Chapter 14 : Delivery

Our meeting place is near the Saint-Louis cathedral, a few minutes' walk only from the point where Steven has docked his ship on the Mississippi.

When I think that I missed our entering the river… Bappé had explained to me during the day that the town had a dozen or so little harbours. Some of them managed to escape the official trading rules in the colonies. A number of vessels dock there without it coming to the knowledge of the bureaucrats. Civil servants find it difficult to apply laws in this remote territory where understanding governors grant priority to local needs. As for the smugglers, they have striven to avoid leaving any written traces for over half a century. For some time they have realized that there will be no return on investment. The colony is self-sufficient, but will never enrich the Continent to the extent that was expected.

I am astounded to see a multitude of canoes and boats of all shapes and sizes sailing on the water. The sailors, of all origins, load and unload their wares unceasingly. And that is how I meet my first savages, who are only savages by name. One of them stares at me. He is magnificent, with his array of jewels and the bird's feather in his long brown hair. His amber skin must yearn for soft caresses under a full moon. I am rambling.

The streets are relatively clean and well kept. The picturesque atmosphere is incredibly exhilarating. I almost forget why I am here.

Almost.

We have arrived.

Steven gives me a heart-breaking look.

"After you, Milord," I joke to lighten the mood.

"Stay here," he orders his friend. "This won't take long."

Together we climb a few steps and then push open the door of the establishment. At last an inn worthy of the name, frequented by good people. No prostitutes, bandits or drunken soldiers. This should reassure me as to the identity of my future owner. But when all is said and done, I don't give a damn. No matter who he may be, he will not escape the fate I have reserved for him. My little knife is wedged between my breasts, ready to be drawn.

"Monsieur Kelly, for Monsieur Basselin," he announces to a gentleman who is waiting by the entrance to seat the patrons.

"Is that all?" I laugh. "All this mystery for a simple name. I know no Monsieur Basselin."

"Silence!" he delivers.

My indifference perturbs him. He is risking his life in this strange exchange. What if I cried out that he had kidnapped me, that I am here against my will? After all, we are in a French colony here. Steven has certainly imagined that the idea would cross my mind. Perhaps he thinks that I will take pity on him, or why organize this encounter in full daylight, in front of these good Samaritans? He considers that I shall not dare send him to the gibbet because we have slept together.

He is dreaming.

The fact is that to act in such a manner would take me straight to another manner of captivity. I would once again become Florence des Acres, or rather Florence McPherson. The wife of an old slave-owner. I gag at the thought. Steven knows me well. He understands that I would prefer to confront the man who ordered my abduction than return to that life of pretence.

A man, aged around sixty, appears at the back of the room. He has an unkempt beard in a wrinkled face that has been damaged by too much sun. His apparel has not been in fashion for several decades on the Continent. His slenderness borders on emaciation.

Something is nagging at me. I cannot tear my eyes way from him. Why do I have the feeling that I know him?

And suddenly, like a whiplash, it becomes evident.

The shock would not have been as violent if a flash of lighting had stuck me. I feel as if my body were being swept away by an infernal torrent. I am sinking. I am drowning.

Ever since the age of ten, I have had a recurring nightmare. I am on a ship. Not a vulgar brig like the Anarkhia, but a beautiful three-masted frigate. I am not at the helm, but I shout orders to the men around me.

We have nearly reached our destination: Tadoussac. I am blissful.

Suddenly, an impact and shouting. We have hit something. The sea is seeping into the ship, we are submerged. I hold on to anything I can find, but the icy water pulls me into the deep. In one world, I die in the cold, in fear and alone. In the other, I wake up terrified and obliged to mourn the father who is a stranger to me.

A shipwreck. Father died on the Saint-Laurent River. It is impossible. It is not he. It cannot be him. Where are his beautiful clothes and his spotless wig? Where are his impeccably shaven round cheeks and his plump belly? And his eyes full of laughter? This man's eyes are hard, cold and calculating.

The stranger is looking strangely at me.

"The parlour is reserved for you," says the innkeeper pompously. "Please follow me."

It is just as well that I am holding on to Steven's arm because he is the one who is guiding me towards the place shown by the owner of the establishment. As I pass in front of Monsieur Basselin, I feel as if I am being sized up like a piece of meat.

Not a shadow of doubt! It is he. He is alive.

When the door is closed, silence falls on our improbable trio.

"Olivier Basselin, I presume," spitting out with hatred.

"You remember," he says.

"You adored the poet. You would spout his poetry at every possible opportunity."

The Irishman watches us, dumbfounded. His orders were to hide this man's identity, because I might have guessed who was hiding behind this pseudonym.

"I am pleased that you have kept that good memory of my person."

My father holds out his arms to me. I can read the emotion on his face. But for me, I feel nothing. I am dead inside. It might have been me who died on the Saint-Laurent.

"Why?"

Just one word. A strong word which has the power to explain everything that has happened to me since I met Steven Kelly and his men.

"Do you really need to ask me that… my daughter, my dearest little girl. I have saved you."

Steven takes a step backward. His dazed look tells me that he had no idea he was delivering me to my own father. It did not bother him to sell me to an unattractive old man.

"Saved," I repeat in a high-pitched voice, almost hysterical. "From what. Not him!" I shout, pointing at the captain of the Anarkhia.

"You were supposed to come to no harm!" he growls suddenly, accusing Steven. "Her face…"

"It was not his doing."

"No matter!"

"To protect me from what?" I continue. "I was at last going to have a life for myself, rid of Mother, in a beautiful abode and with a good husband."

"We both know that it would not have suited you. My little Florence. I know you well. You cannot really want to link your fate to an old man, however rich he may be. I know everything about what happened in my absence. Your child…"

"You have no right to speak of her," I cry suddenly, aroused by the pain that has torn my heart apart when I think of my lost daughter.

"You have a child?" Steven is astonished.

My father and I stare at him. I had forgotten that he was there.

"Captain Kelly, your task is finished. Leave us now."

Silence. No embrace, not even a fare thee well. Another unfinished separation.

"And my payment?" he asks without batting an eyelid.

I feel like laughing. It is a nervous reaction. His gold. His precious pirate's booty. Right up to the end, Steven…

"You did not imagine that I would honour my part of the contract when you have not met yours."

"Father," I interrupt. "Pay him and have done with it. Let him leave, he and his band of damned freebooters."

Steven's cheek trembles. He grits his teeth. His cheekbones tremble. My father shows him a heavy chest. The captain takes it and leaves, without a look behind him. A pirate adieu, I imagine.

"My daughter, I am sincerely delighted to see you once more. Your thoughts may not be clear after your voyage in such bad company. But I can assure you that you will finally understand that I did it for your own good."

"Thank you, Father, for helping me to understand the obvious." I reply sarcastically. "Yes, I need rest. But before that, tell me one thing. Was it premeditated? Your voyage for the New World, was its aim to…"

"No, of course not. I did not intend to abandon my family. My frigate really was shipwrecked. We were but a handful to escape. Savages came to our rescue. I was wounded, and I stayed a few months with a tribe of Mi'kmaqs. It changed me. When I returned to town life, it is true that I had a choice. Everything was different. I was no-one. I had an opportunity to prove my valour, my own valour, and not that which has come to me through my blood. I have a talent for trade. I have a piece of land in the New Orleans hinterland and I grow indigo and rice there. I often deal with the Chawasha, Tchouacha and Chitimacha to peddle buckskin. I confess that all my trade is not legal. But rest assured, my daughter, contraband is much more widespread that you might think in this corner of the world. You will be safe with me. You can marry whoever takes your fancy. We can send a message to your French lover so that he can come to be with you."

Jérémiah, here? In the New World? He would not survive five minutes. No. I have no wish to conjure up the ghosts of my past.

"But why hide your identity? If the Irishman had told me that he was taking me to your side, I would have followed him without hesitating."

"Would you have believed him? And even then, I cannot trust pirates. I must remain dead for the world. Aristocracy, social superiority, oligarchy… The decadence. The unceasing conflict for nobility through honour or value no longer concerns me. I have had my fill. Sometimes one step is all it takes for our path to lead us to the edge of the precipice. I needed to experience a shipwreck to realize that my world was but a piffling one. I broke my chains a long time ago. All I wanted was to offer you this, my daughter."

"Are you telling me that I am free?"

"Free to stay with me, of course. There is no other way. Why do you think that your mother hated you so? You escaped her. Even in a cage, you were much more liberated than the rest of us. I have kept a small network in France. When I found out that you were coming, I knew that I had to do my utmost to see you again, my little darling."

"Was that really your aim? Swear to it!"

"I promise it was, my child."

"Very well, then let me go. If I am free, grant me the right to run through the streets of this town and grasp the opportunity of living as I have decided."

"No! It is impossible. A woman, here, alone. It is suicide. Florence…"

"Stop calling me that. She no longer exists. And you are the Marquis des Acres de l'Aigle no more. Olivier, you swore!"

"But…"

"I am free. I am leaving, Father."

"It is out of the question."