The door opened and the Indians herded us into the building. The door shut behind the last of us and the Indians filed up against one wall. I looked about but could barely see, for the brightness of the noonday sun had left me blind in the dark hallway. I rejoiced at finding something of civilization. Surely there would be hope for Patey and me at last. Beautiful colored windows lined the top of the wall and the sun shone through them, giving brilliant light and colors to the panes, yet not filtering down to where we stood. At the far end of the room someone opened yet another door and sunlight flooded into the place. The light revealed a massive room, lined with statuary and a few chairs and benches. At the far end stood an altar with a golden crucifix above it. Under the figure of Christ, a table full of unlit candles waited.
A gasp came from the captives about me, a sigh so deep and forlorn it pulled my heart. Many of the adults in our group dropped to their knees. Voices rose, then, men and women alike, declaring, “Papists! We are sold into the hands of the devil!”
Reverend Johansen stood, even as we watched a group of men in long black robes approaching from that opened door. “Children, listen to me. No matter what they do, no matter what they tell you, remember always that lies and deceit are under the tongue of the pope of Rome. Sell not your soul for a piece of silver or a crumb of bread—”
One of the black-robed men said, “Sit, all of you. Welcome to l’église de Montréal. We will find places for you to rest. To sleep. To eat.”
Master Newham asked, “And how shall we rest? We are captives and demand to be returned to our homes. To bury our dead. To take up our lives. We are not papists. We worship the true God.”
Another of the robed men said, “We paid a price for you to save your souls from hellfire. The church in its mercy will clothe and care for you, sustain and retain you all the days of your life. We have paid your purchase price.”
Then they went to the door whence we had entered and opened it, letting the Indians file out as if they were soldiers, as if they were in complete agreement with these men of robes. The robed men encircled the room, standing four abreast before each doorway. A man came in with rolled sheets of vellum under one arm and a quill perched over one ear, jar of ink in hand. He sat at one of the benches and pulled a table toward him. As he did so, another man held a candelabra high over his writing table. The two doors swung shut, plunging the room into darkness save for the candles, and the sound of heavy beams sliding into place echoed across the hall.
The first priest to have spoken said, “We will take down your names. You will follow Frère Christophe that way.” He waved his hand.
A priest in the darkness called out, “Ici.” No one moved. Then he said, “Come. Come forward.” When my turn came to tell him my name, I hesitated. I was known by Mary. I detested that name, but it was connected to me among the people with whom I was familiar. He asked, “Nom? Nom?” and finally, “What is your name?”
“Mary Talbot,” I said.
June the fifth, seventeen hundred and thirty, by the old reckoning, I was sold for the second time under the slave name of Mary Talbot to a black-frocked priest with ink-blackened fingers and a runny nose.
CHAPTER 11
June 6, 1730
The convent of Sainte-Ursule de Montréal seemed more of a great plantation than a religious order. Fields surrounded the walled interior where cosseted vegetable gardens presented an orderly and symmetrical invitation to the main buildings. The chapel, a rectory, a convent, and eight dormitories lay as if they were a head, a neck, a heart, and two rows of ribs. I was put in a room full of girls my size, assigned a bed, a set of chores—in the kitchen—and a companion. La compagne.
My compagne was Donatienne Flavie, a girl from the local town who had come there after her parents had died of typhoid three years before. She was thirteen and spoke French and English. It was her chore to teach me French, as much as possible, as quickly as possible. Our dormitory—housing the smallest girls—was closest to the nuns’ convent, which was washed white but stained around top, bottom, and all the windowsills. Ours was a gray stone building that had once been plastered, even painted. Its level of disrepair seemed a fitting compartment for my spirits. The paint outside had peeled away, giving it the appearance of a spotted horse I had seen once. Patience lived with the older girls in another building. I only knew because I saw her coming or going, marching in a line of other older girls to and from the dining room. It was not permitted to speak to her, and though I stared hard at her, wishing my very eyes to poke her, trying to make her lift her face and see me, she never looked up.
“Do you have questions?” Donatienne asked as she helped me spread two blankets, one with a patch in the middle, across the small cot that was to be my bed.
“When shall I go home?”
She smiled and laid her hand on my arm. “Your maman and papa have died, little friend, or given you up because of their great poverty, or else you would not be here. This is an orphanage. You will have food to eat and a bed to lie in. You will be educated. Your soul will be saved from hell. It is not a bad place for poor girls comme nous, is it?”
“I am not poor. And I am not an orphan. My mother waits for me at our plantation in Jamaica. Meager Bay, Jamaica. I am only here to visit a friend.”
“Who is she?”