Novel: Chapter 1
Fifteen Years later: November 13th, 1758, The Mission at OswegathchieJean Luc Marchand paced on hard-packed mud in front of the log church. Months had passed since his last confession, even longer since he had been inside a church. Life on the river paddling a canoe did not afford the opportunity very often.The log stockade walls that enclosed the tiny mission seemed to concentrate the intensity of the blue sky. His nights and days on the river forced him to always look down, or ahead. There was never time or reason to see the sky. Now, it seemed the only connection to his familiar world.The squealing, giggling sounds of four Indian children chasing a small dog with a rag tied to its tail brought his attention back to earth. He sidestepped to avoid them, as a small boy stared.Jean Luc turned away. He did not care for the Indians, or their children. He cursed himself for being in this place. And yet here --only here -- might he find redemption.Jean Luc would have been a handsome young man, but years of suspicion and hatred had marked him. For those who did not know him, he seemed unapproachable, with an off-putting air. He was tall, lean with long wiry muscles well formed by hours of paddling and days of carrying heavy loads of furs across the fur trade frontiers of New France. His narrow brown eyes looked almost black, his youthful face framed by tousled brown hair that he intentionally kept long to hide his missing right ear.He always ate alone, and did not share in the songs and jokes of the other voyageurs. They knew he was running, but they didn’t care enough to even try and guess what he was running from. He was they type they learned to ignore, fully expecting him to drown in a rapid, or wander into the woods at night, never to be seen or heard again.Jean Luc rubbed his eyes, telling himself he needed to go in. He was still convincing himself as he walked into the open frame door.How strange and yet familiar the mission church seemed. It was very strange in size and hewn log construction, yet was cast in the familiar darkness of his parish church at home. The pungent aroma of incense, the glimmer of candles, and the crucifix above the altar all conspired to provide immediate familiarity.As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw a priest sitting on an ornate chair. He was completely bald, with a powerful neck, broad shoulders, and intelligent eyes. With a practiced wave of his hand he motioned for Jean Luc to sit in the empty chair in front of him.
As Jean Luc sat down, he searched the room with his ever-suspicious eyes.Reading his mind, the priest said, “We are alone.”Jean Luc nodded, then looked down at the wood floor.“I’m sorry I cannot provide the illusion of privacy to which you may be accustomed.” Picquet added. "I have found that some fear exposure of themselves.”Jean Luc looked at the Priest. This was an odd way to begin a confession.Picquet continued, “Such people are more mindful of modesty than of salvation.” He let the words hang in the air, then said, “There are those who contract a disease in the more shameful parts of the body and shun making themselves known to the physicians; and thus they perish along with their own bashfulness."Jean Luc nodded across the space between them.“Have you been on the river long, Jean Luc?”Jean Luc looked up at Picquet, a bit surprised “Yes, I suppose a year is a long time – how do you know my name?”Picquet smiled then reached across the space between them and laid a heavy powerful hand on Jean Luc’s shoulder. “I know everyone who enters the mission – or how else can I minister to them?”“I am sure a year is a long time, young voyageur – and you lived to come here! God’s grace is infinite.” He smiled broadly.Jean Luc felt his defenses begin to crumble.“Let’s do the Lord’s work first, shall we?”Jean Luc nodded. He had waited for so long to be loosed from the chains of his guilt. He closed his eyes, hoping to increase his own sincerity, his own faith.Picquet turned in the chair, adjusting his brown robe. He said, more officially, “Have you a confession, my son?”“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”“What is your confession?”He opened his eyes and looked at Picquet. He studied the man for a while then said, in a low voice, “Father, is it always wrong to kill?”Picquet appeared unmoved, “Have you a killed someone?”Jean Luc ignored the question, “Is it wrong to kill, in any circumstance, at any time?”Picquet looked away as he seemed to ponder the question. “God has commanded us not to kill, but there are exceptions.”Jean Luc let out a long sigh before he said, “Would I feel this guilt if I had killed under one of those exceptions, father?”Picquet shifted in his chair. “Who have you killed?”“Can I be freed from this guilt?”“God’s grace is sufficient, my Son.”Jean Luc grew angry, his face flushed red. He clenched his fists and then pointed towards the ceiling, as he spoke anger and disappointment seemed to drip from his voice, “Is it? I have heard that before – over and over – and yet I still pray every night and every day to be released from this torment! Where is God’s grace now, Father?”Picquet looked at the ceiling, considering his answer. Jean Luc waited for a long time – much longer than he would in normal conversation. Finally Picquet looked back at Jean Luc with a look of confidence in what he believed. “Jean Luc, suppose God provided immediate relief to a man’s burden of guilt and sin the moment that man confessed.”Picquet let the question linger in the air. Jean Luc did not reply, but pondered the question.
“What would happen to men if they could sin, knowing that they would receive immediate forgiveness, Jean Luc?”“I suppose they would sin with impunity?”“Just so. Therefore God permits His own children suffer – just as He suffers – for sin. It must be this way.”“Father, I have suffered -- Every day and every night, I have suffered – doubly at night.”“You have suffered the weight of a guilty conscience – and you are blessed to have a conscience – which cannot be said for most of your compatriots in the canoes.”Jean Luc nodded.“I cannot assure you that you will suffer no more after your confession. But you can be certain you will be released from the burden of guilt. I speak from experience, and with the full authority of the Church.”Jean Luc nodded, but seemed overcome with memories. He buried his head in his hands, the said, very softly, “I hate him.”Picquet nodded, but said nothing.
Novel Prologue
May, 1743: North Atlantic, One Day’s sailing from BostonThe North Atlantic heaved in regular swells as gulls wheeled about the tiny English merchant ship Julia. Yet on the deck below no one was concerned with gulls or the beautiful azure sky high above. Instead, the ship plowed through the sea, her bow pressed down by the overload of canvas straining from every mast and spar. A French warship swam in Julia’s wake. Again the bow of the French ship puffed white smoke. Again Julia lurched as an 8 pound ball struck her hull.
“Four feet in the well, sir, and rising fast!” Julia’s master called to the quarterdeck from amidships, unable to conceal the panic in his voice.
The Captain acknowledged the master with a nod then turned his glass back to the privateer. The ship’s first officer stepped up from behind and cleared his throat.
“Yes Mister Williams?” the captain said, as he continued to peer through the telescope.
Williams steadied himself by placing a hand on the rail before he spoke. He breathed deeply before he said, “Sir, the French privateer will board us within minutes. The hold is flooding. Shall I permit the passengers topside?”
Chain shot shrieked overhead, slicing through rigging. A heavy block fell on the quarterdeck with a great thud.
The captain continued observing the privateer, apparently ignoring the question. “Now he’s decided wants his prize whole. Pity. I’m afraid Monsieur, that you have damaged the hull too much -- your prize will never make it back to France.” He smiled to himself as he peered through the glass, pausing before he added “Perhaps he will try to reach New France?”
Williams stared blankly, unsure how to answer.
The captain answered his own question, “I doubt that. None but thieves in New France. No, most likely he’ll cram his hold with whatever he can snatch from Julia before she founders.”
Williams grabbed the rail tightly to stifle his trembling. He cleared his throat then said, “The passengers, sir?”
The ship lurched as another ball struck the hull. The captain’s gaze remained steady as he said, “The passengers will share the same fate as all of us aboard this ship, is that understood, Mister Williams?”
Williams lowered his eyes. He heard a hissing shriek behind him. He turned his head. A reddish blur of iron and chain spun and skidded across the deck towards the master.
Williams felt a shout of warning rising in his throat, but it was too late. The chain caught the master around his waist and cut him in half. The upper half of the master’s body fell over the rail into the sea, and his legs dropped and flapped upon the bloody deck like two large fish.
Williams instinctively put a hand to his mouth to contain his nausea. He could hear the screams of the men and women below. He turned, expecting a reaction from the captain, some word of condolence, some recognition of the horror his ship had become.
Instead the captain repeated his question, “Am I understood, Mister Williams? The passengers remain below! I’ll not have them scurrying about the deck, underfoot like rats. No sir. This ship will remain a taut ship to the last. Is that understood?”
“Yes sir.” Williams replied in a low voice, quickly returning to the familiar comforts of obedience.
He clambered down the quarterdeck steps to the main deck. As he reached for the rail an enormous fist slapped him down hard onto the cool, smooth wood. He tasted blood, and then felt a wave of heat pass over him.
He was enveloped in a cloud of splinters, fire, and smoke. He held his breath as the heat passed over him, until he gave in for the need for breath and gasped like a drowning man. The smell of burnt wood, melted iron, and seared flesh stung his nostrils. He wiped the splinters from his hands, and then lifted himself from the deck, cursing himself for his clumsiness. As he regained his balance, he fingered his ears to quiet the ringing.
With dumb comprehension he realized the quarterdeck and the captain had simply vanished.
He grabbed the splintered rail. A sailor rushed to his side, pleading desperately, “Sir! The Captain’s dead sir! Sir! Please don’t un let us die!”
The boatswain reached down and hurled the distraught sailor aside, “Mind yer discipline, Maggot! Now shore up that gun, afore I give you something to fear!”
The boatswain’s hard yet familiar voice seemed to break through the fear gripping the deck. After a moment’s pause, two sailors scrambled across the bloodied deck towards an empty gun. The rest followed towards the other guns.
The boatswain guided Williams to the captain’s entrance below the shattered quarterdeck and bade him to sit. Williams obeyed, sliding his back down the smooth door. Williams listened as the boatswain spoke slowly, carefully, in the affected tone veteran sailors reserved for officers; “Sir… the thing is, sir -- the way this frenchy is blasting away, we’ll be afloat not much longer. The captain is gone, Sir. You be the captain, sir. What are you orders?”
Williams turned his gaze towards the screams coming up through the hatch grates from below decks. The boatswain met his gaze.
“Let me let ‘em loose, sir. Ain’t no use lettin’ ‘em die like rats.”
Williams nodded. In seconds the boatswain unlocked the main hatchway. Sailors ran to and fro, howling and laughing insanely.
Damn the captain for dying. He thought as he slid down the door, finding comfort on the coolness of the deck. Damn this sinking ship.
He reached out to grab a shrieking sailor. He heard the Boatswain shout, “They’ve gotten into the rum! Damn them!”
He settled back onto the deck, tasting blood, and feeling a cool wetness on his back. He closed his eyes as sleep overwhelmed his tired mind.
The passengers burst from the hatchway – pale, sickly wild-eyed men, then women screaming, dirty faces tear-streaked, each climbing onto the splintered deck, breathing deep of the fresh sea air.
Among the last to emerge were a father dragging his wife up onto the deck with one hand, while with the other he clasped an infant to his chest. Behind them a small boy clambered onto the deck, looking for his parents. His mother quickly grasped his small hand.
The father squinted in the bright sunshine, then shouted, “Woman! Boy! Come with me!” above the din of crashing waves, booming cannon, and shrieking drunken sailors. His wife, now only a shadow of former vibrant beauty, dully obeyed, holding onto the hand of her son.
They reached the ship’s rail. On the water below a boat rose with each green wave. The boat was overloaded with sailors trying desperately to row away from the ship’s hull before the boat was battered to splinters.
The young father called down to the boat, but the sailors feared to look across the gulf that now separated the dead from the living. They redoubled their efforts to row away from the ship’s side.
His wife fell in a heap along the rail. The boy stood staring at her, his legs instinctively adjusting to each roll of the ship’s deck.
The Julia shuddered again, this time quivering in death throes. The young father looked at the baby in his arms and then kissed him hard on the forehead, tears streaming down his face as he met the child’s uncomprehending stare. “Dear son, may the Lord protect you.” He took a necklace off his own neck, kissed the dull metal pendant, and then placed it over the child’s head. He carefully tucked the chain under his son’s tiny small clothes.
His wife screamed, “What are you doing?!”
“Better the boys live with the French then drown with the English!”
She let out a weak cry, then pulled the other boy close to her.
The father called out to the sailors, “Have mercy on my poor son!”
Then he dropped him over the side.
The father turned to reach for the other child, but his mother would not release him. He pleaded with her, tears rolling off his cheeks, but she would not relent.
He sat down next to her, and embraced them both.
In the rowboat a burly sailor winced as he watched the bundle strike the exposed copper at the ship’s waterline before splashing into the water. Miraculously, the baby rose up like a cork, his eyes wide, mouth open in shocked reaction to the cold, salty embrace of the North Atlantic. Bright red blood streamed from where his right ear had been.
“Vast rowing there!” The other sailors held their oars as the big man reached out and plucked the child from the sea with a powerful sweep of his hand. At the same instant, the ship rolled heavily to port. With a nod the others dropped their oars into the water and rowed furiously away from Julia before she sank and the suction dragged them down into the abyss.
