Promises to Keep

by Genevieve Graham

  No, dear sister, this is no dream. This is a nightmare from which we will never awaken.

  My gaze moved from the orange glow toward the dark, cool security of the forest. Where were our brothers? Could they see us? Did they weep as we did?

  “Farewell, Grand Pré,” I whispered.

  “Nonsense,” Claire snapped. “We will return one day. And when we do, we will take it from these English devils and rebuild it all. They can burn our homes, but they cannot destroy our spirits.”

  As much as I wanted to believe she was right, I knew deep in my soul she was wrong. Though I could not hear the fire, the noise of breaking hearts was deafening. The English had done what they had intended all along. They had crushed us, the people of Grand Pré. Now the land truly belonged to them.

  Connor

  SIXTEEN

  Connor resisted the urge to wipe at his burning eyes, choosing instead to let the tears cut paths down his grimy cheeks. His mother had said tears were the body’s way of cleansing both eyes and emotions. Today they were doing both.

  Shame crippled him. He had been part of this obscenity. The command had finally been issued, and it had come as no surprise to Connor that the long-awaited release from inactivity had intoxicated most of the men, filling them with a mad sense of power. Out of duty, he had marched with the others to the quiet homes, his boots crushing the frosted grass, but he had hung back from the task itself. He was a helpless witness to the scene as soldiers burst through splintering doors, roaring and poking muskets at the sleeping inhabitants. Fitch had been in the middle of the debacle, whooping with triumph as he shoved a weeping family of women and girls from their home, dressed in nothing but shifts and cloaks. Some of the prisoners clutched blankets to their chests. A number carried hastily assembled baskets of food. He could only hope they would be allowed to keep some of it.

  Connor had purposefully avoided going anywhere near the Belliveau house. He had gone to different doors, let the other soldiers carry out the contemptible directive while he did what he could to maintain order. She was gone already. Her home was ablaze. Soon every house would be reduced to a pile of smoking ash, along with the barns and gardens and any treasures left behind.

  He was glad she was already gone. He couldn’t have borne the look of betrayal in her eyes.

  He’d warned her today was coming, and she’d listened to the plans he wasn’t supposed to divulge, but the words couldn’t have been real to her. The idea that she and her family and friends were going to be shut in the bowels of a ship and sent God knew where . . . Of course it had been too much for her to accept. But the truth had now been shoved down her throat.

  Hours later, ashes still clung to the air. Every breath Connor took was laboured, but the constricting pain in his chest had little to do with smoke.

  “Good day’s work, aye, sir?”

  The momentary relief Connor felt when he closed his eyes couldn’t clear the distaste from his mouth. He didn’t respond, hoping Fitch would keep walking past, but that only accomplished the opposite. The man had been a terrible superior officer and somehow managed to be an even worse underling. He was a thorn in Connor’s side, constantly attempting to impress and move back up the ranks. That wasn’t going to happen on Connor’s watch, nor on Winslow’s. Fitch kept trying, though.

  Evidently Connor could not avoid his company. Fitch caught up and blocked his path, pulling the protective kerchief down to his chin so Connor could see his mad sooty grin. Together they surveyed the devastated village lying beneath a solid ceiling of smoke, its homes and barns sprawled over the blackened ground like ash skeletons. The fiery heat had melted any frozen stretches of dried grass into muck. Other than a few soldiers kicking through the smoking ash, Connor could see no sign of life.

  “A right mess,” Fitch mused. “I suppose it’ll be us what cleans it up.”

  “I assume so,” Connor said. “We created the mess, after all.”

  Fitch chuckled. “Bring back the women, make ’em clean it.”

  Connor glanced at him. “You are an unpleasant man, Fitch.”

  “Per’aps, sir. Only thinkin’ of the best way to get things done, I am. I s’pose the officers won’t be lifting a hand when it comes to cleanup.”

  Connor’s gaze skimmed over the spot where Amélie and her family had once lived. Looking at the remains made him ill. He wasn’t sure he could go anywhere near them. Fortunately, Fitch was right; cleanup was not a task for the officers.

  “Speak with Winslow about my getting reinstalled, ’ave you?”

  “There’s no talk of that, Fitch, and you know it. You’re fortunate to still have a position here at all, considering your crime.”

  “Oh, aye? That’s rich, comin’ from you.”

  Connor closed his eyes, craving peace. Or perhaps a well-aimed bolt of lightning.

  “I seen ye with her, I did. With that French slut.”

  His eyes opened slowly, and he resisted the urge to look toward the harbour, toward Amélie.

  “Don’t s’pose ye had clearance to be messin’ about with her, didja?” His face pushed closer to Connor’s, almost completely filling his line of vision. “Good thing she’s gone now, aye? Guess you’ll have to hunt up one of them injun squaws. They’d be willing, I’d bet, with a pretty lad the likes of you. Show them our welcomin’ English customs, aye? Tell you what, you bring me back one and we’ll forget all about what I saw.”

  “You have a strange way of speaking with your betters, Corporal Fitch,” Connor said, his expression carefully blank. Then he strode away, giving Fitch nothing more.

  He could not allow the vindictive arse to see the fear raised by his underhanded threat. Nothing and no one could come between Connor and Winslow at this time. He must have his hands and eyes on Winslow’s correspondence—his window onto Amélie’s future—for as long as possible. He would have to be very careful; Fitch could not be permitted to interfere.

  SEVENTEEN

  November 1755

  Amélie and her family had been on that stagnant ship for weeks. When the wind carried the stink to the tents, the soldiers covered their noses and mouths, grimacing with displeasure. The people in the transports had no choice. They breathed in the rank air and ate what stale rations they were given while the army awaited orders. Connor had been unable to get to the ships, and the torture of seeing them in the distance, achingly close yet impossibly far away, was too much on some days.

  By now Amélie would have given up on him, would believe his promises had been nothing more than words.

  He had feared the same himself until recently. At last the paperwork he’d been waiting for arrived on his desk: the listing of which Grand Pré Acadians were imprisoned in which ships. The initial boarding had been massive confusion, and the soldiers on the docks had discarded the original lists in favour of expediency. At least they had written down names as the people had been loaded. Connor scoured the pages until he found Amélie’s family, but he could find only the women. Shuffling through the other papers, he eventually found the rest of the Belliveaus, on two other ships. The women were aboard the Pembroke, Charles was on the Elizabeth, and Mathieu was on the Hobson with Claire’s fiancé, Guillaume.

  Connor couldn’t simply pluck Amélie’s family members from the various ships, but at least he could do something about their separation. When the timing seemed right, he approached the colonel.

  “Sir,” he tried, “I have a question regarding the shipments of families.”

  Winslow looked up, distracted as usual. He was a fair enough man, but he had a great many worries on his mind. Connor had been witness to many of his eloquently written concerns.

  “What is it?”

  “These lists, sir, they indicate some of the families have been separated despite your best efforts to keep them together.”

  The lines of Winslow’s brows drew together and he nodded. “Yes. Well, I suppose we cannot get it all right. We’ve done what we could.”

  “Could w
e not shuffle some to different ships, sir? Allow the families to be together in this trying time?”

  Winslow rested his brow in one hand and sighed heavily. “Sergeant Mac . . . Mac . . .” The hand that wasn’t propping up his face lifted helplessly.

  “MacDonnell, sir.”

  “Sergeant MacDonnell. No. We will not be using our limited resources in that capacity. The family members will have to reunite at the end of their journey.”

  “But not all ships are going to the same place, sir.”

  Winslow’s eyes rolled up at Connor from beneath heavy brows. “I am aware of this.”

  “Sir, I understand you are dealing with much more important issues. Would you permit me to work on this project myself? I could coordinate which family members should be moved to which—”

  “Unnecessary added work, Sergeant.”

  “I’d be happy to do it, sir.”

  “No. Thank you, Sergeant. That will be all.”

  The dismissal was clear. Winslow’s attention returned to his work, and Connor bit back his disappointment as he stepped outside. The dismissal was a bitter blow, and it left him feeling more helpless than ever. There should have been no problem with allowing Connor to rearrange the prisoners, but the colonel had plainly had enough. Constant complaints from commanders of other Acadian settlements and the day-to-day concerns of managing this one all added up to a load of responsibilities Winslow was not willing to delegate.

  November had long since settled over the land, and the dry chill spoke of impending snow. Departure would happen in a matter of days. The influx of letters, organization of provisions, bustle around the docks—all of it was increasing hourly. His own duties—as usual—were aggravatingly minimal. Feeling rebellious, he left the little field of tents and strode down the hill toward the docks.

  The decks were much busier than the fort. Soldiers carried large sacks over the gangplank, making way when others rolled kegs across. In contrast to the soldiers by the churchyard, most of these men were more focused on the job at hand than on making idle conversation. After so long spent doing little more than writing letters, Connor craved action. Shouts rang out from farther down the dock, catching his attention, and he saw someone had dropped a sack. Precious flour rose in a choking white cloud, and the man at fault hung his head, nodding and accepting the rebukes of the men around him. Connor was tempted to head over and break up the scene. He wanted to lift the next sack himself in illustration of what needed to be done, but a man wearing a uniform such as his would not be permitted to do such a thing.

  An idea struck him unexpectedly, like a spark from a flint. He blinked, needing to organize his thoughts. No, he could not join those men; however, as an officer he might possibly be able to do something else.

  Two days later, Connor stood at attention in the doorway of Winslow’s office, trying not to fidget. Outside the church window the ships bobbed in the distance, stark against the early December snow. They sat noticeably lower in the water than they had the week before, since almost everything had been loaded in preparation for departure. The ships’ motion was an urgent reminder to Connor that he had no time left. If nothing went wrong, the colonel would order the ships’ captains to lift anchor today.

  The commander was leaning back in his chair, enjoying a glass of port and chuckling about something with another officer who had recently arrived. Considering all the other activities currently under way, Connor couldn’t imagine their conversation being anything other than wasted time. If he didn’t interrupt, Amélie and her family would be gone from his life within hours.

  When at last Winslow had turned his angular face toward him, Connor cleared his throat and lifted his chin.

  Winslow sighed and sipped his port. “Was there something you needed, Sergeant?”

  Connor fought the urge to rush forward and thrust a sheet of paper under the man’s nose. He must pretend his request was the farthest thing from urgent.

  “Sir, if you recall, I put in a request that I be permitted to travel to North Carolina aboard the Pembroke. I’ve family there I’d like to visit.” Technically not a lie. It would be interesting to meet his cousins at long last, if they were still there. “I require your letter, if you’d be so kind.”

  The colonel lifted an eyebrow. “Family?”

  “Two cousins. Soldiers as well,” he threw in for good measure.

  Winslow tapped his knuckle on the desk. “The Pembroke, you say? Leaves today, does it not?”

  “It does, sir.”

  “Well then. You’ll be in a hurry, I expect.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He frowned slightly. “You’ve done an exemplary job for me, Sergeant. I should hate to lose you.”

  “You’d not lose me, sir. I’d be back before the spring.”

  Winslow nodded thoughtfully. “I will be less in need of a translator once all these people are gone.” He chuckled to himself. “I suppose this time I must write the missive myself, not ask you to do it on my behalf.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “The captain’s name?”

  “Milton, sir.”

  The colonel dipped his quill in the inkwell on the corner of his desk, set the tip on the paper, and began to write.

  DEAR CAPTAIN MILTON of the PEMBROKE,

  The Bearer, Sergeant MacDonnell has been with me. He Chuses to Go to North Carolina to visit his Family and has Requested he take the Pembroke. I Therefore beg to Favour you would Embarke him for that Collony upon your ship. What Indulgence you Show him Shall reckon it as a Favour done to yours Most Sincerely. Excuse haste.

  COLONEL J. WINSLOW

  He waited a few seconds for the ink to dry, then handed the paper to Connor, smiling. “I wish you a safe and pleasant journey, and I look forward to your return.”

  Connor’s fingers had just closed around the door handle when Winslow called his name again.

  He froze. “Sir?”

  “I have made note of your outstanding service in your file.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Relieved, Connor bowed; then he strode from the building, shrugging into his long black cloak as he went. The impulse to leap over the steps and sprint to the docks was strong, but a sergeant didn’t run. A sergeant didn’t raise unwanted questions. He ducked covertly into his tent to retrieve what things he had then he headed toward the harbour.

  “An odd place to see you, sir.”

  “Corporal Fitch!” Connor stopped short. “You startled me.”

  “Where are you headed, sir?”

  “My business is my own, Corporal.”

  Fitch’s eyebrows rose. “Well now. Sounds like a right mystery to me.”

  “Does it?” An apathetic shrug was Fitch’s response, but Connor saw the eager glint in his eye. “What do you want, Corporal?”

  “Most o’ the work is done for now, sir.” He winked. “Cattle’s already been shipped, as it were. So when I saw you headin’ this way, moving quick-like, I thought I might be of assistance, since I’ve nought else to do.” His eyes went to the ships. “If you’ve a mind to visit the ships before they’re gone, I’d go with you.”

  “Thank you, no. I am keeping my own company today. Good day to you.”

  He moved away, but Fitch stepped in front of him. “I’ve nought else to do, as I say.” He scowled, scratching the side of his head. “Say, you wouldn’t be thinkin’ of visiting that mademoiselle, would you? Because I don’t think the commander would think much of that. On the other hand, I’d be willing to bet he’d be interested in that kind of information, should it be true.”

  Connor stiffened. “Your suggestion is insolent and unfounded. As it happens, I am indeed on my way to the ships—not, however, to speak with any of the prisoners.” He narrowed his eyes. “I would suggest you head back to camp and find business of your own to attend to. Good day.”

  It was thanks to the winter air that Connor did not have perspiration to mop from his brow as he descended the hill. Fitch, he knew by now, hated him.
Hated Connor’s promotion above him, hated Connor’s favour with Winslow, hated that the other men liked Connor. And Connor was positive Fitch hated the fact that the mademoiselle to whom he was undoubtedly referring actually wanted to be with Connor.

  Or at least he hoped she still did.

  EIGHTEEN

  The downward slope was perilous, the snow pounded into ice by many boots. Connor glanced back once, needing to assure himself he was alone; then he headed quickly on, focused on the voyage ahead. Despite the thickening stink wafting toward him, he smiled with anticipation.

  By the time he reached the ship, the crew appeared just about ready to set sail. From the looks of it, Connor couldn’t have put off his meeting with Winslow by even an hour.

  Over two hundred prisoners filled the Pembroke’s hold, and another seven men made up her crew. The passengers were locked below, so he couldn’t see them from the docks. He didn’t know if the list had been accurate, if the soldiers had recorded the right people on the right ships. Was Amélie even here?

  A scruffy-looking man stood at the base of the gangplank, and Connor paused to speak with him. “Are you sailing aboard this ship?”

  The sailor scowled, blinking wearily at him. His round, bald head was partially covered by a winter cap, but at its base Connor could see dirty brown skin, heavily spattered with indiscriminate freckles. It looked as though someone had shaken a blackened paintbrush at him.

  “I am not.”

  Connor glanced up the walkway, unsure of where he should go to present his paperwork. “Do you know the captain of this ship?”

  “Aye,” he said, opening his mouth wide enough for Connor to see that most of his teeth were gone. Those remaining were grey-black and turned at odd angles. He twisted to the side and jabbed a thumb toward the ship. “Cap’n Milton be there.”

  Captain Milton was easy to pick out from the crowd on deck, since he stood in the midst like a flagpole, directing the others. Unlike the crew, he was dressed neatly in a pressed white shirt and navy waistcoat over fitted black pants. He wore the expression of a man perpetually unimpressed.