Blood Brothers in Louisbourg by Philip Roy Page B

until my eyes watered. The ghost appeared again. He came through the swamp like a rat, sometimes running on the surface and sometimes underground. He would appear and disappear. I didn’t see how that was possible. Lucky for me I didn’t believe in ghosts. When he reached the wall I assumed he would go around it but he flew up it like it was nothing. I could hardly believe it. For one instant I saw his outline in the moonlight – a young Native, shirtless, with a bow on his back – then he disappeared inside the fortress.
    I should have raised a call of alarm. I should have shouted out or shot my musket. That was my purpose for being there after all. On the other hand, he was a Native, and the Natives were our allies, although they were supposed to be let in and out through the gate just like everyone else. But there was something about him I liked – his magical stealth perhaps, or his confidence or maybe just his freedom. I wasn’t sure what it was but it inspired me. I had no idea who he was or why he was sneaking into the fortress, and I didn’t care. I liked it. And so I kept it a secret.
    â€”
    Towards the end of May, a few dozen French soldiers left Louisbourg in a small group of ships to attack a minor English fortress on the mainland. They didn’t look much like an attacking force to me; half of the ships were fishing boats. But they left the harbour full of the spirit of war. My father was among them, and he was excited. I could see it in his face.
    They returned a few days later with half a dozen English ships in tow. Not only had they taken the English fortress and their ships, but they took a hundred soldiers captive and brought them back to Louisbourg! As the prisoners were rowed to shore, one group at a time, I saw my father standing proudly with his pistol in hand, his other hand resting on the shoulder of an English officer.
    The English soldiers didn’t look like prisoners of war so much as a company of men who had lost at cards. And they were treated more or less like that. None of them was put in the dungeon. Instead, they were housed in the barracks and in a warehouse that was turned temporarily into a holding cell. Some were kept on the ships. They were given a daily ration of food and enough space to walk about. The highest-ranking officers were even allowed to walk freely about the town! This, I was told, was all consistent with the etiquette of war, glorious thing that it was.
    The capture of the English fort lifted the spirits of the people of Louisbourg considerably, as did the capture of several English privateers at sea. For a while it seemed as though our forces could do no wrong. My father was overjoyed. But he had never read Boethius. The fortunes of life, Boethius had written over a thousand years earlier, spun around and around like a wheel. We should never feel too unhappy when things are bad, he said, because the wheel is always turning and they will eventually improve. Similarly, we ought never to get too comfortable when things are good, because the wheel will surely turn down again. I never bothered to mention this philosophy to my father. I didn’t think he would have cared for it.
    One person’s spirits didn’t lift much with the victory – the fortress priest. He was one of those people who always looked gloomy, and I avoided him as much as possible. But one day I happened to notice Celestine come out of the courtyard and turn into the chapel quickly, almost as if she were sneaking in, which made me curious, and I couldn’t help but follow her. I pushed the door open, peeked inside, then slipped in and stood in the foyer, out of sight. She went up to the altar where the priest was tending the candles. I heard whispers. I should have minded my own business, I knew, but I couldn’t seem to pull myself out the door. Celestine asked the priest a question, and her voice sounded so different. She sounded worried or conscience