“But surely French society,” said Benjamin, his light tone edged with mockery, “is far more cultured than our own.”
His tone made Lieutenant de Sabran, who sat in a fair imitation of Benjamin’s boredom between the cold hearth and the door, shift his gaze very slightly, without too much interest, from where he’d had it focused for these several minutes past on the unchanging view of clearing, trees, and sky beyond the window. He glanced at Benjamin in such a way that Lydia felt certain he’d just taken the full measure of her brother.
But de Brassart took the words at their apparent meaning, and replied: “Society in France, of course, but I have been away from France so long I have forgotten what it is to see a shelf of books, much less a man who reads them.”
He was speaking of her father, who had settled as he liked to every Sunday with a well-worn, calf-bound volume of the works of the Most Reverend Dr. Tillotson, to read his favourite discourses and sermons.
Her father looked up from the page with indulgence. “You flatter me, Mr. de Brassart, but I’m sure that there are many men in Canada who read.”
Still mocking, Benjamin amended this. “Just not as well or widely as the French.”
“Indeed. They are not men of thought,” de Brassart said. “They much prefer to run about the woods and fight what we would call la gare à la sauvage, you know this term? La petite guerre, the little war, that would attack as a defence and strike and run away, and never in the open. This is not how we fight our wars in France. It is not civilized.”
Lydia’s intent had been to keep out of the conversation—not because she had nothing to say, for the truth was exactly the opposite, and in her family the women had always been given the same room as men to express their opinions—but because she didn’t wish to interact with the French officers beyond her basic duties as the mistress of the house. Still, she found it hard to let a lack of logic pass unchallenged. “War, Mr. de Brassart, by its nature is not civilized, no matter how it’s fought.”
He disagreed. “It is of course a credit to your gentle nature that you think this, but this is why wars are left to men, for women always would be too kind in their hearts. And war has always been a necessary thing, madame, to guard our way of life.”
She wondered what he would have thought if he had known just how unkind her heart was at that moment, but her father had already broken into their exchange.
He said, “My late wife, who was raised a Quaker, would have set you straight on that point, sir, for she believed that war was anything but necessary.”
De Brassart’s frown was faint. “Forgive me, I am not familiar with this term, ‘a Quaker.’?”
“It’s a faith, begun in England and quite common in these parts. A faith of fellowship, that holds that any conflict can be solved by peaceful means, and without violence.”
“And your wife was of this faith?”
“She was.”
“But you are not?”
“No.” Taking up his book again, her father went on reading and the room fell into momentary silence.
The mention of her mother had made Lydia determined not to stir the waters further, but to calm them as her mother would have done, had she been here. The black lead pencil was secure now in its holder and she rested it upon the sheet of untouched paper, ready to begin, and broke the silence with, “What sermon are you reading, Father?”
He much admired the reverend’s works and often shared the better lines by reading them aloud, which had, on many Sundays, been the start of very amiable discussions, as she hoped it would be now.
He faintly smiled as though he were aware of her intent. “This one is titled ‘Of the rule of equity to be observed among men,’ and the scripture is from Matthew, chapter seven, verse twelve. Benjamin?” He drew his son into the conversation. “Can you tell me what that is?”
Her brother shrugged. “I must defer, in all things biblical, to Lydia. She has the better memory.”
It was true. She tipped her head a moment, thinking. “?‘Therefore all things whatsoever you would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them.’?”
“Yes, exactly.” Her father spread the pages of the book. “And very appropriate to our discussion, for it is the Reverend Tillotson’s opinion that, as all men in God’s view are equal, observation of this rule would bring peace to the world.”
De Brassart said, “A pleasing thought, and yet God does not make men equal.”
That brought Benjamin to life. He briefly rose and took another chair, from which he sent a pointed look towards Mr. de Sabran, who was gazing out the window once again and paying no attention. “You and he, you are both officers, and both of the same rank. You serve the same king. How is that not equal?”
Lydia repressed a sigh. She’d started drawing Benjamin because he was the nearest to her, but since he would not sit still she had to start again and use her father as her model. He was easier to draw, in many ways. His features weren’t so changeable.
De Brassart spoke as if he were explaining to a child. “He is Canadian.”
“Colonial, you mean.”
“Yes, if you like. It is a difference of our birth, you see. A difference of our nature. I have told you how they fight. Not with the sword, but with the hatchet and the knife.”
“Yet even you must own that, in these colonies, their ways of waging war are more effective.” Benjamin leaned back. “A sword is fine when fighting in the open, but a tomahawk and knife are of more value in the forest.”
Lydia, although she knew that Mr. de Sabran could not speak English and was unaware of what was being said, could not help glancing at him. And as though he sensed her movement his dark gaze left Benjamin and had begun to travel back towards her when she bent her head and fixed her concentration on her drawing.
She could capture a fair likeness of a person, but she struggled drawing hands. She could not manage them. She would have liked to have possessed the skill to draw her father’s. They were capable and callused. They created things from nothing and could smooth a board or gentle the most skittish horse or rest upon her shoulder in a way that made her instantly feel safe.
They did not carry tomahawks and knives within the woods.
De Brassart said, “But it is not the weapons only. It is what a man has here, and here.” He gestured to his heart, his head. “One cannot make a buzzard into a hawk. The officers of Canada, their blood is that of habitants, of farmers, and whatever they achieve, that will not change. Their children always will have one foot in the fields. In France, our social rank and reputation is inherited, an honour we can pass on to our sons.”
Lydia knew Benjamin would have had much to say to that, considering their father was a farmer, but it was their father who replied first with a sound that fell between a cough and a short laugh, surprising Lydia and leaving the French officer astonished.
“I amuse you?” asked de Brassart.