by Bruce Murray
Later, we were told by some of our neighbours that Mascarene had convinced Gorham and the ships’ captains not to sail to Minas until the spring, advising them it was too late in the season to manage the treacherous winter gales of the Bay of Fundy. We realized that the governor was doing us a supreme favour, sparing the Acadians any further grief and, in so doing, ensuring our continued loyalty. It was his only means of circumventing his superiors’ orders. This was a relief to those of us who had cherished family members like Isabelle and others living at Grand Pré. Perhaps hostilities would cool over the winter months.
Mascarene’s efforts were successful. The ships returned to Boston soon after. The vessels were in full sail by the time they passed our shores. We sat at the water’s edge, shivering in the chilly autumn air while the thought they were leaving at last warmed our spirits. Our loved ones at Grand Pré were safe for the time being.
The four years that followed were little more than a nightmare. So many ships from both sides of the war sailed in and out of the bay that we stopped noticing which flags were flying from their masts. In the spring of 1745 warships under the command of French lieutenant Marin set anchor between Melanson Village and Goat Island. Marin had chosen our settlement to provide horses, canoes, and flour to those on board the French vessels, threatening that if we resisted the Native warriors who accompanied them would burn our homes to the ground. We had no choice but to comply. Handing over our horses was a huge blow to our community, which relied on the animals to plough our fields and bring in the harvest.
The war at Annapolis Royal raged on for the next three years. We Acadians were in a state of panic most days, always prepared for invasion. The Acadian communities became isolated from one another. River travel was too dangerous to attempt, so we could not visit our families upriver. We became prisoners of our own lives, our communities islands of solitude, surrounded by the threatening sounds of cannon and musket fire.
Through all the chaos and uncertainty, one event brightened our existence in the dying days of the war. It was the birth of our first boy child. We called him Joseph — he was later known as Jospiau. He was an oasis of joy in an otherwise ominous world. His early life was to be blessed with seven years of peace following the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748. These formative years shaped his character and cultivated an inner strength that produced in him an ability to withstand the tragedies he was to experience as he became a man.
Chapter 28
Change is inevitable, but forced change is tyrannical. As peaceful as the 1750s began, by mid-decade my people’s lives were turned upside down and altered forever. It was I who felt responsible for guiding those willing to be led to a place of greater safety. The choices I was compelled to make were not always clear, but the possibilities were far more numerous than the British were willing to allow. Those who chose to follow me and my family were not spared hardships, but they were able to make choices of the will. Those who remained docile in the face of an enemy they did not expect paid dearly for their unwillingness to resist. I do not judge my compatriots at Grand Pré. They were ambushed by a force that held them hostage. I was determined that this would not happen to those I loved.
The change we chose in the summer of 1751 was the result of considerable personal loss. A contagion passed over Gaudet Village like the plagues of ancient Egypt. Within days of one another, Bernard and Jeanne Gaudet succumbed to the disease. The fever descended and Jeanne’s parents were suddenly lost to eternity. The illness reached Melanson Village within the month and claimed my brother Charles’s wife. Jeanne and I had remained at Melanson Village to watch over Mama, but now we believed it was time to choose our time of exodus and settle at Gaudet Village. Charles moved in with my mother in the old Manor House. The decision to leave would prove to be a prudent one, allowing us to sustain our freedom in the coming years when others suffered an unwanted exile.
We were not alone. Jean and Madeleine followed us as well, hoping to seek the same peace we knew was more achievable upriver. Even though we had received the news a few years earlier that a new capital had been chosen for Nova Scotia, called Halifax and located in Chebuctou Bay, we still believed that creating a greater distance between the British at Annapolis and ourselves was a sound idea, with the threat of expulsion permeating the air we breathed.
The most encouraging news we heard was that the new lieutenant-governor in Halifax, Cornwallis, had, after some persuasion, agreed to a qualified oath of allegiance. Some had thought he would be pressing a harder line, having no previous exposure to the Acadian people. The Acadian delegates seemed pleased with themselves in being so successful in their negotiations.
Dealing with the Acadians was the least of the lieutenant-governor’s worries. He was plagued by raids from the Mi’kmaq, who were terrorizing his new settlement in Chebuctou Bay, so he was more conciliatory in his relations with the Acadians. He did not wish to alienate the king’s French-speaking subjects in the colony. Lieutenant-Governor Cornwallis’s successor would not uphold this policy. Cornwallis’s departure from Nova Scotia in 1752 was the beginning of the end for all of us living in Acadia.
Leaving Melanson Village was a monumental step for me. For Jeanne, returning home to Gaudet Village was a natural thing, as expected. Although I had always moved freely between Port Royal, Gaudet Village, and Grand Pré, leaving the spirits of my ancestors behind at Melanson Village was a profound event. For the children, it was a new adventure. They had visited their grandparents at Gaudet Village annually and the change was easy for them. I now realize that you carry the spiritual bones of your forebears with you no matter where you go. And so it has been with me.
René arrived from Grand Pré just before our departure. Elizabeth accompanied him on his sail along the Fundy shore. She remained his maiden daughter, caring for her aging father at the Manor House. His numerous other children had grown, married, and begun their own families and lives. She seemed content to fill her existence with his needs. Although her beauty had faded long ago, she had a timelessness about her, changing little from year to year.
Elizabeth brought a going-away gift for me. She carried it in a large leather sack and delivered it to me on the first night of her visit. When she presented it her eyes welled up with tears.
“Benjamin would wish you to have what I have here inside this satchel. He treasured it and I remember on your visits to Grand Pré that you gave it considerable attention as well. Do not open it now. The memory of Benjamin is too strongly associated with its contents. Perhaps you should wait until your first evening at Gaudet Village and have it revealed then. It will serve as a special welcome to your new life upriver.”
I kissed Elizabeth’s hand and responded gratefully.
“I am pleased to receive this mysterious gift and I am certain I will cherish it because of your thoughtfulness and in memory of our beloved Benjamin. I sincerely thank you, Elizabeth.”
We embraced. I noticed tears in René’s eyes as well. He quickly recovered and began to speak. “I wonder why you are moving to Gaudet Village, Piau. It is an unusual move for someone at your stage of life. Things have settled considerably since the capital was transferred to Halifax. Melanson Village has been your family home for your entire life and is the place of your forebears. I would not contemplate leaving Grand Pré for any reason now. All things considered, as a notary in the employ of the British, I have been treated quite well.”
I was unwilling to debate with René. He had always been a deluded man, hopeful, seldom seeing things the way they were or how they were likely to be. With age this had only increased. Some would say he was filled with optimism; I would describe him as misguided. Such men as René die bewildered, disenchanted, and crippled by disappointment.
“We have been planning our move to Gaudet Village for years, René. The soil is more fertile there and far less exposed to the elements. The climate is warmer as well. Furthermore, I have gro
wn tired of the hundreds of vessels that have sailed past us to and from the Atlantic over the years. We never knew whether they were friend or foe. My family has lived a life of constant anxiety here overlooking the bay.”
“I understand that what you say is true. But the traffic of ships has diminished since the new capital was established at Halifax. And to return to my previous point, what is lacking in the soil here is more than compensated by what the sea provides. You have access to the bounty of St. Mary’s Bay. The upper river is unable to produce the fish catches of the bay.”
“You are wrong in that, René. The Gaudets have been fishing the great Bay of Fundy for generations without sailing down the river to St. Mary’s Bay. They have forged a path through the woods over the North Mountain, which they take to their fishing vessels hidden in the woods at St. Croix Cove. This has forever been unknown to the British at Annapolis. My father-in-law, Bernard, insisted that he and his kin would not have felt secure without a convenient escape to the sea. The path over the mountain provides this for his community.”
René and Elizabeth remained with us until our day of leaving. We loaded three fishing boats with all the things we would need at Gaudet Village. Jean and I carried Grandfather’s trunk filled with muskets down to the water’s edge, where over a hundred family members, young and old, gathered to bid us adieu. We gently placed the trunk in the final vessel. Charles was there but he had decided not to accompany us on this occasion. He was emotional about our leaving, as if he sensed prophetically that our lives were about to direct us on separate paths, ones that would take us on journeys that would divide us forever.
Our eldest daughter, Marguerite, remained with her husband and three children at the Manor House, but the remainder of my brood set sail with us. As our boats floated far from the shore, the sound of children singing echoed across the rippling waves.
Il y a longtemps que je t’aime,
Jamais je ne t’oublierai.
The sweetness of the children’s song of farewell caught the light summer breeze of the bay, directing its warmth into our sails and powering our gliding vessels to their final destination upriver.
The last image I have of that time is of my mother standing alone on the shore after the crowd had dispersed. She waved and remained fixed on the spot until our vessels were out of sight. I had lived forty-nine years with this amazing woman, and now she was disappearing from my life. If she had only come with us, how completely happy I would have been. Her destiny was to be similar to that of most of the Acadians who remained near Annapolis.
Chapter 29
We were filled with melancholy, as we all had left family and friends at the shore of the village. At the same time, arriving at our destination and sensing a new beginning filled us with an excitement that caused the sadness to dissipate and a supreme happiness to descend.
Bernard and Jeanne Gaudet’s home was just as they had left it. Neither had had time to contemplate their end, both having succumbed to the fever within days of one another. Both Jean’s family and mine crowded into the large, timbered farmhouse, and despite the number of young ones there seemed to be space for everyone. We decided to remain together for at least the first winter and concentrate our efforts on planting and expanding the crops being raised. Charles would transport our livestock in one of his larger vessels over the summer months.
On the first evening, having comfortably settled into the Gaudet homestead, my children insisted on my opening the satchel that Cousin Elizabeth had given me. They all stood around expectant and enjoying the moment that this gift provided. I had guessed what the gift was before opening it, but I wished the sharing to be the source of a common joy.
My great-grandfather’s King James Bible sat on the table before us after I had removed it ceremoniously from the leather bag.
“What is the book, Father?” asked Theotiste, the curious one.
“Remember the Bible stories I have been telling you since you were old enough to listen? Well, it is from this very book that I learned them. This is the King James Version of the Holy Bible. What makes this particular volume so precious, besides the fact it reveals God’s presence among us, is that it was brought to Acadia by your great-great-grandparents from England.”
“I thought we were French,” declared Felicity.
“We are, but your great-great-grandmother Priscilla was English, and her husband was a French Huguenot. They shared the same religion as the English at the fort. We all believe in the same Creator, but we French practise the Catholic faith.”
Only the older children were able to comprehend the difference between Catholic and Protestant. The younger ones were left to ponder this as we all began to peruse the illustrations in the Bible. Each picture told a story. I revealed each one fully in French so all could appreciate its beauty and the lesson each story conveyed. This would be an evening ritual we continued, even during our years of exile and captivity.
That first summer at Gaudet Village was blissful. Despite the absence of Bernard’s humour and his bigger-than-life presence, we all felt freer than we ever had. There were no ominous ships passing by our home, no soldiers, and no English. It was like enveloping ourselves in a peaceful and loving cocoon, weaving a soft silky protective cover around us and basking in the summer sun, not allowing anything sinister from the outside world to penetrate our seclusion and happiness.
After the livestock had been safely delivered by Charles, we sailed downriver with our fishing boats, out through the gut into the Bay of Fundy, and along the coast to St. Croix Cove. There we drew our vessels into the woods, adding ours to the eight chaloupes already hidden. That numbered ten fishing boats to be used in the bay for fishing or a sudden escape. We later returned home, descending the North Mountain by foot along the path much worn by years of use. In the autumn, Charles returned to Gaudet Village to transport us to Annapolis to pick up the new fishing vessel he had built for Jean and me for the purpose of general river transportation.
Ludivine was the first baby born to us after moving to Gaudet Village. She would always symbolize the freedom we felt at the time of her birth. She entered the world at a time of serenity, and she would forever remind us of that all-too-brief period in our lives Jeanne and I began to lose count of the number of children in our house. We were all so busy with our new life upriver that one more child just added to the joy we felt.
All was quiet in the spring and early summer of 1755. As I remember it now, it was almost too peaceful. We would later recognize that this was the calm before the storm. Having a distant capital in Chebuctou lured us into a sense of false security. The threats of an impending war in Europe were not part of our consciousness, nor did we anticipate the horrendous effects the war would have on all our lives.
It was the sound of Native moccasins on the forest floor that alerted us to the dangers descending upon the Acadian settlements throughout the colony and beyond. It was not unusual to have the Mi’kmaq in our midst. We had been allies and co-inhabitants of the land for nearly one hundred and fifty years. Many of the Natives were fluent in French from continuous exposure to us and through friendly trade. We had always relied on them for the knowledge they possessed of the wilderness. They had taught us how to survive when Mother Nature chose to be unpredictable and brutal. They had always honoured their alliance with the French-speaking peoples of the New World, but the presence of the English and the Acadian decision to remain neutral had tested their patience. They understood only friendship and antipathy. There was no middle ground in their lexicon. Now, however, they were arriving at Gaudet Village to warn us of the English danger and prove to us that we had been foolhardy for ever trusting the British. The story they told of the fate of our friends and kin at Grand Pré filled our hearts with sadness, fear, and disbelief.
The warriors told of the British soldiers arriving at Minas by sea without any warning and imprisoning the Acadian men in the church
of St. Charles, the stone church built by Uncle Pierre. The women and children were herded like cattle, with little time to gather their belongings, and placed on ships. The Natives heard their fearful cries from their lookout in the woods.
Their vivid descriptions froze the blood in our veins as we listened in disbelief, unable to imagine that such a thing could be done to our friends and relatives.
The Acadian men held captive in the church were paraded through the streets at gunpoint and placed on ships waiting in the bay. We were told of the homes and barns being set ablaze and the livestock confiscated. The warriors, having witnessed the terror, raced through the woodland prepared to warn every Acadian community in the valley. The final piece of information was that the British leader was someone we all knew well, Captain Winslow.
“It is hardly believable,” I responded, “that Captain Winslow would undertake such a heinous operation. We all knew him to be a fair and honest officer at Annapolis for the many years he lived among us, and as one who treated us with considerable respect. I cannot imagine he could act with such treachery!”
The abrupt arrival of the Native warriors awakened Jeanne from her calm composure. The threat that her baby sister, Isabelle, was facing in Grand Pré changed something in her. She leapt into action, insisting we leave our home as soon as possible.
The children were alarmed to see their mother in such a frenzy.
“I cannot imagine what Isabelle is suffering at this moment or where she is being taken. And that I am unable to help her. That is the duty of the oldest, to protect the youngest of the family. What if she dies at sea in the stinking belly of some overcrowded ship? God help her and keep her safe!”