Promises to Keep

by Genevieve Graham

  One night a group of us went outside to sit around a fire and enjoy the comfort of fellowship, since it was the first night in a while that rain wasn’t falling. It was a glorious, starry night, and the magical twinkling of fireflies in the woods made the stories seem all the more fantastic. I was intrigued by two of the refugees from South Carolina: a pair of rough-looking men travelling with seven others, all of whom were full of stories. The older one I estimated to be about fifteen years older than Papa. His name was Alexandre Broussard. The other man, Victor, was his nephew. Alexandre was one of six brothers, all of whom had been at Fort Beauséjour at Chignecto. They had fought alongside the French militia when the fort was first attacked by British and New England soldiers. I knew nothing about this battle, so I asked Papa.

  “Ah, ma petite, that is a sad story because it was the beginning of all this.” He looked very tired. “Almost a year ago—it was June, I believe—the British decided they wanted Chignecto. Our friend Winslow was one of the leaders, of course. When the English attacked the fort, the French discovered they were too few,” he said grimly. “They called for the Acadians to help.”

  “But the Acadians were neutral, weren’t they? They couldn’t fight.”

  “That was the agreement we signed, but many of the Acadians went anyway, to defend our friends. When the British eventually took the fort, they discovered the Acadians hidden with the French. Governor Lawrence was furious, for by doing that they had broken the agreement. He did not trust any of us after that. He assumed we would all turn against the English.”

  My eyes went to Alexandre and Victor, calmly telling their stories around the fire. “So,” I said, speaking quietly enough that only Papa could hear, “the Acadians who went to fight are the reason the English sent us away and burned our homes?”

  “I do not think it is fair to blame them. They were most likely the final straw on the donkey’s back, but the English never would have let us stay. We speak French, oui? That makes us French in their eyes; they know nothing of being Acadian. To them we are all the same.”

  Alexandre was laughing at someone’s comment. “We were not good fighters at all,” he exclaimed. “We were always better with hoes than with muskets!”

  “I like to think we have improved since then, Uncle,” Victor objected. He was young and strong, his handsome features not at all disturbed by the scar which cut across his right cheek, under his eye.

  The smile on Alexandre’s angular face faded. “Think what you like. We are farmers, you and I.”

  Should I hate Alexandre for being one of many who had ignited the powder keg? Why had he fought at Chignecto? He was Acadian. He should not have been there. But thinking of this brave farmer turned fighter made me think of André. Like Alexandre, my quiet, noble brother had chosen the path of challenging the most powerful army in the world. I could not see André as being anything other than righteous, so I decided I could not judge the Broussards.

  Alexandre and Victor were wonderful storytellers, helping us temporarily forget our miseries. They were as expressive with their hands as they were with their faces and words. When Victor looked across the fire and caught my eye, I was caught off guard by the intimacy of his smile. I was surprised at how good his admiration made me feel.

  “I was never so happy as the moment I saw my brother Joseph escaping,” Alexandre told us, shaking his head. “I was done for, since I was already shackled and had been left with a group of other prisoners. But Joseph, he was out of their reach, and he saluted me before he disappeared.”

  “Your brother is Joseph Broussard, the Beausoleil?” exclaimed Pierre Gourdeau, one of the men with whom we had travelled on the Pembroke.

  Alexandre’s smile was broad. “Yes. I hear my brother is a legend.”

  “He is indeed!” Pierre said, impressed. “He keeps the English chasing their tails even now.”

  “He was always quick. And lucky. What have you heard about him?”

  Pierre was pleased he had the answers Alexandre sought. “After that battle, he went home to his wife and children at Petitcodiac.”

  “Ah. That is good to hear.”

  “They did not stay there, for it was not safe. Instead they hid from the British patrols by living in the forests north of their home.”

  Alexandre’s brow lifted. “Is that so? Yes, I can imagine where they went. Smart. Very smart.”

  Pierre went on to describe tales of Joseph’s antics, much to his brother’s satisfaction. As he spoke I learned about this man they called Beausoleil. They said he lived with others like himself and battled alongside Mi’kmaq fighters, attacking the British from hidden bases. There were tales of ambush and sabotage, of raids and of quick, decisive skirmishes. Beausoleil and his men did not always emerge the victors, but they kept the British busy, as Pierre had said.

  “That is not all!” another man added. “Beausoleil has become a privateer as well!”

  “What? My brother is a pirate?” Alexandre said, throwing back his head and laughing at the thought. “Now I know you are telling tall tales. A privateer?”

  Victor laughed with his uncle. “My uncle Joseph is a terrible sailor!”

  “Maybe he has learned since you knew him,” replied the first man. “Now he sails the Bay of Fundy, terrorizing British ships and creating havoc with their shipments.”

  Alexandre shook his head with wonder. “Such wonderful news! Thank you all. I still cannot imagine him on a ship—not by choice, anyway. But maybe he does not hate them as much as I do now, since he did not have to suffer as we did.”

  Victor rubbed his wrists and grimaced. “I can still feel those chains we wore on the Syren. My ankles bear the scars.”

  His uncle nodded, sober once more. “That was a terrible time.”

  “I do not miss those guards and their hateful glares. They never gave us a moment’s peace. What did they think we would do? Swim to shore with chains dragging us down?”

  Alexandre agreed. “It is hard to believe they thought we were dangerous at that point. But still, they did.” He regarded us over the fire, his eyes sparking orange with the flames. “By November we had reached Charleston, and they held us in close confinement outside of the city, on Sullivan’s Island. Even there we were shackled.”

  Victor gave his uncle a smile. “Then they made the mistake of putting us in the workhouse in Charleston.”

  Alexandre’s smile was much like Victor’s, which made me think of Claire. She and I had been told we looked almost like twins since our smiles were so similar. The memory threatened to loosen the tight hold I had on my grief. Fortunately, Alexandre’s story distracted me.

  “Yes, that was a mistake,” he said. “We escaped, but then we ran into something almost as terrible.”

  “Remember the swamps, Uncle?”

  “How could I forget?” He grimaced at the memory. “The water wriggled with snakes. At least they were more interested in smaller creatures than us.”

  “Some were not so friendly,” Victor reminded him. He met my eyes again, and his expression reminded me of when my brothers had teased me, looking for a reaction. “They hid among curtains of weeds and curled beneath bushes, waiting to dart out and kill a man.”

  “I heard you can eat snakes,” someone said.

  Alexandre nodded. “We did eat some, though it was difficult to catch them. Their meat wasn’t bad. Almost like chicken.”

  Perhaps we could add snakes to our hunting list, I thought.

  “How did you get all the way up here?” someone asked.

  Alexandre chuckled. “South Carolina did not want us. They put us on an old ship and waved farewell. She was falling apart, so we beached her in Virginia. We had to pool all our money so we could buy another ship, but this only lasted to Maryland.”

  “I thought we would never get here,” Victor said, smiling. “We worked on that ship for two months, then we finally sailed back here.”

  We had been trapped in our own worries for so long, it was a welcome di
straction to hear stories of others, as well as tales of the battles raging on our behalf. Papa seemed interested as well. It had been a long time since I’d seen any twinkle of curiosity in his eye—not since we’d taken over the Pembroke, actually—and I saw it that night.

  “What are your plans now?” he asked.

  Victor shrugged. “You have too many people in this village already. You do not need two more hungry men eating your food. We plan to continue to Shediac, to try and find our families.”

  “I hope to find my brother as well. If I can help him in his efforts, I will,” Alexandre added.

  “When will you leave?”

  I leaned forward, keenly aware of Papa’s line of thinking, for he and I had discussed our own plans for departure not more than two nights previously. We could stay here no longer; another winter would kill us all. With no food to sustain us, and with influenza running rampant through the crowded houses, we were better off in the forest on our own. Most of the other refugees lacked the energy to leave their new home despite its condition. They had had enough of running. I understood their fear as well as their desire to establish roots, but I could not stay here.

  When Papa had spoken recently with Boishébert, he had encouraged us to leave. In kind but definite words he said he could not guarantee our safety if we stayed. There was simply nothing he could do. He suggested we travel to Quebec, saying many other Acadians had already headed that way, having taken the Saint-Jean portage route to Rivière-du-Loup on the lower Saint Lawrence.

  When the conversation moved away from the Broussards, Alexandre scrutinized Papa through the flickering firelight. “We will leave soon. Are you interested in travelling with us?”

  My heart leapt at the opportunity. I had no doubt any trek would be dangerous, but with their guidance it need not be impossible.

  Papa looked at me, seeking my approval, then back at them. “I think we are very interested.”

  And so we made plans to travel once again. As excited as I was to leave the place, I could not go quite yet. The evening before we departed, I told Papa I would be back in an hour, then I left him and Giselle in the sad little village. When I was alone I sat beneath the sky as I had before, seeking reassurance from the stars. The moon was no longer full, the sky no longer clear. I stared at the wispy clouds overhead and thought of my dear sister. When I left here, I would be leaving her and Maman forever.

  “Can you see me, Claire?” I whispered.

  The night’s silence was broken only by the soft hoot of an owl. The creature sounded far away.

  I wiped the back of my hand across my nose, sniffing. “I miss you.” I almost lost control of my emotions, but it was important that I finish, so I took a deep, bracing breath. “I hope you have found Guillaume, for I am sure he is looking for you. And Maman, and Mathieu . . .” I had to pause a moment before continuing. “We are going to Quebec, Claire. I can only pray it is better than here.”

  The night was darker now, the clouds gathering thickly around the moon. I could see shadows in the snow; were they hidden threats or promises?

  “I am afraid,” I admitted. My voice sounded small even to me. “Our paths were so clear before, but now I feel as though I’m fumbling in the dark. Please, Claire. Help me find the right way.”

  So many lifetimes had passed in such a little span. The first was when we had been herded onto the ship. In the shadows of my memory lurked Grand Pré: the meadows, the trees, the ocean, the laughter. The next lifetime was taken from us a few months ago, when Claire and Maman had died. And what about the lifetime I could have had with Connor? That was plainly gone. How could it be possible to grieve so bitterly over something I had never experienced?

  “I hope you cannot hear me, Connor,” I said softly, “because I do not wish to speak to your spirit. I want to believe you are still alive. But if . . . if the Lord has chosen to take you to heaven, I pray you will seek out Claire and Maman and my dear little brother. And Guillaume. Find comfort with them, for I am sure they would have loved you, given the chance. And—”

  Panic fluttered like tiny wings in my chest, but I fought it back. My voice dropped to a whisper. “If you are there, if you are among the angels, then I beg you. Please. Keep me safe.”

  PART TWO

  Beginning Again

  Me’tekw

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The tip of Me’tekw’s paddle flung a string of droplets across the top of the water, then dove beneath to retrieve more. A hint of sun peered through the fog, and the little jewels glimmered in greeting before melting back into the river. Me’tekw’s existence twisted like the weeds over which he floated, instinctively seeking the sun but rooted in the dark. He no longer saw the gems he drew to the surface, paid no attention to the simple conversations of birds as they fluttered through branches and swooped to admire their reflections in the water. He no longer cared.

  Marguerite was gone, and their child as well. Me’tekw’s still, unbreathing son had lain in his hands, hot with her blood but cold within. He had drawn back the baby’s translucent eyelids, gazed at the death inside the shell, then handed the tiny body to the women.

  He was not so quick to give Marguerite away. In death she was as beautiful as she had been in sleep, though her skin was paler than during those sweet, sweet nights, and when he brushed his fingertips across her brow, she did not wake and reward him with that smile she gave only to him. Blood had dried and caked in a swipe across one cheek, and he wondered how it had gotten there. Her fingers? His? The blood was hers, though, and he leaned in to kiss her there. He kissed her lips too and silently whispered something he hoped her spirit still heard.

  Inside their wigwam her quillwork lay unfinished on the floor. A terrible waste. Marguerite had small hands, but such elegant, quick fingers, such a beautiful talent. Now this shirt she had been making for him would be finished by another pair of hands, worn by another man. Me’tekw would never wear it. To feel her spirit in the fibres and know her to be flying free without him would be too much.

  He sank onto their bed and lowered his face to the place where her head had rested a few hours before. They had made love, hastening the birth, and he had burrowed his nose into her thick hair, breathing in her musk as she moaned. He regretted now that she had been lying on her side, facing the wall of their home, since he had missed the ethereal expression of rapture when it had swept through her for the final time. How were they to know she would never face him again that way? At least she had rolled to her back after, her belly huge, and smiled into his eyes.

  Now when he inhaled her scent again, pain ripped through him like a physical thing, and he shoved his face into the furs, roaring soundlessly with loss.

  When his sobs slowed, he waded into the forest and dropped to his knees, giving in to his roiling belly. Afterward he stood up, tasting bile, waiting for his head to slow its rhythmic pounding. Marguerite would have pressed her fingers over his temples, moved them around his head and neck, eased the pain. No one else could do that, and he didn’t want anyone to try. He would suffer. After everything his wife had experienced, this was nothing.

  The wigwam was already strange to him when he returned. He rolled shirts together with his weapons and packed them in a fur sack, then cast his eyes over the space one more time. She sat there, she teased him there, she cried there, she worked there. She loved him in all those places. Someone else could have this home now, for Me’tekw had no need for any of it. He would not fill it with sons and daughters. He would not fill it with any more memories.

  He stepped into the dark forest, and he never looked back.

  Rain tapped on his shelter, reluctantly slowing after the early morning downpour. The air swelled with the ripe aroma of sodden leaves, and he inhaled deeply, letting the peace of the moment fill all the empty spaces in his lungs and mind. Withdrawing his legs from his blanket, he slid them onto the wet carpet of leaves and watched the drops splatter on his skin before it snaked down the sides of his legs. The sensation
tickled, but he didn’t smile. He had been here for a full moon now, and nothing had made him smile. Nothing had taken her face from his mind, her touch from his memory.

  Marguerite had been like an otter with her playful spirit, like a lynx in the bold, direct way she could meet a challenge. Me’tekw had never thought himself good enough for her, but she had wanted him. She heard him when no one else could. She gave him a voice for the first time in his life. The miracle of her love was proof the Creator had finally seen him, for Kisu’lk had given Me’tekw a gift greater than any other.

  She had meant more to him than anything on earth. He’d made love to her whenever she looked at him that way. When she realized she was going to have their baby, she couldn’t have been happier, and he loved that he’d given her that joy.

  But becoming a family meant he would have to share her, and Me’tekw had never wanted to do that. So in the beginning, he had secretly hoped the baby growing in her womb would die. That selfish whisper had grown louder with time, becoming part of his prayers. There are always consequences, she had told him, though she had no idea what he’d prayed. He’d never suspected, never dreamed the Creator would heed his prayer and punish him in this terrible way. Me’tekw would have shared her with a thousand infants if only she could be alive still, sitting next to him, threading her fingers through his.

  What lesson was he supposed to learn through this? How was he to grow when his heart wanted to cease pumping altogether?

  Their deaths were his fault. He knew that truth to the core of his being. Kisu’lk was punishing him and rightly so.

  And more than Marguerite’s death plagued him. Now that he was alone, he had time to remember that. He had been so filled with his own happiness, he had neglected the vow he had made to Charles Belliveau so many years before, promising to watch over him and his family. While Me’tekw had revelled in his own life, Charles and his family had been taken by the redcoats and sent far away. Their home had been burned to the ground.