by Bruce Murray
One Sunday, after we had returned from mass at St. Jean Baptiste in Annapolis, Grandmama pointed to a huge wooden chest in the corner of the room. It was covered with an ancient woven rug. She directed Benjamin and me to use the key she was grasping tightly to unlock the chest. She then instructed us to lift the lid and discover what was inside. To our surprise, it was filled with muskets of every design and size.
“These were weapons my father designed and constructed over his lifetime,” she remarked with pride. “Some date back to France some seventy years ago when he was gun-maker to the king. Do you know he invented muskets for King Louis’s own musketeers? I wish to make you responsible for maintaining these weapons. Clean them and ensure that they are in working order. Promise me, Piau.”
Benjamin and I were stunned by the appearance of this arsenal of vintage muskets.
“It would be a great honour, Grandmama. You can rely on me to get them in good working order.” I could feel the privilege that was being bestowed upon me.
One day, while alone in the house, I decided to remove all the muskets from the box for cleaning. To my surprise I found documents at the bottom that were not the property of Abraham Dugas, my great-grandfather, but papers belonging to my grandfather, Charles Melanson — official letters, deeds, letters of appointment, and, startlingly, several journals written in English.
I should not have been surprised, I suppose. After all, my grandfather was born and raised in England and his mother tongue was not French but English. However, they were not writings from a time of English rule. They were more recent, dating from 1691 to 1695, when France was struggling to hold on to Acadia. I remember being told that this was a tumultuous time, plagued by English raids at Port Royal, a decade before the battle that took my father’s life and brought Acadia under English rule for the final time.
My recollection of the rumours associated with my grandfather being a British spy resurfaced. I hesitated to discover the contents of the writings in case they confirmed the truth I had already suspected. I would leave them for another day, postponing the inevitable revelation that he was an English informant. I would wait until I felt prepared to learn their secrets. Nevertheless, only a lifetime of hardships and misery have allowed me to accept them in the context in which they were written.
Curiosity and fear were my constant companions over the next few weeks. I could not erase the thought of my grandfather’s letters, nor the fear of what they contained. This feeling was only heightened by the troubles in Annapolis.
I stole moments of solitude when I could and began to read the personal correspondence first. My mother’s oldest sister, Marie, had moved to Boston when she was a girl to live with her grandmother Priscilla Laverdure, following the death of her husband. Marie never returned home; she was educated there and married a Boston merchant, David Basset. Judging from the letters, it was her father, Charles, who made regular visits to his mother and daughter in New England. I had not known this.
By the time I had completed Aunt Marie’s letters, I felt I had known her all my life. A person’s character reveals itself in his or her writing. After Marie had married Basset, she moved her grandmother into her husband’s home to live out the remainder of her life in a warm and loving household. Judging from her responses to the letters she had received from my grandfather, he was keeping her well informed of all the goings-on at Melanson Village and, more importantly, the movements and policies of the French at Port Royal. It was apparent that her husband was relaying this information to the governor in Boston. The details could only be imagined.
I decided to question my grandmother about Marie and Basset without giving away that I was secretly reading her husband’s correspondence.
“Grandmama, what can you tell me about your son-in-law David Basset? I have heard his name mentioned several times in connection with Aunt Marie in Boston and I am curious about the nature of his business.”
A look of fury appeared on the old woman’s face. “I do not mention that name in my home. He was a scoundrel and as close to the devil as anyone I ever set eyes on. I will only tell you that three years ago he was found aboard his ship in the West Indies with his throat slit from ear to ear — a fitting end for someone who had caused only misery to those close to him — especially my daughter Marie, who is an angel!”
“But what of his business?” I persisted.
“I will say only this. He was a privateer, and although he made plenty of money for his efforts, most of it was earned illegally. Every British pound he pocketed was soaked in blood. Where there was trouble, you could expect Basset to be there. For certain he is eternally damned!”
I never mentioned Basset again, but the contents of the letters and journals now made sense.
Complicity! Complicity! Complicity! That was what I thought as I read my grandfather’s journal entry dated May 20, 1690. He spoke of having been taken at daybreak to a British command ship by his son-in-law David Basset, having already seen seven English ships dropping anchor at Goat Island the night before. Basset apparently was in command of one of the New England vessels. He described a meeting he had with the commander, Sir William Phips, where he was questioned about the state of the fort at Port Royal and the number of soldiers and cannons present there. He admitted to delivering the requested information hoping that no resistance would come from the French garrison and that a peaceful surrender would be achieved, thus sparing the town and his own settlement pillaging and destruction.
He wrote that Phips had warned that he possessed seven hundred and fifty armed men at the ready to attack the fort and had urged him to deliver such warning to Governor Meneval at Port Royal. Grandfather said he had met with the French governor later that day and the governor had reluctantly agreed to surrender without a fight.
He described how agitated Meneval had been on hearing the British threat. The French governor lamented that of the seventy soldiers in his command, half were out game hunting and those left behind were without arms. He despaired that he was sitting in a fortress that was barely constructed. The old fort had been destroyed earlier in the year in order that a newer stronger one could be built. The governor had fumed at Grandfather out of sheer frustration. He had insisted that there be honourable terms of surrender.
His next journal entry was dated May 21, 1690. Grandfather wrote that he accompanied Father Petit to Sir William Phips’s ship to discuss the terms of surrender. The terms agreed upon were that the troops at Port Royal were to retain their arms and personals and be permitted to return to France. The church and its properties were to remain as they were and the priests were to continue to serve the Acadian community. The people living in and around the town were to be left in peace. Grandfather seemed overjoyed with the results of his efforts. “We are so blessed at the outcome!”
His entry on May 22, however, described the horrible reality of the previous day’s negotiations. News from the fort had been grim. Some Acadian residents of the town had fled to Melanson Village to escape the pillaging. They informed Grandfather that Phips had broken the terms of surrender, had imprisoned Governor Meneval and his soldiers in the church, levelled and burned the fort, removed the cannons, destroyed the cross, looted the church, killed the livestock, and emptied His Majesty’s storehouses. They had confiscated china, pewter, and even the priest’s vestments. They took everything they could find.
Grandfather’s written response to these events seemed to contain a small dose of bewilderment with a large dose of resignation. Can you imagine such quick resignation? Was he happy with the outcome? I could not detect any feelings of remorse from his journal. I stopped reading immediately. I was filled with such strong feelings of indignation. To think this man’s blood ran through mine and was mixed with the blood of my heroic father. I immediately felt I had been poisoned by the things I had read. And at that point I craved the sage advice of old Uncle Pierre, who regrettably was no longer
with us. I realize now that he would have simply said his brother was a misguided man.
Chapter 7
The spring at Annapolis released the natural urges of the young and awakened romantic feelings in all of us. I was no different. After the planting was completed, free time along the river brought us into contact with the young Acadian girls. It was essential for me to have Benjamin along. His beauty and charisma meant that wherever Benjamin walked so also did a parade of young ladies of varying ages. He also had an ease about him that I lacked. I considered myself quite presentable but I felt greater comfort in the company of men. The one thing I was not tutored in was wooing the opposite sex.
My mother kept reminding me I was twenty-one and single, but I thought, well, my brother Jean was still unmarried although he was four years my senior. However, because he was the senior male in a household of two widows, he was exempt from the pressure that my mother was putting on me. He operated the farm and fulfilled the duties of the man of the house for Mother and Grandmama. I was expected to find a suitable wife from outside Melanson Village — finding a spouse in my community was impossible since everyone was related where I had uncles, aunts, and cousins by the dozens. Arrangements had to be made to unite several communities so the young people could socialize and eventually pair up for marriage.
An opportunity arose in June. Grandmama was soon to celebrate the eightieth anniversary of her birth, and given her status as matriarch of not only Melanson Village but all the Acadian communities along the Annapolis River, a huge celebration was planned to coincide with the summer solstice. It was to be held at our settlement. The day of the event, fishing boats and schooners transported hundreds of families along the river to our village opposite Goat Island. They arrived early in the day and set up tents to accommodate those who would stay overnight. Many came from as far as Gaudet Village, twenty miles up the river, and Belle Isle, Paradise, and, of course, neighbouring Annapolis Royal.
It was a perfect day for the festivities. A hovering cloud of pink apple blossoms formed a brilliant backdrop above the village; a warm northwest breeze sent an intoxicating aroma from the orchards on the hill, wrapping everyone in a cloud of delirious floral scents. The cloudless sky was a deep blue, and the sun shone well into the evening, welcoming the summer solstice.
Grandmama appeared younger than her eighty years, with her youthful spirit defying her aging body. She paraded proudly through Melanson Village, the settlement she had helped found, stopping to chat with each of her descendants and friends, never forgetting a single name, always spreading her pearls of wisdom as if she had an endless storehouse of experience to convey. Sometimes she feigned a scolding manner, if only to make the children laugh.
The day was filled with fine food placed on tables in everyone’s front garden. Games were played in the streets, and the music that accompanied the singing and the dancing seemed to emanate from every corner of the village. On such a day, everyone was united and filled to the brim with the warmth of the Acadian community.
The evening was ignited by a huge bonfire at the water’s edge, and the young and the old danced about the fire to the music of violins, spoons, triangles, and jaw harps. As midnight approached, it was my turn to pay tribute. I chose to sing the song I had learned on Grandmama’s knee when I was a small child. A silence came over the crowd as I began to sing the first notes of “À la claire fontaine,” a song about that magical place in Provence and lost love.
À la claire fontaine, m’en allant promener
J’ai trouvé l’eau si belle, que je m’y suis baigné.
Il y a longtemps que je t’aime,
Jamais je ne t’oublierai.
That evening my voice soared hauntingly over the night visitors, surprisingly casting a spell on all those present, especially the guest of honour. By the light of the fire, I could see the tears in my grandmother’s eyes, noticing she was not the only one. It was the first time I had felt the power of my singing voice. And it was the first time I noticed Jeanne, staring mysteriously into the bonfire as I sang. She appeared to be in a world of her own, quite separate from the hundreds of people humming to the sound of the music. It was then I knew she was my destiny.
Destiny, however, requires persuasion. Jeanne Gaudet was not someone I knew. She lived as far up the Annapolis River as one could sail by boat. If I was to make an impression on her, I would have to use all the resources I could muster. It was necessary for me to seek the counsel of someone who was acquainted with her. Then I had to arrange a face-to-face meeting.
All those participating in Grandmama’s celebration seemed to evaporate by noon the following day. One of my cousins who had been seated beside Jeanne the previous evening told me her name and the name of her parents.
I solicited Benjamin’s help, hoping he might assist me in tracking her down. It was far easier than I could have hoped for.
“I know her father, Bernard Gaudet, very well,” Benjamin volunteered. “He and his brother Denys are managing the timber construction on my father’s new house in the lower town. I work with them daily.”
You could imagine my excitement at that moment. I saw this as an unexpected opportunity. The first steps in my plan to court Monsieur Gaudet’s daughter would be to acquaint myself with her father and then to garner his favour.
“The Gaudet brothers are masters of timber construction, which we call la charpente bois,” Benjamin continued. “My father knew of their expertise and hired them to construct the timber frame for the roof of the new house. I am responsible for the stonemasonry below. Their uncle, Pierre Gaudet, did the charpente bois construction on the fort. Bernard and Denys were his apprentices.”
“Could you use an assistant mason?” I asked with a wry smile on my face. “I learned some lessons in masonry from Uncle Pierre and your father at Grand Pré.”
Benjamin understood my intentions immediately. “I would enjoy your company and, of course, I would appreciate your assistance.” He then proceeded to laugh uncontrollably.
Chapter 8
Overnight I became a mason’s assistant. I joined my brother Charles and Benjamin the following morning and sailed into the harbour at Annapolis to begin my quest. Charles proceeded to the shipyard while Benjamin and I walked to René’s building site in the lower town. When we arrived, Bernard Gaudet and his brother were already directing the workers where to place the large pieces of timber. Benjamin hesitated to interrupt them, but the Gaudets were vigilant enough to note the presence of a new worker on the site. Before we could utter a word, Bernard Gaudet spoke.
“Bonjour, Benjamin. It is a perfect day for laying stones. I see you have a new assistant. Young Pierre Belliveau, I believe.”
I could barely contain my surprise. I stood there motionless.
“You made quite an impression the other evening. Your grandmother was much pleased with your gift of song and, I would say, exceedingly proud. Allow me to introduce myself and my brother. I am Bernard Gaudet and this is Denys.”
We shook hands, and he continued, “I knew your father very well when we were young boys. He was a very courageous man who ended his short life a hero. You look very much like him.”
The only response I could muster was, “I appreciate your kind words, monsieur.”
That being said, we proceeded to do our work.
As the day progressed, I realized I had the situation and the goal but not the plan. How was I going to manage an introduction to Jeanne Gaudet? When we finally completed our work for the day, I took the opportunity to question Gaudet about his family.
“Monsieur Gaudet, did your family accompany you to my grandmother’s celebration or did they remain in Gaudet Village? It is quite a distance to travel.” My tone was intentionally one of casual interest.
I noticed a quizzical look come across his face, perhaps in response to a question that appeared to come right out of nowhere. But his response was congen
ial.
“Indeed, my wife and children all sailed downriver for the occasion. Living so far away, we do not often have the opportunity to attend large community gatherings. They thoroughly enjoyed themselves and now have returned home. You may have noticed them and not known who they were.”
Benjamin smiled but remained silent. Gaudet began to sense something from the conversation, and he certainly noticed my cousin’s knowing look.
“Perhaps you caught sight of my three beautiful daughters.” He paused to study my reaction. “Isabelle is the most beautiful by any standard. Perhaps, if you are unmarried, you might be able to wait a few years and court her.”
The unfamiliar name left me speechless. I began to feel uncomfortable.
“In twelve years you will be how old? Thirty, perhaps? Isabelle is only seven years old. For certain every girl grows to be a woman. Are you in any particular hurry to find a bride, young man?”
At that point, I was aware that I was being trifled with, but with a playful spirit. This fed my courage. I thought at this point it probably would be the best policy to be honest about my intent. That should be evidence of my good character and honourable motives.
“I must be perfectly honest, monsieur, that it was your older daughter, Jeanne, who caught my eye. She appeared to have such a sense of mystery about her. At the party, she was conspicuous by her reserve and calm.”
Gaudet seemed stunned by my honesty. And for the first time that day, he was the one who was speechless.
Sensing his sudden lack of ease, I continued without restraint. “I realize you must find my manner and words extremely forthright, even a bit impertinent. But I have always been afflicted with bold speech. It has more than once gotten me into trouble but it is not something I find easy to contain. In my family, speaking your mind is encouraged. My grandmother insists on it.”