Promises to Keep

by Genevieve Graham

  I had thought I was lonely before. Now it was as if I were completely empty.

  In the morning the prisoners were brought up on deck. Their hands were bound in front of them, chained by the shackles my father and the other men had once worn. Their attention was focused on the deck before them. All but the most ill of us lined up to watch them go, and most—though not all—of the Acadians took the opportunity to spit angry farewells. I stood with my back to the rail, trying to keep my emotions at bay as the men trudged past us in a silent, sullen procession.

  I could not go to him, could not say a word. I longed to reach for him, to bring comfort of some kind. His eyes were cast down; the dark waves of his hair had come unbound and now tumbled over his face. The skin around one eye was a deep purple-red, and patches of dried blood stained his shirt. Evidently he had put up a fight, wanting the others to believe he was oblivious to our plan rather than its creator. Either that or one of our men had let out his frustration on him. In any case, he had done what he had set out to do.

  Finally, finally Connor glanced at me, and anguish twisted through me. I forced back tears, but I could do nothing about my faltering expression. Connor made no attempt to speak to me, and I did as my father had bid me: I said nothing. But I watched like a hawk as they lowered him into the ship’s tender, where it waited on the frosty water, saw him take his place on a bench and struggle to tuck his cloak around himself—the same cloak he had wrapped around me, wanting to keep me warm.

  My misery was such that I could not move, and it became so much worse when he looked up at me. I was sure everyone would notice the terrible expressions of loss on both our faces, but I could not look away. I wanted to remember everything about him, every line of his face, every strand of his hair. Finally I lifted my fingers in a suggestion of a wave, certain that I was saying farewell to any dream of love in my life. In reply, he uncurled all ten fingers as if he were stretching against the shackles and opened his palms to me. When he moved, the collar of his shirt fell slightly open, and I saw the white beads of my necklace. More than my heart was going with him, but Mali would understand. My fingers went to the small silver ring I wore, and I rubbed it with my thumb, wishing I could reach him somehow through the pressure of my fingers, infusing my affection into its dull surface.

  Papa said the harbour where we left them was in Maine. All I remembered of it was the icy fog. Connor and I watched each other through its veil until he disappeared, and the rhythmic splash of oars carried clearly to me after he was gone from view. I stood at the rail a long time after that, waiting for the tender to return. Then we pulled up anchor and Papa turned the ship back toward the sea.

  Once we were sailing and the danger of discovery was past, I dropped my facade, letting tears course down my cheeks and drop onto the rail. He was as safe as he could be at this tumultuous time, I knew, and because of his sacrifice, hundreds of us were free. By abandoning him, we had done what had to be done. Our English captors were gone; the deck filled with the familiar sound of French conversation. Yet I felt entirely alone in this crowd of family and friends. The ocean seemed a vast, endless stretch of nothingness.

  So low did I sink that I had trouble rousing any sense of excitement when someone spotted land. On the day we were finally to disembark, Papa informed me it was January 8, 1756, exactly one month since we’d first set sail aboard the Pembroke. The month of Punamujuiku’s had arrived, bringing with it the frost fish moon. It seemed we had been gone much longer than that.

  We sailed up the Bay of Fundy to the mouth of Saint John Harbour, having met not one other ship along our journey. Connor had told Papa there were other Acadians here, but what would we find? I scanned the bleak shoreline, hoping to see another person, but the banks were empty. Would there be shelter in this frozen port? Comfort, even? I hardly dared to hope.

  To the cheers of those on board, we floated toward the shore and dropped anchor in the freezing water on the south side of the waterway. The harbour was narrow and too shallow for our huge ship, so the tender made many trips, transporting us all to the rocky beach. The little boat had to go right up on shore—the water was very cold, and we were so weak we would not fare well if we got wet. Many of those stepping off lost their balance after having been a-sea for so long, and those who had already been on dry land for a few minutes tried to catch them. Papa remained on the Pembroke, managing the disembarking, and he sent us on ahead. Maman was so weak when we arrived, I practically lifted her out.

  “Come, Maman,” Claire said, helping me. “We will find you a place to lie down. It may not be warm, but at least it will be still.”

  But our options were few. We set up camp on the north bank of the Saint John River, wary of being spotted by any passing ships. I believed this concern was unfounded, since there was no sign anyone had ever walked this grim coast before. We were entirely alone. If there were any other Acadians, they were not here. Winter gales cut across the sea and over the frozen land, and we huddled together for warmth. Disappointment returned, making me bitter. I had allowed myself to hope, and once again my dreams had not come true.

  We unloaded all the weaponry and stores which the English had set aside on the ship, so once we had staggered farther inland and established meagre shelters among the scraggly trees and boulders, we did what we could to improve our situation. Despite our limited mobility, the denseness of the forest, and the crippling cold, we eventually became organized enough to hunt and fish. We lit small fires for warmth and cooking but always took care to keep them hidden. Papa reminded me that the Englishmen we had left behind—as if I could ever forget!—would reluctantly admit to their compatriots about how they had lost the Pembroke to us. No one had any doubt the army would soon scour the coastlines looking for us, and we could not afford to be caught again. Though it was difficult to believe, I imagined our punishment for escape would be worse than the dire situation we had left behind.

  My heart was still in turmoil over Connor. I grieved for what might have been, and I longed for a friend—someone I could trust as I had always trusted Mali. In a weak moment I opened my heart to Claire. As I had feared, my sister was more aghast than sympathetic.

  “An English soldier? For shame, Amélie!”

  “But he’s not English,” I explained. “He’s Scottish. And he’s the one who helped Papa take over the ship.”

  She only shook her head. “I cannot imagine what might have made you think it would be all right to kiss a British man. Do not tell Maman unless you mean to break her heart.”

  I said nothing, though I did think Maman might have understood better than Claire. I should not have expected any sympathy, I realized. Claire did not know what I knew: that the Hobson had been lost; however, she did grieve the absence of Guillaume in her life. She did not understand the true extent of her loss, and I was too much of a coward to tell her. I thought she might find strength in the hope that they might meet again in another land, no matter how fruitless that hope might be.

  When winter storms blasted through our little settlement, it became obvious we’d need to move. Illness was rampant now. As a whole, we were too weak to journey into the unknown, so a group of men was selected and given the responsibility to scout out a new and better location. Since Papa had already assumed a leadership role, he was one of the chosen. He was loath to go, for Maman was suffering from a clinging, sticky fever. When she coughed, her body shuddered with a dry, hacking motion, and her breathing was laboured. I tried to give her water or tea, but her throat was so sore she could barely swallow. Had we been at home, I would have been able to ease her pain by boiling the petals of water roses with honey, but I had no access to any of these things anymore.

  Papa spent a few minutes alone with her before he left, but he could not look either Claire or me in the eye afterward. “Take care of her,” he’d said hoarsely. “I will be back for you all as soon as I can.”

  Once he was gone, Maman worsened dramatically. She shook her head at our persistent requ
est that she drink tea, saying she’d had enough. “Truly, I cannot drink another drop.”

  Claire looked as tired as our mother and almost as pale. “Maman, your skin is hot. You know you would do the same for us.”

  “I am feeling much better,” she assured us.

  Claire, Giselle, and I took turns, but we could do nothing to lower the fever besides wipe a cold, wet cloth over Maman’s pallid face and neck. She dwindled; then she fell into a delirium. Her tongue laboured over words that made no sense, and by the next day we barely understood anything she said. We kept waiting for the fever to break, for the light to return to her eyes, but it never did.

  Then Claire fell ill beside her. I forbade Giselle to come near either of them. So far neither she nor I had been affected, but I didn’t want to gamble on her health. My body begged for sleep as I mopped the two dear brows, holding hands, whispering encouragement deep into the night.

  In the morning, Maman no longer suffered. I had fallen asleep accidentally, toppling to my side with exhaustion, and when I awoke she lay still as stone. Guilt washed over me, as powerful as any ocean swell, though there was nothing I could have done to change what had happened. I stared at her colourless profile, wondering if she’d laboured for air at the end. Would I have heard her gasping? If I hadn’t been selfishly rewarding my fruitless efforts by sleeping, my fingers would have wrapped around hers when her heart finally ceased to beat. Would she even have known I was there? Despising myself, I curled over her, whispering “Maman! Maman!” in case she might still hear, sobbing as quietly as I could until I could barely breathe.

  “Amélie,” Claire whispered.

  I smeared the tears off my face with the heel of my hand, trying to be inconspicuous. I didn’t want my ailing sister to suffer. She needed to believe in her own returning health, not see the nearness of death. Yet when I looked at her, she had the same glazed stare our mother had worn the day before.

  “I’m sorry, Claire. I thought you were asleep. I should have been more quiet. I—”

  “I want to go with Maman.”

  “Don’t speak that way,” I begged her. “You must be strong. You are young and have so much to live for.”

  “You are wrong, little sister. I am weak to the marrow of my bones. I could not summon the strength to fight this illness even if I should want to.”

  “What do you mean, even if you should want to? Of course you want to fight and live!”

  “I do not. I want to go home, but we have no home. I miss Guillaume every second, and I will never see him again.” She drew in a wheezing breath and coughed, her slight frame jerking with the impact. “Amélie, I do not have the spirit of adventure you have always had. I do not want to start again in a new land.”

  “But I need you, Claire. Don’t leave me.”

  “Amélie. I want to apologize.”

  Her manner was calm, and that frightened me the most. It was as if these awful words she now uttered had been considered deeply.

  “There is nothing to apologize for.”

  “Yet I am sorry. I treated you like a child. I’m sorry I said those things about your soldier.” Another cough seized and shook her. She held out a trembling hand, and I took it in my own. “I envied you . . . your forbidden passion. I am sorry he is gone.”

  I couldn’t find words, so I let my tears answer for me.

  A sort of peace settled over Claire’s features. “You will survive this, Amélie.”

  “No, Claire. Do not give up.”

  I felt a light pressure on my fingers as she tried to squeeze my hand, and she closed her eyes. “I promise I shall watch over you.”

  Then she fell asleep. I set her hand on her stomach and backed away, feeling lost. Hours later, she was gone as well, leaving Giselle and me alone. We clung together and rocked ourselves to sleep with sobs. When Papa returned, we would break his heart.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  February 1756

  “A ship!”

  The fog was thick, muffling the cry of alarm, but it woke me from my restless sleep. I roused myself, forcing my eyes open despite the endless exhaustion. I was hungry, and my head was splitting. Squinting hard, I spotted the red, blue, and white colours of the French flag seeping through the grey, draped from the stern of the approaching ship, and my heart gave a little leap. As the ship cleared the fog, nearing our own anchored ship, half a dozen navy blue coats appeared. They stood by the rail, waving at our men standing guard on the beach. Who could this be? More like us? Or were we to be rescued by the soldiers in blue?

  God, let them have brought food, I prayed.

  If only Papa were here. He would have approached the ship, spoken to the men, found out if they could help us. But he had not yet returned from the scouting mission; I had not yet told him that our family of eight was now reduced to three, not including the two brothers I prayed still survived in the forest.

  “Bonjour!” called the captain of the ship.

  “Bonjour!” replied one of our men, walking toward the water.

  “We are come from Louisbourg,” they said. “We are looking for a pilot to help us navigate farther up the harbour. Can you help us?”

  Young François Landry strode to the water’s edge and volunteered, always happy to help. He somewhat sheepishly apologized, saying he didn’t know a lot about the area, but he promised he would do what he could. Pleased, the newcomers sent a boat for him and took him on board.

  As his feet touched their deck, his friendly smile turned to an expression of confusion. We watched in horror as the captain suddenly hoisted the English ensign over the French one, and the beautiful blue coats were tossed to the floor. I heard a command. Then—incredibly—a cannon was fired. The percussive noise shook the ground beneath my feet, nearly bowling me over. Never in my life had I heard such a sound! Rocks blasted into the air, and our men ran screaming back toward the woods to take cover.

  “It’s a trap!”

  Panicked, I chased Giselle into the forest, and in that moment a small group of men burst from the trees, all of them bearing rifles, muskets, and pistols.

  “Papa!” I cried. “You’re back!”

  He stopped beside me and pressed a rifle into my hands, and I was suddenly very glad he had insisted I learn how to use one. Had it only been one summer since he’d taken me to the open field and shown me how to load and fire? It felt like another lifetime. Giselle did not know how, so I ordered her to stay burrowed under a shrub.

  “Follow me!” yelled Papa.

  I joined the makeshift army and ran toward our ship. When we were close enough, he ordered us all to stop and kneel. We prepared our rifles and waited for him to roar, “Fire!”

  I pulled the trigger along with the others, and noise and smoke exploded from the beach. Regardless of how many of us hit our mark, the effect was exactly what we needed it to be. The English had obviously not been expecting any kind of fight from us, for when the smoke cleared, we could tell orders were being shouted for the ship to turn around. They did not know what kind of defence we had—for all they knew we might even have the cannon from aboard the Pembroke, though of course we did not!—and they could not navigate their ship in these shallow waters.

  Temporarily deafened by our blasts, I walked toward the water with the others, watching the English turn away. Then I froze, and my mouth dropped open. I stared in horror at a familiar face.

  The wicked Corporal Fitch stood at the stern of the ship, and he had spotted me as well. I saw the shock in his own expression, watched his attitude change quickly from disbelief to awareness, then finally fury. I knew he was not a smart man, but he was not entirely stupid. In that moment I felt sure he put everything together. He recognized me, and he would have seen that Connor and I were friends.

  “Your brave sergeant will hang for this!” he shouted, and the words cut through the wool in my ears.

  He turned from the rail and marched purposefully toward the captain. I stared at his receding back, feeling more helpless
than I’d ever felt. Connor would have no idea Fitch was coming to denounce him, and I had no doubt the British army would punish their traitor. Connor had committed treason in order to save my life, but there was absolutely nothing I could do to save his.

  Papa stood beside me. “I am sorry, ma chérie. Your sergeant is a good man. A noble man. But he is also a soldier. By law, he should have let us all remain under British rule.”

  “He knew what they were doing to us was wrong. He helped us because he couldn’t stand it anymore. You should understand, Papa. He was doing the right thing!”

  “You and I know that, Amélie, and God knows that. A heart can be a very powerful guide, but it can also lead to trouble.”

  “He will hang for me!”

  He wiggled one finger, scolding me gently. “You have very little faith in your courageous soldier, Amélie. I am surprised at you. MacDonnell is resourceful. If he is caught, he will not go easily. And they will have to find him first. Remember, this is a very big land.” He kissed my forehead. “Be strong. He needs you to believe in him.”

  A fresh wave of grief swept over me, a reminder that I had a terrible truth to tell him. “Papa, I—”

  “Papa?” Giselle had crept out of her hiding place and now pointed at the people standing on the beach, still watching the shrinking ship. “They are afraid. You need to lead them, and I . . . I have an idea,” she said meekly, surprising us both.

  “Do you, ma fleur?” Papa smiled.

  Perhaps she had interrupted me on purpose, or perhaps not, but I was grateful for the delay. Papa had to be told about Maman and Claire, but a few minutes would change nothing, and it was heartening to see Giselle step forward for a change. She started shyly, telling us her thoughts; we nodded and encouraged her as she explained.