Piau

by Bruce Murray

  With those words she ran from the house into the garden. The youngest children began to cry uncontrollably, while we tried to control our emotions in front of the children. From this point, however, we all knew that we had to be prepared to make a move that would alter our lives forever. We later understood that we were the lucky ones and that it was up to us to perpetuate that good fortune through our survival.

  Days later, four young men appeared from the woodland carrying muskets and panting vigorously. They wore panic on their faces. The leader I recognized immediately. It was my twenty-year-old nephew and namesake, Pierre, son of my brother Charles. His three huge companions were not familiar to us. These three handsome giants were Bonaventure, who was called Bouon, Charles, known as Charlitte, and Joseph, known as Coujeau, LeBlanc. Their sudden presence made quite the impression on my oldest daughters, whose faces exhibited both wonderment and excitement. Once in our midst, they decided to join our group for the journey ahead. They provided the physical strength we needed to manage our survival. Without it, I believe we would have all perished that first winter in exile.

  Young Pierre was bursting with stories from Annapolis.

  “We could tell in late August that something ominous was blowing in the wind. The number of British ships sailing into Annapolis was astonishing. Major Handfield and the now Colonel Winslow seemed to be up to something. They demanded that all men and boys report to the authorities and surrender their muskets and other weapons voluntarily. We knew we would be also surrendering our rights with the firearms, so most of us took to the woods still armed.

  “Many returned to their homes, but the LeBlancs and I, we preferred to avoid capture in the woods. We have been wandering the countryside for several weeks. One Acadian man we met said he was returning to Annapolis because he had heard that Handfield had promised to treat the Acadians of Annapolis mercifully. The major was able to convince them to return by declaring that his mother-in-law was Acadian and his wife had many Acadian relatives and friends. We were not so confident in his promises so we continued our flight. Can you imagine luring people back by using your Acadian mother-in-law as bait? It is shameful!”

  Jeanne was the first to respond. “You were wise, Pierre, to come here. And the timing has never been more auspicious. We are planning our escape from this land and the sooner we depart the better it will be for all of us. But first we must feed you. Come into the house. I have a rabbit stew cooking in the hearth.”

  The four young men were overjoyed at the prospect of a home-cooked meal.

  “Aunt, you are more than kind. The thought of a warm meal is beyond anything we have imagined this past month. Merci!”

  And so it was that my nephew Pierre and the LeBlanc brothers became adjuncts to our family and fellow travellers in exile.

  Chapter 30

  The day of departure arrived. Grandfather’s trunk was emptied of its contents. The arms were distributed among the men and I burned all the Melanson family papers in the fireplace. With this act, I felt, the shame that Grandfather had brought upon us by conspiring with the British was disappearing like smoke up the chimney. The heavy burden I had carried since I first read those traitorous letters years before was finally lifted from my shoulders and I now felt strangely forgiving of Charles Melanson. My grandmother would have approved.

  It was difficult to slaughter the livestock, but we knew we could not travel through the woods with the animals and we were not magnanimous enough to leave them for the British. The cattle and sheep were sacrificed ceremoniously, Jeanne remarked, just as the priests of the temple had in ancient Jerusalem. We would never again return to our homes. The wool had already been carded and the meat would survive our travels now that the weather was becoming cold. Some could be cured and stored.

  Everyone was equipped with a strapped pack filled with lightweight essentials. Each person was responsible for one heavier item: the men and boys carried the firearms and tools, the women and girls cooking utensils and smaller iron pots. The days were getting cooler, so we were able to replace our wooden shoes with moccasins and wear our winter furs, which would keep us warm during the freezing winter days and nights to come.

  I explained to our new compatriots how we planned to follow the trail to the Fundy coast using the path established by the Gaudet community over the years, and I told them of the boats hidden in the woods. They were astonished by our foresight.

  “How could you have anticipated that you would have to use this trail as an escape route?” asked young Pierre.

  “Through the years, the path was used as a shortcut to the sea,” replied Jeanne. “Although the authorities at Annapolis encouraged the Acadians along the river to sail to St. Mary’s Bay to fish, so they could keep a watchful eye on our comings and goings, the inhabitants of Gaudet Village felt that by creating a trail over the North Mountain they would have easier and closer access to the Bay of Fundy. It has been extremely useful.”

  “And you must understand, Pierre,” I interjected, “that those of us born under French rule have always feared the possibility of being thrown off our land and shipped out of here to parts unknown. I was born under the cloud of war, so I have never felt entirely secure in where I live or in the permanency of my life in Acadia. We have always pondered our escape.”

  “My father certainly felt that way,” Jeanne added. “He and my uncle Denys spent several years in Île Royale doing construction, testing the waters to see whether they wished to move to French territory permanently. They used this mountain trail to secretly leave Gaudet Village and board a French vessel near St. Croix Cove.”

  “Why did they return?” asked Pierre.

  “My father and his brother were fearless men who seldom worried about the future. They both loved adventure. They had gone to Louisbourg as adventurers, seeking the excitement one gets from exploring new places and believing there was money to be made. However, they always intended to return home. My father referred to Gaudet Village as the home of his ancestors. And let us not forget the skills they cultivated in the construction of the fortress at Louisbourg. They returned with money in their pockets and the ability to construct beams that kept them busy for years working for the British at Annapolis. Through it all, they used the North Mountain pass.”

  “Escape is not a luxury we have enjoyed living in Melanson Village. Almost every day since my birth I have seen the British ships sail by, never knowing why they were arriving or why they were leaving. The French invasion when I was ten years old frightened me so much I still have nightmares about it. Now that the deportation of Acadians has begun, I fear for the safety of my father, my grandmother, and all my relatives at Melanson Village. I worry, not knowing what their fate will be. And having heard the horrendous stories you have related about the sad people of Grand Pré, I wonder whether I will ever see my father and grandmother again.”

  “Rest assured, young Pierre, if anyone is capable of surviving it is your father. He is very much like his deceased father, Jean Belliveau, willing to take on the entire British army if necessary to protect his family. Rest easy on that account.”

  My comments seemed to change the mood as we prepared to start our journey.

  “You are so right about my father!”

  My nephew began to laugh heartily as we all paraded out of the village for the last time. Our collective determination did not allow for tears. We all realized we were unlikely to return.

  Jeanne took the lead as more than a hundred relatives and friends headed in the direction of the forest. We all looked upon our departure as a celebration of life. We knew we were carrying the spiritual bones of the Gaudet ancestors with us; they seemed to lighten our load as we ascended the North Mountain.

  Jeanne raised her voice as we entered the woodland. “Let us begin our great mountain adventure. Perhaps we will come upon a burning bush!”

  As we disappeared into the forest, the angelic voices
of our children rose in song above the canopy of the trees, a song that echoed through the valley and enriched the vivid red and gold leaves in the autumn sun.

  Trois beaux canards s’en vont baignant,

  En roulant ma boule.

  Le fils du roi s’en va chassant,

  Rouli, roulant ma boule roulant.

  En roulant, ma boule roulant

  En roulant, ma boule,

  En roulant, ma boule roulant

  En roulant ma boule.

  Our group reached St. Croix Cove before nightfall and we set up camp. The fires were lit and the evening was surprisingly balmy along the Bay of Fundy the first night in exile. We were buoyed up by our new adventure and a celebratory mood. The young danced in the moonlight to the sound of fiddles and mouth harps. The food was excellent and we shared a sense of relief that we were out of the reach of the British.

  The following day we heard a persistent crackling of brush on the forest floor. The entire group seemed to freeze on the spot, not knowing whether it was the British following our path. We knew, however, that the British preferred to travel not by land but by sea. Relief arrived in the form of a band of Mi’kmaq. Their leader informed us that they were there to serve as our guardians in the wilderness, having pursued us over the mountain in order to help us build wigwams. These would keep us warm and comfortable during the upcoming winter months.

  Both the men and women participated in the construction of the wigwams. First the Natives showed us how. Five large spruce poles were tied together at the top with split spruce roots, and then the poles were spread out at the bottom. A moosewood hoop was tied under the poles at the top where shorter poles were lashed to the moosewood hoop to make a frame for the birchbark sheets. The Mi’kmaq warriors placed the wide sheets on top of the frame, beginning at the bottom and overlapping them as they moved up the pole frame.

  An opening was left at the top for the smoke from the fire to escape. The Natives provided deerskins for the doors to help retain the heat from the fire. They produced the first couple of wigwams and then assisted us in building ten more. Each wigwam was large enough to house twelve to fifteen people. To this day, I could construct one by myself in half a day. The knowledge imparted to us by the Mi’kmaq at St. Croix Cove on how to erect these temporary homes was to be our salvation during the next five years of our exile.

  The Mi’kmaq remained with us for more than a week, hunting with the men for deer, partridge, and rabbit, and helping the women smoke the meat we had brought from the farm. We ate the fish we caught in the weirs and nets along the shoreline. The boats collected the catch daily, and despite the variable weather we managed to extract a great abundance of things from the sea. Spiritually, we were at one with the Native warriors; they were our lifeline. Knowing they were there in the wilderness, out of sight but nearby, filled us with a confidence we would not have felt on our own.

  Over the next six weeks we watched in horror from our sheltered position in the cove as prison ship after prison ship, flying the British ensign, passed by us in the Bay of Fundy on its way to who knows where. We could only imagine our relatives and friends from Grand Pré, Pisiquit, Cobequid, and Chignecto all forced to lie like a catch of fish below the decks with barely room to move or breathe. We felt the humiliation they must be experiencing at the hands of the British. This was our payment for fifty years of neutrality, fifty years of providing for their needs, and fifty years of compliance, never once rising up in rebellion.

  Were we not a peaceful people? For every Englishman in Acadia, there were a hundred of us. We could have overpowered them at any time over the years of British rule. The Native people would have supported us and the French would have assisted us in turn. After years of peaceful coexistence, the English were now our enemy. Our neutrality evaporated with the mists rising over the great bay. It was replaced by an antipathy that would last a lifetime.

  Jeanne was looking out at the bay one day when she spied a ship sailing southward. “To think I may be this close to Isabelle,” Jeanne declared, with a mixture of desperation and melancholy in her voice. “I can feel her pain. It is heartbreaking to think I will never see her again!”

  “René and Elizabeth would likely be with her,” I lamented. “How disillusioned René must be, the final blow to a life where he believed he was so favoured by the British authorities. Think of the promise and brilliance he showed as a young man. In the end, he turned out to be a perfect fool. A tragedy!”

  “You are being very harsh with the man you once so admired,” Jeanne admonished. “All of us have our weaknesses. His was that he believed in his dreams. Dreams are just that, things we long for or imagine but that are not real.”

  “May they all find peace in exile.”

  “Amen.”

  >

  Chapter 31

  Throughout November, Acadian families who had escaped the British from the lower river area followed our path to the bay. We now numbered forty-eight families, over three hundred strong. By the beginning of December we realized that with these numbers of fugitives it would not be long before the British followed our trail and descended upon us unexpectedly. The heads of the families decided we should board our vessels and sail up the coast to a place of greater safety. The number of British ships passing had decreased to only a few every several weeks, so we felt confident that we could settle in a cove that would protect us from both the weather and the British.

  Our day of departure was unseasonably warm and the Bay of Fundy was as calm as it ever was, given the variable winds and high tides of December. We did not need to travel far. We understood that a cove with no access to the Annapolis River or to the forest passage to Grand Pré would be our wisest bet. We pulled our chaloupes onto the rocky beach. We no longer feared being spotted by the enemy because traffic on the bay had ceased for the winter. While the decline in the number of ships passing put us at ease, it also made us aware that our friends and relatives in all the communities along the Bay of Fundy had already been exported to parts unknown, scattered by the winds of fate.

  On our arrival, we constructed a grand cross to celebrate our freedom and the beginning of our journey to the Promised Land, wherever that might be. After we had carefully erected the cross at a rising above the sea, I recited from the Bible I kept in the satchel I carried with me and translated into French from the Book of Exodus.

  “Keep this day in remembrance, the day you came out of Egypt, from the house of slavery, for it was by sheer power that the Lord brought you out of it. And so, in this same month when the Lord brings you to the land of Canaan, the land he swore to your fathers he would give you, a land where milk and honey flow, you are to hold this service.”

  All present appreciated the significance of the words spoken by Moses in this passage from Holy Scripture. His words gave us the strength we needed to continue our uncertain and perilous journey.

  Jospiau was deeply moved by the translation of the Scripture I chose. Anything recited from this holy book he sensed seemed to hold great gravity and importance. He gave me a quizzical look.

  “Papa, are you Moses? Are you leading us to the Promised Land? Where is the Promised Land, Papa?”

  “Jospiau, my son, I would never presume to compare myself to the great prophet Moses. But every group needs a leader, and if the Lord has chosen me to inspire this group of Acadians to carry on until we find a land where we can again settle in peace and freedom, then so be it.”

  “I believe he has, Papa, I truly believe he has!”

  Jeanne smiled as she stood and prayed. She whispered, “Our eight-year-old son possesses wisdom beyond his years, Piau.”

  “He does indeed, Jeanne.”

  I, too, was impressed by Jospiau’s remarks, but they also filled me with trepidation, not knowing whether I was equal to the task of leading this large assemblage of Acadian families. It was one thing to be the patriarch of a
family of ten, but there were forty-eight families in this group, and to convince the heads of every one that we should do this or do that was a daunting task. There were many decisions to be made on our journey; to assume that all would agree to act as one was too much to expect. It was not long before I had to put my misgivings to the test.

  That inner voice that spoke to me and enabled me to imagine what was likely to happen in any situation told me that although we were no longer exposed to an imminent threat from the British, an even greater one would come from exposure to the winter cold. This was a place that eventually would ravage us, no matter how secure our wigwams made us feel. If we stayed here, the treacherous winds would become our enemy and we would likely perish.

  At a gathering of all the husbands and wives, I suggested that it would be prudent to make our way back to St. Mary’s Bay, where the conditions were less harsh, to tough out the winter there.

  “St. Mary’s Bay is far kinder to those who wish to endure the winter open to the elements. The shelters we construct will be better protected, and we will have better access to an abundance of wildlife in the forests if we camp at sea level. The North Mountain will be a barrier to the winds that endanger our survival.”

  One of the senior family heads was quick to object.

  “We trust your judgment in most things, Monsieur Belliveau, but the temperate weather may persist. It may be better to establish a more secure village here, to live out the winter knowing that in the spring we can sail across the bay to freedom. Many of us are exhausted. After travelling all this distance to reach this place, finally we may be free of the terror the British soldiers have inflicted on our people.”