Strangers In The Land by Louise A. Vernon

Chapter 1: Midnight Meeting

     The peal of church bells shattered the noonday stillness of La Rochelle, a seaport town in France. Townspeople listened with astonishment. Some frowned and looked frightened. Others smiled and nodded their heads in satisfaction.
     In the bakery shop the baker shook his head and crossed himself before he put the swelling loaves in the ovens to bake. Next door the cobbler sat open-mouthed, his hammer raised over the upturned shoe on his last. Across the town square the tax collector straightened up from his account books, chuckled, and rubbed his palms together. In a stone building not far away the Huguenot pastor turned pale and dropped to his knees in prayer.
     The bells kept pealing.
     At the port, where a ship had just arrived, the long-shoremen stopped their unloading to listen. Surprise and alarm showed on their faces.
     Inside a walled garden on the outskirts of La Rochelle, Pierre Le Brun and his seven-year-old brother Henri heard the bells and stopped building their mud fort. Their mother, Madame Le Brun, ran from the house, and clasped Henri to her.
     Frightened by her strained look, Pierre whispered, “Is there danger?”
     His mother silenced him with pursed lips.
      “Mother,” Pierre's little brother asked, “why are the bells ringing at this time of day?”
     A tear rolled down Madame Le Brun's face. Henri, with a puzzled look, brushed it off with his forefinger.
      “Mother, don't cry. What is there to cry about? I haven't been naughty, have I?”
      “No, no. Of course not, my darling.” Madame Le Brun took a deep breath.
     Little Henri stared at her. “Why do the bells keep ringing?”
      “I'm not exactly sure,”
     His mother's tone pierced Pierre with a nameless dread. What could the bells mean?
     Before he could ask more, a tiny, wiry woman darted out of the house, wringing her hands. “Oh, madame, I spilled the salt sack into the flour. Now they're both ruined. Oh, those bells–that's what did it. Something dreadful is going to happen. I just know it.”
     Mother would have to explain now, Pierre thought, but she remained calm.
      “Now, Othalie, don't excite yourself like this, and don't throw out anything. The salt tax is very high this year. We'll just use the flour and salt together for cooking. I'll send Pierre to the baker's for bread.” She smiled a little. “Or perhaps you'd rather go.”
     Othalie blushed. “Madame mustn't tease me. I have too much to do in the house. Besides, he's coming to see me tonight.” She fled with a flutter of her long skirts.
     Mother gave Pierre some coins. “One loaf will be enough, Pierre, and if there's any news about—about anything, listen carefully.”
     Pierre ran almost all the way to the town square. At the baker's shop he found the door locked. Perplexed, he cupped his hands and peered through the window. The counters inside were bare. He knocked on the door several times, but no one came.
     Pierre remembered a side door that led to the huge brick ovens. As he approached, the door opened a crack. The plump baker, Alec Calvet, looked out, a finger to his lips. He motioned Pierre inside.
     Trays of fresh bread stood on wooden worktables. The massive ovens, still hot from the baking, sent out waves of warm air. The delicious fragrance of the loaves made Pierre's mouth water.
      “Mother wants a loaf of bread,” Pierre said. “Is there some reason why you closed your shop, Alec?”
     For answer the baker thrust a long, crusty loaf of bread into Pierre's hands. “You haven't heard?” He frowned a little. “Well, then, I'll let your parents tell you. It's a long story, all about you Huguenots.”
      “Does it have something to do with the church bells ringing?”
     Alec Calvet sighed. “Yes, it does. Now, run along. Don't let anybody see you if you can help it.”
     He opened the door and looked out over the square. “It's all right. No one's out there now. I guess everybody went home as soon as the news got around.”
      “What news?”
     The baker pushed him out gently. “Ask your parents.”
     The bolt shot home behind Pierre. The town square looked larger than it ever had before. Even in the October sunlight the shadows from the overhanging apartments on the side streets loomed dark and menacing. Filled with a strange fear, Pierre ran home, not daring to look back. Out of breath, he arrived at the garden gate and pulled the bell rope three times, the Le Brun family's private signal. Othalie let him in.
      “Any news?”
     Pierre shook his head. What could he say? He hadn't found out anything yet. Then he heard his father's voice.
      “Is father home from the port already?” he asked.
     Othalie nodded.
      “But he never comes home this early,” Pierre said.
     He ran to find his father, but there was no sign of him or of his mother either. Pierre stood perplexed in the hallway. From behind the closed bedroom door he heard the subdued voices of his parents. Pierre was more puzzled than ever. His parents had never shut out the family before.
     A thump from the front room reminded him that Henri was hiding somewhere, ready for a game of hide-and-seek with his father.
     Pierre waited a few minutes, hoping father and mother would come out and explain what was happening; but the bedroom door remained closed. Pierre called to his younger brother from the doorway, “Henri, come out. There won't be any hide-and-seek today.”
     At first he could see no movement anywhere in the room. Then the top of the carved window seat moved a fraction of an inch. The tip of Henri's nose appeared.
     Pierre's uneasiness welled up into violent anger.
      “Henri, don't ever hide in there again. It's dangerous. Don't you know you could suffocate?”
     Stepping out, Henri ran his finger through a hole in the panel. “There's no lock. Air can go through that hole. How could I suffocate?”
      “It's dangerous, I tell you.” Pierre sounded cross.
      “Where's father?” Henri asked, looking past Pierre.
      “He's talking to mother. Let's go see what Othalie is cooking for supper.”
     In the kitchen the boys watched Othalie cube vegetables and put them in an iron kettle suspended in the fireplace. Pierre's uneasiness never left him, but somehow he could not bring himself to question Othalie about the church bells.
     Later, Othalie set the table for supper. “Where's madame tonight?” She stopped as if startled by the change of routine. “And monsieur? Supper is ready. Will you call them, Pierre, while I dip up the soup?”
     Pierre tiptoed down the hall. He could not have explained why, except that the strange feeling enveloped him again. He called to his parents in a voice little more than a whisper. To his relief, they came out at once and went to the supper table.
     Pierre looked forward to the usual laughter and happy talk after grace, but tonight grace itself was different. Father didn't even use the same words.
      “Almighty God, our Father and Divine Protector, may this food replenish our strength that we may serve Thee as Thy soldiers, and defend Thy name against the enemies who now surround us.”
     His voice rang with passionate intensity as he went on. “May we strike down evil with Thy sword of truth. May we put on the armor of righteousness——”
     He stopped with a suddenness that made Pierre look up. Mother had laid her hand on father's arm.
      “Amen,” father said.
     Not another word was spoken during the meal. Even Henri kept quiet. Afterward, Othalie scurried through her household chores, but this, Pierre reminded himself, was usual. Othalie entertained the baker, her husband-to-be, twice a week, and she always hurried on visiting nights.
     But tonight was different. Alec Calvet had hardly come into the house when mother took him and Othalie aside, speaking in a low voice.
      “Oh, Madame Le Brun, why didn't you say so?” Othalie said. “I would have had the house all ready. Alec, you will have to go. It will take half the night to clean up. I'll see you tomorrow.” She urged the big man out. “Now,” she said, “I'd better get into the front room. Oh, if madame had only told me.”
     Her actions puzzled Pierre. She got down on her hands and knees with scrubbing brush and bucket, and polished the already clean hearthstone. The blaze from the fire and her exertions brought a flush to her face.
      “But Othalie, you scrubbed it this morning.” Pierre did not dare ask outright why she was cleaning house at night. Neither would he admit his fear of the changes taking place. Something sinister lurked in every corner.
      “Do go away, Pierre; there's a good boy.” Othalie rubbed her cheek.
     Henri's bedtime came and went. Othalie did not come to get him ready. She kept running from front room to kitchen, dusting the spotless chairs, the huge spinning wheel, and the carved window seat.
      “What is she doing that for?” Henri asked.
     Pierre didn't know, but he wasn't going to admit his ignorance in front of his brother.
      “Oh,” he said in an airy voice, “we're going to have visitors.” As soon as he said it, he knew it was true. But what visitors, and why?
     The bell to the garden gate jangled.
      “Maybe it's Grand-père.” (Grand-père is French for grandfather.) Henri jumped up in excitement.
     The bell rang again three times, evenly spaced.
      “That's our ring, not Grand-père's. Somebody is coming. We'd better go upstairs, Henri.”
     When Othalie opened the front door, Pierre heard a man's voice murmuring. Strain as he would from the landing, he could not make out a word.
      “Who is it, Pierre?” Henri asked.
      “I can't tell. Come on, Henri. Let's go to bed.”
      “Are you going to bed when I do?” Henri appeared enchanted with the idea and undressed without protest.
     He dropped off to sleep with startling suddenness, and Pierre was left staring up at the darkness, trying to make sense of the happenings downstairs. He heard the garden bell again, three long peals. This visitor spoke no louder than the one before. After a time the same thing happened again. Five times the bell rang, but at such long intervals, Pierre was sure it must be almost morning.
     He drowsed in a half sleep, but when the bell rang for the sixth time, he sat up wide awake. He had to know what was going on. He wrapped himself in bedclothes and tiptoed to the carved chest standing in the upper hail, the one father kept locked all the time and would never open Pierre perched cross-legged on top. From where he sat he could almost see into the living room, except for the man-high spinning wheel that stood in the way. As it was, he saw men's legs passing and repassing. Whoever the guests were, they couldn't sit still.
     There was a hush. A man began to pray. Pierre recognized the voice of Pastor Foudray, the Huguenot preacher. With a feeling of relief, Pierre bowed his head. He liked the pastor, a calm, gentle man with quiet humor.
     Pierre could not make out the words of the prayer, but he lifted his head when he heard the “Amen.” A babble of voices reached his ears, and then a man's voice rang out.
      “Is it rumor or is it fact?”
     This time Pierre recognized the voice of Dr. Maurice, the Huguenot physician, who had been forbidden to practice medicine because of his religion.
      “My brethren,” Pastor Foudray said in a firm voice, we must face the truth. The church bells we heard today rang the death knell of religious freedom in France.”
     Pierre puzzled over the meaning of Pastor Foudray's words. Everyone knew that Huguenots could not hold public office, but did the pastor mean they couldn't meet together any more to read the Bible and sing hymns?
      “It can't be true,” father said in an excited voice. “The Edict of Nantes is perpetual.”
      “Brother Le Brun,” Pastor Foudray said, “we all know that the Edict has been interpreted according to the letter, not the spirit, especially in the last four years. Why do we have to have burials at night, for example? Because the Edict did not specifically state that we were to bury our dead in the daytime. No, my brethren, the letter of the law has killed the spirit. I have seen the signs of the coming conflict for a long time.”
     Dr. Maurice's voice rang out: “Why must we Huguenots always fight our own countrymen? Why are we treated as if we were strangers in the land? Now, as you know, since I can no longer practice medicine, I have turned to compiling our history. I suggest that we do as so many of our brethren have done.”
     A silence followed. Pierre held his breath so as not to miss the doctor's next words. But it was Pastor Foudray who spoke.
      “'When they persecute you in this city, flee ye into another,'“ he quoted. “Do you mean we should emigrate?”
      “Yes,” Dr. Maurice said, a tremor in his cultivated voice. “There's England, hardly a stone's throw from us, or Switzerland. But I have another country in mind. In fact, I have written to a friend in the colony of Boston, Massachusetts, asking about conditions there in America.”
      “America?” The word echoed from person to person.
     Pierre heard a gasp from the lower hall. Someone downstairs was listening.
      “Oh, madame, how does he dare speak of America? People are all slaves there, treated worse than cattle. It's worse than the West Indies—a living death, they say.”
     Mother spoke in a sharp whisper. “The West Indies, yes. Everyone knows about that. But who told you this nonsense about America? You know that monsieur has two fishing vessels going to Newfoundland all the time, and they don't bring back reports like that.”
      “Alec Calvet told me, Madame. He says things have changed so much in the last five years there's no telling what will happen after today. And, Madame—”
      “Yes?”
      “Alec wants me to marry him right away before—before something might prevent it.”
      “Why, Othalie, you didn't tell me that.”
      “No, I just couldn't, madame. There'll be problems, Alec being a Catholic.”
      “Othalie, we've discussed all that before.”
      “Yes, but things are different now.”
      “Listen, Othalie. Pastor Foudray is talking.”
     The pastor's clipped voice rang out with new depth. “I asked that we meet here tonight. You have known me many years now. You know I am not excitable by nature, but I want you to know that I am now gathering food and guns.”
     The talk became so excited that Pierre was afraid Henri would wake up. Pierre huddled on the chest, dazed and frightened by the pastor's words.
      “And I would like to know from each of you what arms you have at home, for we surely will have to defend ourselves sooner or later.”
      “I can tell you in just a moment.” Father started up the stairs.
     Pierre sprang from the chest and fled to his room. He hid behind the door and listened to his father unlocking the chest. He heard the rattling of metal on metal. Beyond question, the chest held guns.
     In that moment Pierre knew what the church bells meant—war against the Huguenots.