anything unless he's forced.  You know that, and I know that."
    "Yes, but we should be able to say what we want to do...like we did in the old days.  We decided how much tithe we would pay.  We decided how much work we would do, but now the English will tell us what we'll do, and we've nothing to say about it."
    "Albert, it's always been that way and you know it."
    "But it can be changed...and it should be changed.  Look at the Americans...they decide what they want to do."
    "Do they?  I've heard that there's much turmoil in the southern colonies because of that.  I've heard that some of them are trying to make trouble here...to get us to join them...and if we do, what'll happen then?"
    Albert knew that some agents of the English colonies to the south were in Quebec trying to gain support for their quarrel with England.  "Maybe they're right.  Maybe we should be able to make our own laws, decide on our own taxes...the corvée...the tithe."
    "How would that help us?  The English merchants want to control everything.  They want to make the laws and decide on the taxes...and I'm afraid that they would be worse than what we have now.  Most of them hate our language...our religion...us!  No, that's not the answer."
    "We'll have to wait and see.  Maybe we'll have a better idea when Carleton returns."
    "Perhaps.  When does the governor return?"
    "I've heard that he should be back early in September.  But no one's really sure.  It'll depend upon the winds and weather.  In the meantime we'll have to wait and see.  Nothing'll change for a while."
    "Don't be too sure of that, Albert."
    "You're right, darling.  Those Bostonians seem very upset.  I heard they threw a whole shipload of tea into the sea because they refused to pay an English tax on it."
    "You see...those people don't believe in law and order.   They...
    "But maybe they're right, my dear.  Sometimes we have to stand up for what we believe is right."
    "And you think the only way to do that is to take a gun and force your will on others?"
    "If it's necessary, yes."
    She stared at him shocked.  "That'll get you nothing but pain and sorrow.  Another war is not what we need.  We need to be calm and to live peaceful lives...raising our families...working our farms...obeying our God."
    "Humph!" he snorted as he headed for the door of their small house.

Quebec, Monday, September 12, 1774

    "Ah, Monsieur Marin...it's a pleasure to see you again."
    Jean-Marie shook the proferred hand and smiled.  "Sir, I'm pleased the you have taken time from your busy schedule to see me."
    Hector Cramahé, the lieutenant-governor of the province of Quebec, and its senior administator in the absence of Governor Carleton, waved his hand toward the padded chair before his desk.   As Jean-Marie Marin moved into it, he studied the other man.  The lieutenant-governor was a man in his mid-fifties, his round face unlined, his sturdy frame filled the silk waistcoat and ruffled shirt.
    "What can I do for you, Monsieur Marin?"  He settled back into the leather uphostered chair, smoothly and comfortably.
    Jean-Marie tried to keep his face from showing his annoyance.  Cramahé knew why he wanted to see him; he pretended ignorance.  He could tell that the man had not forgotten their previous meeting in Montreal when he saw him about a permit to trade in the West.  So he smiled.  "Sir, it's about my request for a permit...a license to trade in furs...in the up country."
    "Ah, yes, Monsieur Marin...now I remember.  You're a friend of Monsieur Henry...Alexander Henry...of Detroit...and you work for Monsieur Francois Baby...a good friend of mine.  Yes, I remember."  He paused and stared intently at Jean-Marie.
    Jean-Marie waited as the silence extended between them.  Finally Jean-Marie spoke.  "I wonder if you've considered my application, Sir.?"
    "Ah, monsieur, yours...among many."  Again he paused.  His eyes bore into Jean-Marie's making him feel uncomfortable.
    Again Jean-Marie continued the conversation.  "And?"
    "Monsieur Marin, I'm still considering it.  Although Monsieur Henry has vouched for you, and no one has suggested an impediment, I must consider each request carefully.  You understand...I'm sure.  London designated the area an Indian reserve...and since the trouble there, we're very careful whom we send to that country."  He smiled slyly.
    Jean-Marie knew that he meant the Indian uprising headed by Chief Pontiac who was a French ally.
    "Sir, I have connections with the Ojibwa, and I know I can bring many furs from...."
    "Monsieur Marin, I know well your connection with the Ojibwa.  You've an Ojibwa woman...and children.  That'll help you, I'm sure, but there are other considerations."
    "Sir, I had an Ojibwa wife...and children...but she's dead...the smallpox."
    "Ah yes...I heard...my condolences.  You still have connections?"
    "Yes...I still have many friends among the Ojibwa.  They'll help me."
    "But, Monsieur Marin, the other traders...the Americans...they'll not be happy if I give you a permit...you're French...they wouldn't like that...and the other French traders...it'll create hard feelings."
    "Monsieur Baby told me he would not oppose my request."  Jean-Marie studied the lieutenant-governor carefully.  Baby gave his sanction, but instead of being an employee he would be a rival.
    "Yes, Monsieur Baby spoke to me of your application.  He's not opposed to it."
    Jean-Marie pondered, But he is not in favor either.
    "Monsieur Marin, at this time I have not made a decision.  Come back in a week."  He rose and Jean-Marie knew the interview was ended.

    Georgette looked around the large dining hall, illuminated by many candled chandeliers emitting a rosy glow which sparkled off the shiny crystal glasses and dishes of the long table.  She never saw such a sumptuous dinner before in her life and she felt out of place.
    Two days before, when Jean-Marie told her of the invitation, she was excited and elated.  Since their arrival in Quebec a week ago, they were guests of Albert and Julie Marin at their small farm house on the other side of the St. Lawrence River at Levis.  Julie was gracious, but very busy as she worked hard to harvest the crop and preserve the last fruits and vegetables of her garden.
    Georgette made herself as useful as possible, but with three children to care for, she was of little help, yet the days filled with drudgery.  Albert was a chauffeur for the English adminstration and left each day for his work at the Chateau Louis while Jean-Marie tried to penetrate the adminstrative bureaucracy to get the license that he so desired.
    Francois Baby planned a dinner party and soiree and he invited Jean-Marie and her.  Georgette was filled with excitement when she learned of it, and more pleased when Julie offered to care for the children that evening.   Georgette knew it was a rare occasion; seldom were ordinary citizens invited to such celebrations.  And Jean-Marie insisted that she purchase a new dress for the occasion.
    She glanced about her.  The babble of voices melded into a melange of English and French, but mostly French. Already shewas introduced to a dozen or more officials and merchants, most of them English, and each time she pretended that she was delighted, although she found it hypocritical as she still considered them the enemy.
    As she surveyed the group, she wondered how a French Canadian like Monsieur Baby could turn his back on his own people and accept the English so easily.
    Jean-Marie touched her arm.  "Darling, there's someone here that I'm sure you'll be pleased to meet."  He steered her across the room toward a tall, brown-haired man about thirty years old.  As they approached, the stranger turned to look at them, and her eyes met his.  He smiled, and she returned it.
    "Monsieur Marin...your wife?"
    "Yes, René.  This is my wife, Georgette."
    The tall man took her hand in his, and bowed deeply at the waist.  "It is a pleasure, Madame."
    "Georgette, this is Monsieur René Miville...a fellow Acadian.  I'm sure you have much in common."
    His deep blue eyes sparkled as he straightened up.  "It's a pleasure to meet a fellow Acadian."
    She felt the warmth of his gaze as it took her in.

Lower Town Quebec, Thursday, September 13, 1774

    The evening shadows lengthened and the rays of the setting sun rosied the wide river as Albert Marin shoved his light canoe into its turgid waters.
    A voice from behind him stopped him.  "Monsieur Marin?  Monsieur Albert Marin?"
    His hand drifted to the dagger at his belt.  "Yes?"  His voice was tentative, inquiring.     A man of about his own age stepped from the shadows of a nearby fishshed.  He was dressed in a worn tricorn, a dark homespun coat, knee-length breeches, dark stocking, and heavy brogue shoes.  He held both hands in front of him to indicate that he was unarmed.  "I've been told to see you."
    "Yes?"
    "May we talk."
    "Who are you?"  The man's French was strange with a clipped accent.  Albert couldn't decide whether he was English or some other nationality.  He was not French, and he was not Canadian.
    "My name doesn't matter...only my mission.  I would like to talk to you about something very important to me...and to you."  The figure beckoned him toward the shadows of the shed.
    Albert shook his head.  "Say what you have to say from there.  I'm listening."
    "Monsieur Marin, I'm from Boston.  You've heard of the troubles there?"
    Albert nodded his head.
    "I understand you feel the say way we do."
    Albert jerked his head, startled.  Who was this man?  How did he know what Albert felt?  Had Albert told anyone of his concerns about the new law that would soon apply to the province of Quebec?  He tried to think.  Who had he discussed it with other than his wife?  Well, he made no secret of his feelings; he told his fellow employees; he discussed it in the tavern where he went for an ale; perhaps he spoke too much.
    "What do you mean?"
    "The new law.  You know it's not good for Quebec.  It's another way for England to make us slaves."
    "What do you want?"  Albert tried to keep concern from his voice.
    "We need you help, Mister Marin.  We need someone who is close to the government...who knows what is happening...who has an ear...who can keep us informed."
    Albert shook his head.  "Then you have the wrong man.  I don't believe in violence...or disrespect for the law...and I'm not in a position to obtain information."
    "We don't believe in violence either...but we do believe in justice.  We believe that every man should have a say in how he is to be governed.  Every man should be treated honestly and fairly.  We believe in freedom!"  The man's voice rose excitedly.
    "I don't have access to information."
    The dark figure chuckled.  "Oh, but you do, Mister Marin.  I'm sure you hear many tidbits of gossip as you drive the government lackeys from place to place."
    Albert grimaced.  This man knew a great deal about him.  And what he said was true.  Most of the men that he chauffeured, talked as if he was made of wood, or lacked intelligence.  Was not that how he knew so much about the new law that had just been passed?  Was not that why he knew of the secret orders that went along with the new law?  Was not that why he was so concerned for his fellow French-Canadians?  The man was right.  He did have a great deal of information that was not available to the ordinary citizen.  Some of it could be vital to anyone who opposed the government.
    "Ah, I see you understand me well.  You can be of great help to us...and to yourself."
    This man wanted him to be a spy!  The idea shocked him.
    "We will pay you well for your information."  He stepped toward Albert and pressed several coins into his hand.

Albert Marin's farm, Friday, September 16

    "Madame Marin, I had to see you again."
    Georgette brushed the hair from her face and then straightened the long skirt of her simple gown.  "Excuse my appearance, Monsieur Miville, but I wasn't expecting company."
    He smiled.  "Madam, you look just as beautiful in that gown as you did at the soirée."
    Georgette felt heat rise to her face.  Why did this tall Acadian affect her so?  Since the dinner party she could not get him out of her mind.  Although they chatted for a short time, she learned a great deal about him.  Like her, he and his family were banished from his Louisbourg home and made their way to St. John Island as refugees.  Like her, he suffered humiliation and fear as the English hunted them down.  And like her, he still hated the English and wanted them pushed from Acadia.
    She raised her eyes to his.  "It's nice of you to see me."  She felt foolish after she uttered the words.
    "May I talk to you?"  He took her by the elbow and steered her down the path toward the St. Lawrence that fronted Albert and Julie's small log home.
    "Madame...May I call you Georgette?"
    She nodded her head like a robot.  The pressure of his fingers on her elbow sent a shiver of excitement throughout her body.  His nearness flooded her with a sensation that she never felt before.  She glanced up at him; his eyes met hers; a small smile curved his firm strong lips.
    "Georgette, I had to see you before I leave.  I..."
    "You're leaving?"  She was surprised at the eagerness in her voice.
    "Yes, I'm going back to Acadian...I'm needed there."  He stopped, seized her by the shoulders, and turned her to face him.  "But I could not leave until I saw you again.  You've been on my mind for the past days.  I couldn't forget you.  I had to see you again."
    She gasped.  Her heartbeat quickened.  Her body seemed to glow.  He felt the same way she did.  "Oh!" she gasped.
    "You have affected me like no woman I've ever met."  He drew her toward him.  She did not resist.  His head bent toward her; hers raised toward his; their lips met fiercely, passionately.

    "Georgette, what are you doing?"
    "I'm leaving."
    Jean-Marie looked at his wife in disbelief.  "Where are you going?"  His voice was dry and low.
    "I'm going back to Acadia."
    "You're what?"  His voice rose increduously.
    "I'm going back to Acadia.  I'm needed there more than I'm needed here."
    "But...darling...I need you here.  The children need you.  We need you."
    "I'm sorry, Jean-Marie.  I don't love you.  I've never loved you, and I know you've never loved me."
    "You've found someone else?"  His voice was dead, shocked.
    "Yes.  I'm going with René...René Miville."

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