Promises to Keep

by Genevieve Graham

  The last thing I expected to see when I walked into our yard was a small slaughtered deer, enough to sustain us—and others—for some time. What we couldn’t eat right away we could hang in the shade and enjoy for the next couple of weeks.

  As soon as I saw it, I knew whom to thank for the gift. I hadn’t seen my best friend for months, and the separation had been difficult. I had been used to being with Mali almost on a daily basis, and I longed to speak with her about everything that was happening. I even wanted to share my confusion about Connor, though thinking about that conversation made my palms sweat.

  I had told myself all this turmoil with the English would pass, that the French would return and drive the army from our land, but that was not happening. I was reluctantly getting accustomed to the idea that the Mi’kmaq were gone as well. At least they weren’t gone for good, as evidenced by the deer. Maman exclaimed joyfully over the bounty, and I told her I was going to visit Mali, to thank her for thinking of us in these lean and dangerous times. She was nervous about the idea of my walking in the woods alone, but it was only right that I go. She bade me bring an apple pie and some bread.

  “I will be back later to help you with the deer,” I promised.

  “Don’t worry. We can do this,” Claire assured me. “Go now. Tell her hello from me.”

  As I knew she would, Mali found me before I could get lost. She bounded out of the trees, beaming, and we swung each other around in an enthusiastic embrace. The relief of being able to speak and act freely was almost overwhelming.

  “Wela’lin, Mali!” I said, thanking her and smiling wider than I had in months. “I am so tired of eating fish!”

  “How I have missed you!” she cried. “I have been so afraid for your family. Are you all right?”

  “We women are fine. We can take care of ourselves. But we’re so worried we can hardly sleep! Oh, Mali. It’s so terrible.” I clenched my fists, wanting to scream from frustration. “Those ships rock in the harbour, going nowhere, and the men inside hardly get to see the sun.”

  Mali’s eyes narrowed. “The English are terrible. They understand nothing.”

  “At least you are all safe up here.”

  “They cannot find us. You almost could not!”

  “I knew you would find me.” I threw my arms around her neck again. “Oh, Mali. I feel almost normal when I see you again.”

  “Me too. Can you stay?”

  I shook my head. “Maman will worry. Besides, I am having venison for supper tonight!” She grinned; my pleasure made her happy. I handed her the basket of pie and bread. “We wanted to say thank you.”

  “I love your maman’s apple pie.” She bit her lip. “I’m glad you came. I have another gift for you.”

  “Another? Oh Mali! I don’t need anything more.”

  She took my hand. “Come.”

  We followed a deer trail, brushing dry autumn branches out of the way as we went. I inhaled the musky odour of fallen leaves, appreciating the smell of something other than saltwater air for a change. The familiar sight of a birchbark wigwam appeared in the next clearing, and I could see it had been recently built. That meant Mali’s family had been moving, intent on staying hidden.

  “Ansale!” called Mali. “We have a visitor!”

  A pair of noisy dogs raced toward us, passing Mali’s older brother, who stood by a stack of wood, cutting it into kindling. He wore only his breechclout, and his long black hair was tethered into a tail, for it was hot work despite the chill of the forest. He stepped back from the pile, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of one arm, and grinned.

  “Amélie! My long-lost little sister!”

  I didn’t mind his sweaty hug, in fact I welcomed it with open arms. His smoky scent was reassuring, reminding me that as long as I was with Mali and the rest of the family, everything would be all right.

  “Have you come to—”

  “Don’t spoil my surprise,” Mali scolded. “I told Amélie I have a gift for her. Do you know where it is?”

  “I think I do. Shall I get it?”

  “Yes, please.” She waved her hands at him. “Go! Hurry up, lazy man.”

  I frowned, watching him go. “Is it heavy? Will I be able to carry it back to Maman?”

  “Yes, it is heavy, and no, you will not be able to carry it. This gift must remain here. We must keep it safe with us.”

  “A gift for me that you get to keep?”

  Mali beamed. “Exactly!”

  “Hmm.”

  The dogs sniffed around my feet, and I crouched to pet them. I didn’t remember seeing them here before, but that wasn’t strange. Mali and her brothers were often joined by stray dogs. The animals were excellent warning systems.

  “Here we are!” Ansale called, reappearing. “I come with your gift!”

  Henri walked behind him, looking sheepish but healthy. With a cry of relief and happiness I ran to him, and tears rolled down my cheeks as his arms closed around me.

  “You are all right! Oh, Henri! I was hoping you were here!”

  He was shirtless like Ansale but wore leggings, and the two men could have been brothers. Living in the outdoors had darkened my brother’s skin and brightened his eyes. He looked perfectly at home.

  “I’ve done better than you, I think,” Henri said. “How is Maman? Claire and Giselle? Have you spoken with Papa?”

  I started to respond, but Mali stepped in. “Come and sit. I’ve already made you walk all the way here. You have plenty to talk about, and I want to hear everything.”

  Though it was too warm for a fire, we sat around the ashes as if it were a table. Mali surprised me by shuffling close to Henri. So close, in fact, that when she’d settled on the log beside him, their legs were pressing against each other. Aha! My brother was doing more than hiding out here!

  “Why did you not tell me you were coming here?” I asked my brother.

  “Papa came here the night before the meeting at the church,” he explained. “He spoke with Tumas and Mary. It was his idea.”

  “Does Maman know?”

  “Of course.”

  It was a relief to know I had been right. She had known all along.

  The forest was quiet. “Where is André? With you?”

  There was no teasing in Henri’s expression. The faces of Ansale and Mali were equally blank.

  “He was gone that morning,” I said. “Just like you. I thought—”

  “We thought he was with your papa and Mathieu,” Mali told me. “On the ships.”

  “No, he’s not there. Just Papa and Mathieu . . . and they were put in separate ships! They aren’t even together. At least Mathieu has Guillaume with him, but I know he must be terrified.” I hesitated, but I could not keep secrets from them. Especially this one. “I have not told you all the sad news.”

  “More than this?”

  “So, so much more.” I dropped my chin, pursing my lips together to try to contain my tears, then I took a deep, shaky breath. “It is not just the men who are going to be sent away. All the women and children will go as well. There will be no more Acadians left!”

  My brother stared at me, his mouth hanging slightly open. Then he appeared to make up his mind. “I’ll come back with you, Amélie. I should be with our family. I’m safe here, but it’s irresponsible and selfish. I know that now. Papa said—” He shook his head. “This changes everything. I didn’t know whether to run or fight, so Papa chose the coward’s route for me.”

  “I don’t think it’s cowardly,” I assured him, sniffling. “I wish I’d done it.”

  “I’ll come today. I shouldn’t have left Maman.”

  “No. Don’t come home.”

  “But why not? I can’t leave you alone.”

  I hesitated, unsure of how to convince him without saying too much. “I was told by someone in secret that you should stay away.”

  “In secret? What does that mean?”

  I ignored Henri’s question. I would never betray Connor’s confiden
ce, not even to my beloved brother. “My friend told me that people who have run away will be punished and imprisoned.” I took a deep breath. “Please, Henri, you must not come home.”

  “But, Amélie, this cannot be right,” Mali said. “Henri needs his family, and you need your brother.”

  My vision blurred with tears. When would I see Henri or the others after tonight?

  “Nothing is right these days,” I said, “but that is the way it is. I am only glad Henri is with you.” I held out my hands and waited for my brother to offer his. When I had his warm, familiar fingers in mine, I squeezed them. Then I reached for Mali’s hand and placed Henri’s in hers. “I love you both so much. Please promise me you will take care of each other. And, Henri, you must promise you will not come home.”

  “Stay here with us,” Mali said, her eyes sparkling with tears.

  “I cannot. The soldiers know me and would come looking. Besides, I couldn’t leave Maman and my sisters.”

  We looked at each other, wishing we knew what to say. This could be the last time we ever spoke, but we were lost for words. After a moment Mali lifted a string of beads from around her neck and placed it over my head. It felt like a final gesture, and I was lonely already.

  “For your courage,” she said, speaking softly into my ear. “And so you will remember me if you ever have need.”

  “I need nothing to remember you by. I would never forget you.” I touched the necklace, remembering how often I had seen her wearing it. “Thank you for this. It is beautiful and will be a comfort.”

  The forest was growing darker, closing in on us, and the mosquitoes had multiplied into noisy, whining clouds. I got to my feet.

  “I must get back.”

  Henri took hold of me. “This feels wrong,” he said. “I should be going with you.”

  I pressed my face into his chest, forcing my emotions back. I couldn’t appear weak now; if I did, he would insist upon coming with me.

  “You’re better off here,” I whispered. “Besides, Mali would never forgive me if I took you from her!”

  “I’m going to marry her.”

  “I hope your babies look like her and not you!”

  “I will name our first daughter after my favourite sister. My Amélie.”

  Tears surged into my eyes despite all my attempts to hold them back, and Mali took my arm. “Let’s get you home before it’s too dark,” she coaxed. “You don’t want to miss out on that meal, do you?”

  Our trek back through the forest was sombre. I could remember no other times with her that had been like that.

  When we neared the farm, she asked, “Who told you Henri should not come out of hiding?”

  “It’s a secret. I cannot tell.”

  “It’s me, Amélie. You can tell me anything.” She frowned. “What is it? Why do you look afraid?”

  It felt like forever since she and I had spoken as sisters, and the shame of my connection to the enemy devoured me. But Mali would not judge me.

  “I met a man,” I admitted, “and I am confused about my feelings for him.”

  She smiled, and though it filled me with happiness to see that expression again, her teasing was a poignant reminder that the time had come for us to put aside our childish ways.

  “Oh, that’s common enough. What don’t you understand?”

  “He looks at me as if he has always known me. He says he wants to protect me, and he . . . he tells me things he should not say.”

  “Who is he? Is he handsome?”

  I wanted to deny it, but the lie would have been obvious considering the heat in my cheeks. “The most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

  That made her laugh. “Is he tall?”

  “Not as tall as Ansale.”

  For a moment we allowed ourselves to enjoy our conversation, to chat about boys as we had before, as if there were nothing more important to talk of. And by letting her interrogate me, I delayed the necessity of my inevitable confession.

  “Does he have lovely golden hair?” She had always had a fascination with blond hair.

  “His hair is almost as dark as yours, but it only reaches his shoulders. He usually wears it in a tail.”

  She sagged a little. “His eyes are blue?”

  “Sorry,” I said, laughing. “They’re brown. But you would like his smile. It reaches his eyes every time, and he has all his teeth.”

  “And why do you love him?”

  “I never said I loved him!”

  “No, but I can see that you do. Why? What makes him special?”

  It was disconcerting, hearing her say these things, and yet I was eager to share the answers. “He is different from anyone I have ever met,” I admitted. “He has led a difficult life, and yet he is not defeated. His courage inspires my own. He wants to know about me, and he seems to seek me out as I do him. He makes me nervous, but I do not believe that is because of him.”

  “Why then?”

  “Because . . . because I want to see him despite any terrible news he might bear. I think of him when I should not.” I looked away. “And yet I cannot stop.”

  “Ah.” She hesitated, and I could tell by her half smile that she wasn’t sure if she should laugh or not. “What has you confused?”

  “He is a British soldier.”

  Her smile faded slightly, then she took a deep breath and shrugged, her eyes deep with understanding. “He was a man before he became a soldier. Tell me his name. I will keep him safe in my heart along with you. And I will not tell a soul.”

  FOURTEEN

  October 1755

  I had hoped someone else would be on duty today. I had spoken with this one before, and I didn’t like him. He always scowled down his nose at me. Today his cheeks were red from the wind, and his lips were cracked, but I felt not a shred of pity for him. I wore a heavy woollen shawl and was also wrapped in my long black cloak, but despite its hood, my face and hands felt nearly frozen.

  “Why must we always argue?” He looked bored. “You cannot come in, and I will not help you find anyone.”

  “We argue because you are obstinate, sir.”

  “That is the pot calling the kettle black.”

  “It would require no great effort for you to call a messenger to find him.”

  “Yet I choose not to do so. Sergeant MacDonnell is a busy man. He has no time for . . . little French girls.”

  His arrogance was infuriating. The way he shaped his mouth when he called me a “little French girl,” made me well aware that he was biting his tongue, resisting the urge to label me with a worse epithet.

  “You are insolent, sir. You have no right to abuse me in this manner.”

  “To the contrary. I have every right. This is the king’s land. It belongs to the English, not your people.”

  “How dare you? The land belongs to no one, and we have always lived peacefully alongside—”

  “Go away before I make you go away.” He leaned closer, until I could smell the ripe wool of his coat. “Are you too stupid to understand that?”

  “What will you do? Shoot me?”

  I shouldn’t have suggested that, for he pushed his sleeve back and tightened his fist, his eyes boring through mine. “Too much noise. I’m tempted to—”

  “Mademoiselle Belliveau!”

  I spun toward the voice but was too flushed from the argument to give Connor the smile he deserved.

  “Good afternoon, Sergeant. I was just telling this soldier I needed to speak with you.”

  The other man cleared his throat. “I told her you were busy, sir.”

  Connor caught me scowling at the guard. I dropped my eyes, embarrassed that he’d seen me acting childishly, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

  “Thank you,” he said. “As it happens, I have an appointment with this lady. You may leave us.” He bowed toward me. “My apologies for my tardiness, mademoiselle.”

  After the man was gone from my view, I met Connor’s eyes. He was smiling.

  �
��A pleasure to see you, mademoiselle,” he said formally in French. “It has been a while, and for that I am sorry.”

  “That man has no manners.”

  “You are correct.” He was laughing at me, I could tell. While I wanted to be taken seriously, I did like the way he looked when he teased. “And yet you honoured him by speaking his language,” he said. “How charitable of you.”

  I crossed my arms under my cloak. “I wanted to be understood.”

  “Of course you did. I will speak with him, introduce him to the idea of polite conversation. In the meantime, I apologize on his behalf.”

  “Why? You cannot apologize for another man’s lack.”

  “No?”

  I shivered at the next gust of wind. “No.”

  “Still, I am sorry you have been forced to come out here on such a foul day,” he continued, keeping his voice impersonal for the benefit of the soldiers milling around. “How may I be of assistance?”

  The possibility that he could help me with my request was slight, but I had to try.

  “A while back,” I said, then I snapped my mouth shut, ashamed of how my voice trembled. I hoped he would believe it was due to the cold, not my emotions. “A while back,” I tried again, “you said you would do what you could to help my family. It was a generous offer, and I am afraid I must ask for that help now.”

  He lowered his voice. “What do you need?”

  I wouldn’t complain like a child. To tell him we were hungry, that Wikewiku’s should have been the month of slaughter and preparing meat for winter, then to remind him that we no longer had any livestock to fatten . . . That would accomplish nothing. He could not help with any of those complaints. Instead, I would ask him for something I believed he could give.