Claire did not believe me, but she didn’t accuse. The tension was high enough in the house that she didn’t want to upset anyone even more. She waited for Maman to walk away before she leaned in to whisper in my ear.
“Will they return?”
Their absence felt strange, and the house seemed empty. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”
“Are they in the forest?”
“Probably. Maybe they will return in a day or two,” I whispered, assuring us both. “They cannot simply leave without a farewell, can they? It would break Maman’s heart.” And mine.
Fitch had said even boys over ten years must attend. The only one left was my little brother, Mathieu. Maman stood tall, determined to be brave as he and Papa prepared to go.
“It is just a meeting, Maman,” I said.
“Amélie is right,” Papa agreed. “I will be home soon.” He folded her into his arms and kissed her brow, then looked over at Claire and me. “Take care of Maman.”
“Of course, Papa,” we replied.
Uncertainty kept us active for the rest of the day, and we did what we could to ease Maman’s mind. Maman, however, did not want us to tend to her.
“Outside!” she ordered, shooing us out the door. “I cannot breathe through all your fussing.”
I wanted to give her comfort, but I was glad to escape. The house was sweltering, the air unmoving though the windows were open. Lush, golden acres of wheat stood waiting in the salt marsh, ready to be harvested, scythed, then piled into messy thatch roofs on the barges à foin, but I could see no one working. The quietness was eerie; it reminded me of the dream I’d had, in which everyone was gone and the sea was coming to swallow me up.
But these haunting thoughts were no help. I must not indulge in fearful imaginings. The truth was, I assumed, that everyone was simply too caught up in wondering about the church meeting to think of farming.
Claire smiled when I stepped inside the garden fence, but I would have had to be completely insensitive not to see how anxious she was about her betrothed. There was nothing any of us could do but wait. The men would be full of questions and answers when they returned, and they would be hungry as well. The Bible said idle hands were the devil’s workshop, and I agreed. If I could keep busy, my mind might allow itself to be distracted, so I set to work sawing at a large cabbage while Claire squatted and reached for a turnip. We didn’t know how many of us would be home for supper; surely the meeting would be over by then.
We worked without talking for a while, and after I’d set the cabbage aside, I reached for the pole beans, which had grown so heavy they had toppled their wooden supports. I began to fill my apron, but without a breeze it didn’t take long for the heat and the marsh’s humidity to bring sweat to my brow. I leaned against a post, propping myself up while I wiped a sleeve over my face.
“How is Guillaume?” I asked, hoping my question would not add to her distress.
His name roused a smile, though it was fleeting. “The last time I saw him he was very happy. We’ve been waiting so long for our wedding, and now it’s only a few days away.” She sat still for a moment, lost in thought. “A wedding will be wonderful, don’t you think? I mean even more than usual, since so many other things are happening.”
I could not answer her pleading expression at first, so she looked down, pretending to search under the thick green leaves for weeds. Claire didn’t like to speak of unpleasant things. In that way she was much like André, though she wasn’t nearly as clever as he was.
“Of course,” I eventually said.
I swatted at a horsefly just as Claire popped up to her feet, shielding her eyes with one hand. “Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“Voices. I heard them yelling in the church. You didn’t hear it?”
I started to shake my head, then a sound cut through the air. “Can you hear what they’re saying?”
The tone was angry, but the words were unintelligible. Hundreds of our men and boys had crowded into the old building, but even with that many, I wouldn’t have expected to hear them from here. People always kept their voices down in the church. Then again, it was hardly a church these days.
“No, but—” She stopped at the sound of another outcry, but we still couldn’t understand what was being said. “I’m sure Papa will tell us everything when he gets home.”
But Papa and the others did not return that night or the next day. It made no sense. What were they doing? How were they sleeping, with so many people crowded into a place with no beds? What were they eating? We went to the church with some of the women, demanding answers, but the soldiers would tell us nothing.
For two days we waited. Finally, on the third morning, Mathieu burst through the door, his face and clothing filthy. We flocked around him, cooing like doves, and he held on to Maman, looking as if he were trying hard not to cry. I hadn’t seen him cry in years. When at last we had all held him and remarked on how hungry he must be, Maman bade us sit around the table. She brought him soup and shushed us so that we might hear what he had to say.
“Tell us now, Mathieu,” she said, pressing bread into his hands. “Where is your papa? What is happening?”
Mathieu devoured the food as though he hadn’t eaten for days, and I wondered if that could truly be the case. When the last morsel was gone, he dropped his head into his hands.
“That is why I have been sent here. Twenty of us were sent out as messengers, and I must return to the church in the morning. And they have asked that the women come as well and bring food.”
I stood and moved to the larder, planning to collect what I could, but Maman waved me back. “Come, Amélie. Sit and listen first. We will go when we learn what has happened.” She leaned in, touching Mathieu’s arm. “Tell me, my son.”
I handed my little brother an apple and sat down to listen. He gave me a gratified look and bit into it with a noisy crunch.
“It is very crowded in the church,” he said through a mouthful. “The windows cannot be opened because the soldiers have nailed timbers across them. It smells like pigs have moved indoors.”
My heart broke for them all. Papa, I knew, would suffer in silence, keep his fury hidden.
Mathieu’s eyes flicked to Maman. “All the men and boys are there except for some like Henri and André.”
She nodded but said nothing. Since Papa and Mathieu had left, we had not talked about our two older brothers. For the hundredth time, I wondered if Maman knew where they were.
“At first we all sat and listened,” he continued, “then some of the men, like Monsieur Melanson and his brother, they started to speak on our behalf, saying we wanted our livestock back so we could start on the fall harvest. That was when Colonel Winslow stood and motioned for everyone to be quiet. More of our men spoke up, demanding to be heard, but Winslow told them to sit down. Papa and Monsieur Melanson said they had heard enough and they went to the door, but guards stood there with their muskets. They will not let anyone out.”
Maman looked ready to cry. So they were truly prisoners, then.
“Winslow wants us all to sign an oath,” he said. “Neutrality, he says, is no longer an option.”
Of course they had refused. Taking that oath could put them in a position where they would have to carry arms against the French.
Mathieu choked on a sob and covered his eyes. “There is more, Maman. Much more. And it is so much worse than this.”
My body tingled with fear at his words. They held our men prisoner without food or rest, demanding they sign a piece of paper which would in effect be a declaration of war against the French and the Mi’kmaq. What could be worse than that?
Maman echoed my thoughts. “More? What more can we endure?”
A tear glinted at the corner of one of his eyes, and he swiftly wiped it away. “Colonel Winslow read us the king’s orders. He told us that what he must read was not in his nature but that he had no choice but to read it to us.”
“
Yes, yes,” Maman said. I nodded with her. Mathieu seemed to be stalling, and we wanted to hear the truth.
He took her hands in his, surprising us all. It seemed such a grown-up gesture.
“All our land and livestock are now forfeit, and we are to be removed from this land, Maman. The Acadians are to be put in ships like cattle and sent away. Not just the men, Maman. The women and children as well. Some ships have already come. They are only waiting for more so they can take us all.”
My mouth fell open. I could not speak. Maman and Claire too stared at him, speechless.
Only Giselle could find words. “What does that mean?”
“They are sending us away from here. All of us. We can take what things we can carry, but no more.”
I was outraged. “They cannot—”
“Where?” Maman whispered, clenching her hands together. “Where are they sending us?”
“They didn’t say, but they will make sure families remain together.”
“That is small comfort!” she cried. “They think—”
Claire spoke for the first time, her eyes round with horror. “But other families? We will be separated from them? What about Guillaume and his family? Will we—”
“When Papa gets home he will explain everything, I am sure,” Maman said, trying to gain control of the situation. “He will know what it all means. We must wait until he is home and be patient until then. Do you know when they will release the men, Mathieu?”
Mathieu looked away, then slumped in his chair. “I do not know any more than what I said.” No one else moved. “I am so tired, Maman,” he finally mumbled. “And in the morning I have to go back. I must sleep now.”
So many questions still hung over us, but he was exhausted. We made sure he was well fed before he collapsed into bed, then the long, slow breaths of a little boy fallen to sleep filled the room. I watched him briefly, then returned to sit with my mother and sisters. Their cheeks were wet with tears.
Mine were dry. I suppose I simply didn’t believe the story. It couldn’t be possible that we would be forced from our homes, from our lives, and shipped off to another land. Even if it were true, I was not ready to give up, to let the English destroy everything I had.
I got to my feet. “I will bring food, and I will speak with Papa. He will know what to do.”
“Now?” Claire sniffed. “You think they will let you?”
“I will not leave without an answer.”
Maman and my sisters helped me fetch what food I could find. With my arms full, I headed toward the church. If I could not speak with Papa, I would insist on speaking with Corporal MacDonnell. He seemed my best hope of hearing the truth.
SEVEN
The guard stopped me by the fence and took the food, then he told me to go home.
“There is nothing for you here,” he said.
“Of course there is,” I told him, speaking in English. “My father and brother are here. I wish to speak with them.”
“You cannot.”
I planted my feet, folded my arms, and glared up at him. “Is Colonel Winslow afraid to talk with the women?”
“What? That is preposterous!”
The word was unfamiliar. “Prepos . . . ?”
He sneered at my ignorance. “Ridiculous.”
“Everything about this is pre—” I blurted, then stopped, sounding out the word in my head. I had to get it right so I did not appear the fool. “This is all preposterous. I need to speak with my father.”
“You cannot.”
“Then I would like to speak with Colonel Winslow.”
He closed his eyes, then slowly opened them, looking at me as if I were a foolish child. “That, mademoiselle, is not going to happen. Thank you for the food. Now go home.”
I felt a little like Giselle, standing there and carrying on, but what choice did I have? “I will not! I deserve an explanation.”
He set the food basket on the ground and curled his fingers around the handle of his musket. “Do you mean to force my hand? Because I—”
“Excuse me! Soldier!”
I knew that voice, and something in my chest gave a little hop. Corporal MacDonnell rounded the corner and strode toward us with authority. Maybe I would get some answers after all.
He frowned at the soldier. “Is there a problem?”
“No, sir. This woman brought food for her menfolk and was just leaving.”
“You are mistaken, sir. I am not going anywhere.” I rolled my shoulders back. “Not until I find out what is happening to my brother and my father.”
The two men regarded each other, then MacDonnell hooked his hands behind his back. “Carry on, soldier. I will speak with the lady.”
Once he was gone, Corporal MacDonnell gave a small but formal bow. “It is an unexpected pleasure to see you, Mademoiselle Belliveau,” he said in French. “Despite the circumstances.”
“Circumstances indeed.” This was no simple picnic of peas and bread. “I came to see my father.”
The welcoming smile faded. “Of course you did. I understand, and I’m very sorry, but only the men are permitted inside, and no one is permitted out.”
“Except the messengers.”
His smile was contrite. “Yes, except the messengers. Your brother, Mathieu, was one. Am I right?”
I nodded, unsure. Why did it please me to learn that he knew Mathieu was my brother?
“Mademoiselle, allow me to assure you that your father and brother are well enough, though I know they would be much happier in their home with you. Unfortunately, that is not possible at the moment.” He hesitated. “Could we . . . would you walk a bit with me?” He must have seen the doubt in my expression. “I wish merely to speak with you where no one can hear us.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you’d like. But what I want to say is for your ears only.” He glanced around, then announced, “I shall walk you home,” so anyone could hear.
Trust must be earned, and yet despite what had happened, I gave him what I could of it. I led him away from the church, away from the houses, and toward the fields. We would not stroll there, for the ground was always wet, but I knew a safe place where we could talk, unmolested by others. When we reached the trees, I stopped and crossed my arms, waiting.
He kept walking, hands linked behind his back. “You are wondering what I could possibly have to say to you.”
When I trotted up beside him, he slowed so I could keep up.
“Why are they doing this?” I demanded.
He rounded on me, and I stopped short. “Really? You do not know?”
I was surprised by his tone. He sounded exasperated. As if I had upset him. “No,” I snapped. “I do not know. That is why I am here, soldier.”
“This is war,” he said.
“We want nothing to do with war or with anyone else. We have lived here for generations, hurting no one. Take your war somewhere else.”
“This is exactly where they want it to be. Look at all this.” He waved at the dikes and fields before us, the ocean beyond. “Do you know how valuable your homeland is? Do you have any idea what you have here? The fishing and hunting are wondrous. The crops are plentiful, and the ground so fertile you could coax the dead to life. How could the English not want this land for themselves? They have found heaven on earth, and they will not stop until they have it.”
I had never been anywhere but l’Acadie. I had known nothing but this place. I suppose in my naiveté I had believed everyone lived the way I did, that the whole world was as happy as I was. Thinking of someone else claiming our land as their own filled me with an unfamiliar rage.
My voice shook. “It isn’t theirs.”
“Nor was Scotland,” MacDonnell reminded me. “But it is now. And now that France and England are at war, they are battling over this place as well. I say again: You must not underestimate the British army.”
A cloud washed over the sun, casting a long shadow, and I thought of Claire’s superstitiou
s warnings. As if he knew I needed solace, he touched my arm, and I looked up.
“I understand your anger. I know how it feels, and I’m sorry for you and your family.”
His compassion was obvious, but I did not accept it. This man was not my friend. He was the enemy. I wanted to sweep the comfort of his hand from my skin, but I did not. My eyes burned, I quickly blinked the tears away. I hadn’t cried when I’d heard our lives were about to be stolen. Why would a simple act of empathy move me?
“Thank you,” I said. “That is kind of you, I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
I moved away from his touch, and he dropped his hand. “You are one of the men who is making us leave.”
“I am aware of that. And I regret it deeply.”
He took off his tricorne and held it between his hands. The line of his jaw was taut and he had been sweating; I could see the wet line where the hat had pressed. Frustrated, he ran a hand through his dark brown hair, messing it inadvertently. Without the hat and with his coat slung over one arm, it amazed me how normal he looked, as if he were no different from the boys with whom I had grown up. Of course his clothing was nothing like their plain linen shirts or short wool trousers, but without the severe uniform he seemed much more human.
“It’s not something you can help,” I replied. “I understand. There is nothing you can do about it. But you should know that we will survive this. We are a determined people, we Acadians.”
“I can see at least you are.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s only that I saw no other women storming up to the church just now as you did.”
“Plenty of women will come with food,” I objected. “Especially now that we know our men are captives.”
He stooped as he walked, picking up something in the grass that caught his eye, then he flicked it away. With his face still toward the ground, he asked, “Do you have other brothers?”
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