Piau

by Bruce Murray

  Another patriarch added his voice: “Why would we wish to return to St. Mary’s Bay when we all know that a settlement on its shore will be that much closer to Annapolis? The British are certain to spot our encampment.”

  I responded with authority.

  “My knowledge of St. Mary’s Bay and its shipping traffic come from almost fifty years living on its shores and witnessing hundreds of ships that have sailed into Annapolis. I know the times of year when British and French vessels arrive and depart from the bay. Between December and April ships rarely sail into Annapolis Harbour. With all due respect to most of you who have grown up on the upper river, I grew up outside Annapolis and I know the ways of the British. They would not expect us to hide out so close. We would be wise to opt for a more sheltered spot to make camp for the winter, and make our escape to the far side of the Bay of Fundy at the first sign of spring. As our friends the Mi’kmaq say, the Great Spirit Glooscap is very unhappy in the cold of winter and he demonstrates his displeasure by causing the Great Bay to release its fury. Do you wish to endure such an ordeal?”

  “We are willing to take our chances,” replied an elder spokesman for those who opposed my recommendation.

  The younger Acadians seemed to see the wisdom in my proposal. Perhaps it appealed to their sense of adventure. The LeBlanc brothers agreed to follow my lead because they were smitten with my daughters. How easily swayed is youth! Jean and my nephew Pierre, having been raised at Melanson Village, also saw the wisdom in what I was suggesting.

  After much discussion and many heated arguments, I recommended we put it to a vote. People voted along family lines. The families of Gaudet Village and many more adventurous souls in the group were willing to follow my lead. Of the three hundred and fifty Acadians who had come to the place we now called French Cross, half decided to remain there for the winter. The rest of us were prepared to sail to the eastern shore of St. Mary’s Bay. And so we had sealed our fate, and those staying behind had sealed theirs. Spring would reveal which group had made the right decision.

  Chapter 32

  Our spirits were lifted on the day of our departure — December 8, as I remember. The bay remained calm, with a cool breeze and a light dusting of snow. As we set sail, following the tide south, we sang songs to keep ourselves merry and to negate any thoughts that we may have made an imprudent decision.

  There was no evidence of the British, only a pod of whales sounding loud alarms as they exhaled into the crisp air. Our six vessels floated all day until we reached Petit Passage, a gut that divides the large peninsula the British called The Neck. On entering St. Mary’s Bay we could feel the warmer winds coming off the land from the east. The bay lay still as we glided safely across the calm water, stopping only when we spied an island close to the coast. I remembered landing on this small patch of land years before on fishing trips when I was growing up. I felt it was providence that had led us here, and it was providence that would provide shelter for our families during the winter.

  There was a wondrous sense of relief when we finally settled on our little island retreat, resolved to construct a safe haven that would help us face the coming winter days and nights. We pulled our boats ashore upon a sandy beach. For our camp we chose the shoreline between the island and the mainland so we would be protected from the southwest and northwest winds.

  After an evening of sleeping under makeshift shelters of spruce boughs, we set about copying the lessons taught to us by our friends the Mi’kmaq, erecting pole frames and covering them with birchbark. These wigwams were even finer and larger than the ones we had built at French Cross. Along with the heat created by a central fire, ten human bodies in each shelter provided the necessary warmth. These would be our homes for the next three months. We all felt proud that we had journeyed this far under a light cloud of freedom and goodwill.

  As the colder weather descended upon us at Yuletide, we were able to cross the icy channel to the mainland on snowshoes to hunt for rabbits and deer. Great-Grandfather’s muskets were essential to our survival. We had carried his musket collection with us to the island in the large wooden chest it had been stored in for almost a century and reverenced it much as the Israelites had the Ark of the Covenant. I regretted not leaving a few of the muskets with the families we had left behind at French Cross, but they had managed to keep a few of their weapons when they fled the British. In my own way, I begrudged them such a luxury, since it was they who had stubbornly insisted on remaining in that perilous place.

  The women stored the root vegetables we had carried with us from Gaudet Village in straw bags buried in the cold ground. Buried deep enough, they did not freeze, and sparingly they were rationed out to add to stews. To celebrate Christmas, we shot partridges and roasted them slowly over an open fire in each wigwam. The air was redolent with the aroma of game swirling about the winter night, enveloping us in a miasma of delicious scents. With these heavenly odours rose our songs celebrating the birth of the saviour.

  Il était le divin enfant …

  We shared homemade gifts, and we thanked our Creator for delivering us to this sacred place.

  Our exuberance was soon replaced by a frozen layer of fierce reality when the January snows and bitter winds descended upon us. January and February, when the days are short and the nights are infinite, seem to be the longest of months.

  Despondency set in as food became scarce and sunlight scarcer. I remembered the tales told me when I was still a child about the great Champlain settling at Port Royal. Faced with surviving the brutal winter, he created the Order of Good Cheer to lift the spirits of the settlers during the long dark season. I set out to emulate him by organizing evening entertainments and encouraging the inhabitants of each wigwam to be responsible for an evening of fun and games. We discovered, though, that during the long sieges of inclement weather our people were confined to their own quarters.

  As the weeks passed poor health became a concern. Not even Native remedies were a cure for the illnesses of the body and spirit.

  Jean and his wife, not having children, decided to live out the winter in a smaller wigwam of their own. Neither was strong, and when both fell ill they seemed to lose their will to live. One early morning, before gathering my daily collection of firewood, I checked in on them. I noticed there was no smoke rising from their shelter. This filled me with a feeling of sudden fear.

  Looking into their wigwam, I saw that they were lying wrapped together under a fur blanket, still and at peace. I gasped as I felt their frigid and lifeless bodies with my reluctant hands. Standing motionless and staring at these two fragile souls no longer with us, I began to weep. Their presence on this earth had always been tenuous. In life, both had been shy and waiflike. They adored one another and now they had escaped into eternity. The loss of my brother only strengthened my resolve to live, regardless of the challenges placed before me by nature.

  I stormed out of the tent, threatening the wind and the snow, my feet breaking through the crusty surface of the forest. I ran through the birches and brush, across the icy channel, slipping and falling, slipping and falling, until I reached the ice floes on the beach. I raised my arms into the air, challenging the fates.

  I shouted toward the bay, defying anyone or anything to vanquish me.

  “Try to destroy me! I challenge you to destroy me and my family. You will not succeed. You may block my path, but I will not be defeated. I will prevail. We will prevail!”

  Having shouted until I could yell no more, I fell on my knees and asked God for forgiveness. I lay on my stomach, stretched out on the beach, exhausted and contrite.

  Lying there on the ice floe, having lost track of time, I suddenly felt small hands on my back. Was this my guardian angel? Then a young voice pierced through my sorrow.

  “What is the matter, Papa?”

  Awakened from my agony, I recognized my eight-year-old son’s voice.

  �
�Why are you lying here, Papa?” Young Joseph began to shake me.

  “I am fine, Jospiau,” I assured him. “I have just had a terrible shock. Your uncle and aunt — I don’t know how to tell you this. Your uncle and aunt are dead.”

  “I know. Mama found them in their wigwam. She says they are now in heaven.”

  I rose to my feet and placed my hands securely on the boy’s small shoulders.

  “Indeed they are, my son. But I promise you, Jospiau, that we are not going to die. We have everything to live for, and you must grow up and have children of your own some day. You must prosper. If you do not, then the British have won.”

  “I will, Papa, I promise I will. The British will not win. Let’s go home. I am hungry.”

  I grasped his hand and we walked home together, more sure-footed and filled with confidence.

  That same day we buried Jean and my sister-in-law Madeleine — the first of many graves dug that first winter in exile. Fortunately, my children remained healthy and robust, proof of the strength and defiance of their parents.

  That first winter in exile taught us many lessons of survival: how to ration our food, how to retrieve our musket balls, how to fish through the ice, how to keep the fires burning at all times, how to resist the melancholy brought on by a lack of sun, how to maintain our good health, and, most important of all, how to work as a group. Avoiding loneliness was essential to our survival.

  Although we often lost track of time, certain signs in nature filled us with hope. Despite the snow, we began noticing the trailing arbutus on the forest floor peeking out through the white icy crust, reminding us that spring was close at hand. Much like the Native people, we collected bouquets of the tiny spring flower to fill our wigwams with the intoxicating smell of its tiny blossoms.

  There were days when Jospiau and I returned home with little game. On these occasions we tried to make up for this lack by bringing a full array of trailing arbutus. My son made a ceremony of presenting the tiny blossoms to his mother. Jeanne never showed her disappointment on these occasions. She would smile and remark that she would have to find a way to cook the trailing arbutus, since that was the catch of the day. Jospiau was a clever boy and caught the significance of his mother’s humorous remark. He would assure her that the next day we would hunt and return with double the catch. Many days he kept his promise.

  Although we managed to maintain our supply of buckshot, our gunpowder reserves were depleted. We became more and more dependent on fish and snared rabbits. Our only antidote to scurvy was the bark tea that the Natives had taught us to drink when vegetables and berries were no longer available.

  As April approached, the survivors in our group — there were many, despite the many deaths — began to plan our journey to the north side of the Bay of Fundy. We asked ourselves if we should return to French Cross to discover the fate of the companions we had left behind. After a lengthy discussion, we unanimously agreed it would be prudent to sail directly across the great bay to the St. John River. There, it would not be long before we re-established contact with our fellow Acadian exiles.

  We chose a calm day in April to cross St. Mary’s Bay, retracing our path through Petit Passage directly across from our island retreat, which the members of our group had begun calling Île à Piau. They named it in my honour, insisting I was the person responsible for saving their lives. I was flattered, but I knew they had survived through sheer strength and courage on their part. I only helped them realize this in themselves.

  When we reached the Bay of Fundy, the winds and tidal currents were stronger than we had anticipated. However, the winds were in our favour. With strong southeast winds, we were able to cross the bay safely despite the high waves. Everyone aboard the vessels was soaked to the bone by the time we neared the St. John River, and many were suffering from seasickness. Sight of land, however, gave us some comfort that soon we would be sailing up the river to the Acadian villages on its shore.

  As our chaloupes drifted near the mouth of the river, we noticed ships moored at its entrance. They were bearing the Union Jack. Our sailing vessels were forced to veer right and follow the coastline to the northeast to avoid the British. Again the southeast winds and the inflowing tides whisked us along the bay, and we continued looking for a new home, hugging the shoreline as best we could. It was not long before we were sailing into Shepody Bay.

  Our boats floated on the tide as we entered the great estuary which, from that time on, would play an integral part of our lives. The Natives called it the Petitcodiac. Entering the river, we felt the powerful surge of the tidal bore driving the current swiftly over the bright red mud. The children let out cries of glee as they felt the exhilaration of the waves carrying us along with no effort on our part. The force of the water was so strong we were compelled to lower our sails.

  Before evening, we found ourselves within sight of an Acadian refugee camp. This filled us with excitement, knowing there were others who had escaped the expulsion. As our vessels drew closer, however, we beheld hundreds of skeleton-like figures moving so slowly they could have been the walking dead. Perceiving our boats floating in the direction of their camp, the refugees began to line up along the embankment, staring at us as if they were witnessing a flotilla of ghost ships.

  Our exuberance soon turned to horror. We had experienced the same winter, but these Acadians wore a look of starvation and desperation.

  As we cast anchor, a family of children made their way through the crowd. They possessed a liveliness that was lacking in the others standing above us. Suddenly the children were jumping up and down and shouting things we were unable to hear from the river. In time they became audible.

  “Uncle Piau, Felicity, Rose, Jospiau!” shouted the young people on the shore. I recognized the oldest boy. It was the seventeen-year-old grandson of my brother Charles. A woman with a beaming smile joined the group. She, too, began waving. It was Madeleine, Charles’s daughter, standing beside her husband, Grand Pierre Boudrot. Unlike the others, they appeared to be in good health and spirits.

  Our boats rose with the tide. My niece Madeleine and her family remained fixed in place until we were almost level with the shore. Then each of us jumped into the wet red mud, little caring that when we dried off we would resemble clay figures.

  Madeleine was the first to speak as she helped Jeanne and the girls onto the embankment. “This is a very happy day. God has spared you all. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would see you again. Is my brother Pierre with you?”

  As she uttered those words, Pierre and the three LeBlanc brothers climbed the muddy bank, slipping and sliding as they ascended. Once Madeleine spotted her brother, she placed her hands over her mouth and began to cry. Her tears were tears of joy. Her baby brother was alive and here with her. They embraced as everyone on the bank shared in the emotional reunion. For many of the refugees this joyful event had temporarily awakened them from their horrible dream.

  “Maddie, you are alive and well. Thank God. Is Papa with you?”

  “No, but he is alive and healthy and on his way to Quebec with Grandmama and others from our vessel. Grand Pierre and I decided that the journey to Quebec was too taxing for the children. They have been through an ordeal and we felt we would manage better if we found a community along the Fundy coast to travel with. Governor Vaudreuil of Quebec has ordered that we all travel to Restigouche and the Miramichi to be out of the way of the British. England and France are now at war in Europe, so the British here are hunting down Acadians and shooting them like wild animals. For the time being, we are safe here. We are far enough from Fort Beauséjour for us to relax for the time being.

  “Come, and once you are settled I will relate the story of our escape from the British. It is a story you will not believe. And Papa was its hero.”

  The children embraced one another and began running around the camp, overjoyed to be reunited with their cous
ins.

  I stopped and pondered the fate of my brother Charles and my mother. They were safe and sound at Quebec. This I thanked God for. On the other hand, I was painfully aware that our paths might never cross again, and that filled me with a profound sorrow.

  As we walked through the camp I was appalled by the conditions. There were several wigwams, but they were poorly constructed, and most of the people were living in makeshift fir shelters. I asked myself how such a resourceful people came to be so destitute when all Acadians were educated in the ways of the wilderness. We had lived among the Natives for over a hundred years and were skilled in their ways of survival. Then it became apparent to me. There were no muskets anywhere to use for hunting. I was reminded that although we no longer had gunpowder, for the greater part of the winter we had had working firearms. All that was needed to improve the conditions of this camp was to acquire ammunition for our hunting muskets and to instill a little hope in their miserable lives here in the wilderness.

  I realized it was up to me to develop a plan. But first we knew we must construct our living quarters.

  Constructing the wigwams at this point was easy for us. We were now highly experienced in the task. Many of the refugees watched us carefully so they could emulate what we had learned from the Mi’kmaq. They seemed to look upon us as their saviours. Time would prove them right.

  Chapter 33

  Having completed our construction, we settled into an evening of storytelling around the campfire. The principal tale that unfolded that night was that of the His Majesty’s Ship Pembroke and the part my fierce and indomitable brother, Charles, had played in the incredible story of its capture.

  Charles had always been my hero growing up, but the story we were told that evening under the April stars of how he managed to outwit the British and gain control of the HMS Pembroke filled even me with wonder.