Piau
Page 14
With the risk of war between England and France looming on the horizon, Lieutenant-Governor Mascarene began to panic. He was more than aware that the fortifications at Annapolis Royal were incomplete, insufficient, and in frightful condition. He sought assistance from Boston, requesting engineers and a military construction crew to build new ramparts and walls. Soon the Acadian community was asked to supply timber specialists, masons, and carpenters. This was our opportunity to acquire pounds sterling. Bernard and Denys sailed down the river to be supervisors on the site of the new fortress. Working together was like old times.
By mid-May 1744, after Mascarene informed us that Britain was at war with France, news arrived at Annapolis Royal that the French had attacked Canso, the other important British settlement in Acadia, and left it in ruins. This made our construction efforts all that more crucial in the eyes of the British settlers living in the town. Many of them had already packed their wives and children onto ships and sent them to New England, a place of greater safety. Most decided to stay, however. They desperately wanted a safe haven at the fort to retreat to should the French forces attack Annapolis.
On the work site, there was much discussion among the Acadians about our precarious position, wedged somewhere between the British who governed us and the French-Mi’kmaq alliance. Bernard, as usual, led the outspoken charge. “Our problem is, we cannot live alongside the British and the Mi’kmaq at the same time. The two are natural enemies and we are allied to both. Where does that put us? I will tell you where that puts us, between a rock and a hard place! And the French are taking advantage of our dilemma, insisting we follow them. Remaining neutral in this world, which is in our nature as Acadians, is made almost impossible by both sides of this conflict.”
“As difficult as it may seem,” I interjected, “we have no choice but to stay the course of neutrality, for it is the only path we can follow. Otherwise, we are forced to choose sides and that would be perilous.”
“Therefore, if the French attack Port Royal tomorrow, we jump aboard our vessels and sail upriver to safety. Let the British defend the fortress.”
“The French have not arrived yet, Bernard. Meanwhile, it is our job to make this fort impregnable.” With this comment, I began to sing a cheerful tune to lift the spirits of the labourers.
It was in the beginning of July 1744 that we heard the cannon fire coming from the fort. We heard repeated shots and at times we recognized distant musket fire as well. We questioned who it might be. Considering no ships had passed by us at Melanson Village, we concluded it was not the French.
Indeed, it was not the French who arrived at Annapolis Royal that day, it was the Mi’kmaq. They must have portaged through the woods from Grand Pré and canoed downriver to the fort.
By late evening we were witnessing the clear night sky illuminated by the fire of the burning town. It was so alarming we thought we could feel its heat from our village. Our entire community watched anxiously from the water’s edge. We hoped we would be spared the fate of our Acadian neighbours at Annapolis. We had always been on good terms with the Mi’kmaq, but our neutrality toward the British was a thorn in the side of that relationship.
The next day or two were relatively quiet save for a few distant gunshots. But on day three we spotted a large ship looming on the horizon of Annapolis Basin. Was it French or British? The answer to this question would have a major impact on our future. I am hesitant to admit it, but we were actually relieved to discover it was a British warship bearing the name Prince of Orange. It was trailed by another vessel carrying at least a hundred soldiers. This British ship had arrived to protect Annapolis; a French vessel would have meant the destruction of both the fort and our way of life. Despite our relief on that day, this would be the last time we supported the British in our hearts and minds.
After several days had passed, Charles and I decided to sail into Annapolis to survey the damage done by the Mi’kmaq. It was worse than we had imagined. Most of the town was in ruins. We heard from our Acadian friends that much of the damage was created by the soldiers themselves, wishing to deprive the Mi’kmaqs of a place from which to launch their attacks on the fort. The New England volunteers had even destroyed the church and the priest’s residence despite Mascarene’s orders to spare them. The church still symbolized the French regime and the support the Natives gave to the French Catholics. The New Englanders were Protestant, and destruction was the price of war.
We had heard that the lieutenant-governor promised to compensate the English subjects and merchants for their losses. The Acadians’ losses were also great, but no compensation was promised them. The principal loss to both the English and the Acadians was their livestock, destroyed by the Mi’kmaq warriors. We promised our Acadian friends that we would assist them by donating the fruits of our breeding stock so they could begin rebuilding their herds of sheep and cattle. We knew they would have done the same for us.
Chapter 26
It was a summer of struggle and coercion. Struggle to distance ourselves from something that was threatening but never quite there. The Mi’kmaq were menacing spectres flying through the trees along the Annapolis River, there but not there. The coercion came from the French, who arrived in the dying days of summer, demanding of us things we could not spare but dared not withhold. We neither resisted nor did we assist. The only payment we received was the services of Father Le Loutre, who accompanied the French and Native forces. As a conduit to God he gave us spiritual sustenance; as an enemy he represented everything Armstrong had always feared and detested in the French Catholic clergy. We were, as always, conflicted.
Bernard and Denys delivered the alarming news in late August that the French and Native forces were camped at Belle Isle, the largest Acadian community on the river, awaiting an opportunity to attack the fort from a position upriver. From merely a sail by, Bernard estimated the soldiers and warriors to be three hundred strong. He did not stop to investigate. He and his brother were on their way downriver to continue their work on the fort. They spent their evenings with us at Melanson Village.
Work on the fort’s ramparts was not an easy task. Torrential rains made the work extremely difficult, but the workers persevered. I had completed my work as mason earlier in the month, but the weather would have made my work impossible in any case.
In early September we heard the first sounds of cannon and musket fire from Annapolis Royal. Bernard and Denys had wisely decided to remain at Melanson Village while the battle was raging in the town. The fighting continued every evening as the sun went down and kept us awake through the night. It ended only in the early hours of the following morning. The barrage of gunfire persisted for days, leaving us ignorant of who had the upper hand in the siege of the fort. An unexpected coincidence was to bring us closer to the French-Mi’kmaq forces.
On the third or fourth day a large contingent of French army officers appeared above the apple orchards at Melanson Village. Their arrival did not surprise us. They were visiting all the neighbouring farms searching for supplies and assistance. They generally received the former but seldom the latter.
They marched down the main road into the village, stopping at the Manor House. I was waiting at the front gate as they presented themselves in military formation. The commander stepped forward. He and I stood face to face. I remained straight and defiant as he approached me.
He was the first to speak.
“Piau, it has been a very long time.”
I gazed at the commander, searching for some memory of the familiar face.
“François? Can it be you?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, we embraced warmly, letting the years of separation wash over us.
“Gentlemen, this man was my best friend when I was very young growing up in Port Royal. We are finally reunited after thirty years.”
Smiles crossed the faces of his fellow officers. This was François Duvivier, my
childhood friend, whom I had not seen since he left with his parents for Louisbourg in 1713. His father had been a French officer at Port Royal and his mother was Marie Muis d’Entremont, the niece of Uncle Pierre’s wife, Marie-Marguerite. Benjamin and François were cousins.
“I see the Melansons have multiplied. The village has grown into a town. I do not suppose Madame Marie is still alive?”
“François, you are kind to remember my grandmother. You only missed her by a few years.”
“She was a remarkable woman, one I could never forget. She was one of the great matriarchs of Acadia.”
By this time, everyone in the Manor House had ventured into the front garden to investigate the officer I had embraced so readily. My mother recognized François immediately and approached him with no trepidation.
“Welcome home, François. I did not believe I would ever see you again after you left us thirty years ago. I would have known it was you despite the passage of time. You have grown to be a handsome and distinguished gentleman.”
François lifted my mother’s hand and kissed it.
François was introduced to Jeanne and my seven daughters and we entered the Manor House to reacquaint ourselves.
My mother offered François some dandelion wine and cheese.
“Piau, do you remember scaling the walls of the fortress when we were children? I cannot believe my father allowed us to do such dangerous things. I suppose he knew we were well supervised by the guards manning the fortress. It was a fortress then. Now it is barely defendable. The British have left it in deplorable condition.”
Despite our ancient history, I was aware that François was fishing for information. Because I was involved in the recent construction, I decided to agree with him and not reveal any information that would suggest that there were strengths in what we had recently completed. I was certain this was not the first time he had attempted to extract sensitive information from the Acadian farmers. He was intelligent enough to sense my reticence.
“But I suppose you are no different than the other Acadians in this colony, determined to preserve your neutrality. That is admirable, Piau, but I think it is worth considering that Acadia, or Nova Scotia, as the British call it, might conceivably return to the French.”
“Perhaps you are right, François, but we have been under British rule for most of my lifetime, and despite recognizing that those that govern us could turn against us at any time — we are French, after all — we have survived by remaining neutral. And survival is what we seek.”
“I notice that the British have destroyed your place of worship. That is a strange way of seeking your support or even neutrality in this war. Remember, they are Protestant and therefore opposed to the Catholic faith. I do not understand how you can even be neutral in this conflict when you are being deprived of the mass and the blessed sacraments. Well, I am willing to provide what the English will not, with no strings attached. Father Le Loutre will say mass at Melanson Village this coming Sunday and he will be willing to conduct baptisms, marriages, and other sacraments that have been delayed because of your loss of the parish church.”
“For that, François, I bless you,” said my mother with genuine gratitude in her voice.
That night he slept in the annex as our guest.
True to his word, Captain François Duvivier did return on Sunday with Father Le Loutre, the Jesuit who came to celebrate the promised mass and administer the sacraments. We were familiar with Le Loutre. He had been our pastor during Father Breslay’s banishment. Little did Lieutenant-Governor Armstrong suspect that Le Loutre was far more dangerous and conspiratorial than the exiled Breslay.
The French commander and the priest arrived with the same officer escort that had visited Melanson Village earlier in the week. After celebrating the mass, Le Loutre baptized our latest arrival, Felicity, whose name did match her character. She was to be my shining light throughout our life in exile.
I believe François found a peaceful haven in our old familiar community. My mother treated him no differently than she had years before when we were children dangling from the trees in the apple orchard. She had been a close friend of his mother, Marie, when they were girls. The one virtue of being neutral was that it allowed friendship to exist within the atmosphere of war. Anger had no place to hide in our village; therefore, it found no sanctuary there.
The mood was festive. Every baptism was a celebration, a reason to rejoice in the beginning of a new life. François’s presence made the passage of time vanish. We were momentarily living in the past, the French past. Our conversations were of remembering, pleasant and comforting for both of us. The war did not exist in that world.
François brought a surprise gift with him. He arrived with six bottles of fine French wine to share on this special occasion.
“You may ask from what source this vintage claret came,” he said with a mischievous smile.
“Perhaps it was from the king of France?” I questioned.
“The donor might surprise you, Piau. Guess.”
“You have me at a disadvantage, François. But judging from that cheeky grin it must have come from somewhere unexpected.”
“Indeed! It was from Governor Mascarene himself! Such a gift is hardly what one would expect from the commander-in-chief of the English garrison. The shocked look on your face makes my bringing these bottles worth every taste.” He began to laugh heartily. The sound of his laughter brought back floods of childhood memories.
“I merely sent a letter to him demanding the surrender of the fortress based on the imminent arrival of French warships in the bay. He included a basket of fruit, sugar, and various other treats. Perhaps that was his way of saying he was going to deliver a sweet capitulation.”
We both chuckled.
“I know nothing about matters of war and diplomacy but to me that sounds highly peculiar.”
“Well, I must say it proves that he is a gentleman. And, of course, war is a gentlemanly affair.”
“I leave these things to the English and the French to work out. I am Acadian, and as an Acadian I am free of all such considerations.”
“That may be true now, Piau. I don’t claim to be a prophet, but some day, if we do not prevail in our enterprise, you will be abandoned by these English of yours; trust me, they are a brutal people. They will throw you out of your beloved Acadia and scatter your people to the eight winds. They were threatening to do that when I was nine years old living in Port Royal. My father made the proper decision to move us to Île Royale. We have enjoyed an excellent life at Louisbourg and we have prospered there.”
I pondered what he said, but I refused to believe that such a thing could possibly happen to my people.
“We have been living in Acadia for a century and we have watched Port Royal fall back and forth between the French and the British. But regardless of who governs us, we prevail. No matter which king we pledge our allegiance to, we still refuse to fight our brothers.”
“I admire your determination and your optimism, Piau, but I believe this time we will drive the English from this land forever, for such is our destiny.”
“If you are correct, François, then we will see one another far more often.” I raised my glass of wine to his.
“To your good health!”
“To friendship and peace!”
François and I never saw one another again after that day. He had re-entered my life only for a brief, blessed moment.
Chapter 27
The French troops persisted in barraging the fort with gunfire, but the capitulation Duvivier was seeking never came to pass. A French ship did arrive in mid-September from Louisbourg with a small contingent of soldiers, and a face-to-face battle ensued, but the British refused to give in. We learned later that no French warships were being dispatched to Annapolis to assist Duvivier and his French-Mi’kmaq alliance.
By the end of September we watched from Melanson Village as two ships flying British flags sailed by Goat Island heading for the harbour. They appeared to be filled with hundreds of troops. We heard later that one Captain John Gorham of New England had arrived to assist Mascarene and his militia to rout the French and the Mi’kmaq and drive them into the wilderness. British troops raged through the woods as far as our village and beyond, pursuing the Natives. We heard gunfire all around us for days. The courageous Governor Mascarene had managed to hold on to Annapolis Royal with the assistance of Gorham’s Rangers, and their enemies had been compelled to retreat.
I could imagine François’s humiliation. I also recalled his prophecy. The dark future that he had predicted should the British triumph did seem to be coming to pass. Gorham was not conciliatory like Mascarene; he was very mistrustful of the Acadians and convinced that they were complicit with the French. He read a proclamation from the New England governor, William Shirley, directing the British at the garrison and those living in the town to cease trading and associating with the Acadians until further notice. No Acadians were permitted in the lower town after dark. These edicts were delivered and read in person by assigned officers to all the Acadians from Gaudet Village and Belle Isle to Annapolis and beyond. We Acadians were forced into a state of isolation and confined to our communities.
By November three more ships arrived from New England carrying additional orders from Governor Shirley. These vessels were directed to transport Gorham’s Rangers to Minas immediately to scour the settlements for traitors — particularly Grand Pré, where the French had camped — and to burn their homes and barns, and take hostages to guarantee the loyalty of the French-speaking colonists.