Buried Secrets at Louisbourg Read Free Page A

many took on extra jobs around the fortress to buy food—like fish heads to make soup. What kind of life was that?
    As he pretended to dig, Fred noticed Gerard wasn’t the only one glaring at him. Grace was shooting daggers at him every few minutes. He didn’t get why she was so mad—she was usually the first one with her hands in the dirt when it came to caves and fossils. You’d think this would be right up her alley. She was probably ticked because it wasn’t her idea.
    But Fred had worse problems than Gerard and Grace. By the middle of the afternoon, his right thigh felt like it had been shredded to hamburger by the edges of the metal box still hidden in his pants.
    The situation was made even worse by the irritatingly cheery chatter around him.
    â€œIsn’t this exciting, being part of uncovering the history of this place?” a middle-aged man said. He held up a broken piece of blue and white pottery. “See this, it’s French—the fleur-de-lis,” he added, pointing to the blue pattern. “That’s French for lily flower.”
    â€œCool,” Fred answered, carelessly flinging aside a scoop of dirt. Whoopee, more pottery. He swore under his breath as a metal edge dug a fresh trench in his leg. The box had given him nothing but pain so far. He wondered what that meant. Guess he didn’t have to wait for the prison after all—he was already there. The only things missing were leg irons and a uniform.
    Time oozed by like a fat slug. The metal burned hot on Fred’s leg, the box taunting him with the secrets it held. He shivered, trying not to think about it. The waiting was worse than the pain. He now possessed the box he had been dreaming of for weeks and couldn’t look inside. It was driving him crazy!
    A dull rhythm developed, digging interspersed with pauses to examine various nails and pieces of green and blue glass they discovered. There was a bit of excitement when one person found a weird-looking contraption that no one could identify. Gerard the soldier snatched it from her before the archaeologist had a chance.
    He took his time examining it, holding it one way, then another. “Ah, yes, of course,” he smirked. “Quite a useful tool back in the day. An amazing discovery, madame!”
    â€œDon’t keep us in suspense,” gushed the woman. “Tell us.”
    He waited another moment. The crowd leaned forward with anticipation. Holding it up for all to see, Gerard caught Fred’s eye. “Thumbscrews!”
    â€œOooh!” the crowd gasped.
    Fred gulped.
    A lively discussion of torture in the eighteenth century ensued, amid trowels full of dirt and the continued screening for artifacts.
    He didn’t dare look up again. Gerard was watching his every move. He could feel it. Fred was sure Gerard would love to try the thumbscrews out on him. The crazy soldier no doubt knew exactly how to crush someone’s thumbs and fingers in the simple vice.
    Hunger chewed at his insides. He must have played pretend archaeologist long enough to take a break without rousing suspicion. Fred stood up and stretched, only to almost cry out in pain as the box slipped, digging into his leg.
    It slipped again.
    He lurched forward and grabbed it as it slid and scraped down his thigh.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you, kid?”
    Gerard didn’t miss a trick.
    â€œLeg cramp,” Fred wheezed, holding the box against his thigh and limping away from the crowd. He continued about twenty metres, as far as he could get from Gerard, and collapsed on a low stone wall.
    The box slid down his calf. He shook it out of his pant leg, quickly shoving it behind him. Had he been seen? Luckily, Gerard was busy enthusiastically demonstrating the thumbscrews to some of the awestricken volunteers.
    Grace and Mai hurried over.
    â€œAre you okay?” Mai’s eyes were filled with concern.
    He nodded.
    â€œYou don’t look okay,” she