Piau

by Bruce Murray

The boat did appear to have Charles’s imprint upon it. There was no question I had sailed in this very schooner many times. Now was our chance to recapture it and benefit from its booty.

  We dropped our sails one hundred yards from the schooner, and it was not long before its captain and his eight crew members appeared at the railing.

  I was the first to speak, being the only one of our group fluent in English. “Good day, Captain. We request permission to come aboard.”

  The captain appeared to be shocked by our sudden arrival, but he smiled broadly, not attempting to disguise his look of good fortune at having six fugitive Acadians in his spider’s web.

  “Come aboard, gentlemen.” The captain continued in his congenial manner as we climbed onto the deck of the schooner.

  Once all six of us were standing on board the vessel, the captain declared, “I can now inform you what our mission is aboard this schooner. It is our duty to search for and apprehend Acadian fugitives. I declare you under arrest. You are now our prisoners.”

  It was at that point that I looked at Charlitte the Great and shouted, “Charge, Charlitte!”

  With a massive blow, Charlitte sent the first officer to the deck. He was dead on impact. With blows equal to the first he downed two more crewmen. Bonaventure and Joseph were equally deadly in their attacks. The largest of the crew, who was an extremely powerful man, attacked Pierre and attempted to throw him overboard. Seeing his compatriot in trouble, Charlitte gave a horrifying roar, knocking the man down with the force of three men.

  Cyprian and I drew our pistols and pointed them at the captain and his remaining crew members. They recognized immediately that they had lost the day. The captain capitulated easily and got down on his knees, begging us to spare him. I had only one thought at that moment, and that was the memory of my heroic father succumbing to the British when I was a year old. I could not remember his brutal murder, but I could never forget the loss.

  “I beg of you, monsieur. Set me adrift in a lifeboat and I promise you I will not pursue you.”

  “Captain, I will deliver you the same justice as the English granted my father back in 1707. Ask God to forgive you for your sins.”

  The terrified captain rose and crept backward toward the railing of the schooner. A feeling of overwhelming anger overcame me as I aimed directly at the heart of my enemy and pulled the trigger. The Englishman fell backward over the side of the boat, splashing into the freezing bay. I stood motionless, mindful that justice had been done and that retribution for my father’s death had been finally achieved.

  Cyprian finished off the other crew members with his pistol, and Charlitte and Bonaventure threw their bodies overboard. Had any of the British crew been permitted to live that day, we would have been in serious trouble. We had eliminated the prospect of future regrets.

  Chapter 35

  Our arrival back at the refugee camp was greeted by hundreds of cheering Acadians. At first they saw the British flag and were filled with alarm, but once they beheld us waving vigorously from the deck of the schooner the people erupted in cheers. I am certain the sound was heard all the way to Fort Beauséjour. The boat sailing onto the shores of their encampment was a schooner of salvation. They knew it must contain a cargo of foodstuffs and ammunition. This was the moment of their deliverance, and my compatriots and I were their deliverers, just like Moses, Joshua, and Aaron from the Book of Exodus.

  “Praise the Lord!” shouted the grateful Acadian refugees. If only for that moment they were able to forget their desperate state. Pierre, Cyprian, the mighty LeBlanc brothers, and I had given them hope, and this was an elixir that was as important as the provisions aboard the stolen vessel.

  The story of our exploits travelled like wildfire through the camp. Even the children told the story to one another. I suddenly found myself the designated leader of the refugees on the Petitcodiac. To the refugees I became simply “Piau,” a name I wore with considerable pride, for it was accompanied by a feeling of great responsibility.

  More Acadians continued to appear at our camp with the morning mists of summer. One day, a lone fishing vessel, much like the one that had transported us to that place, floated with the tide to our settlement. It had only two occupants — an Acadian and a young Native boy — and their dog. Such a nearly empty fishing vessel was a rarity. I stood on the bank to watch them dock. I looked carefully at their sallow, emaciated faces, ghostly with hunger — even the dog.

  I gathered my family together to form a greeting party. The face of the Acadian aboard looked slightly familiar. A feeling of horror filled me as I finally recognized the Acadian coming ashore. My cousin Pierre Melanson stood before us, his wasted form an emblem of the deaths of all those who had perished during the winter. His story would reveal the final end of those we had left behind at French Cross. The gruesome tale haunts me to this day.

  “We regretted not following you, Piau,” Pierre whispered, with what seemed to be his last breath, “but by that time it was too late. We were locked into an existence we were no longer able to control. The winter on the Bay of Fundy was like nothing we had ever experienced before. It possessed a fury that would not cease. Once our group lost hope, death soon followed. We lacked leadership like lost sheep. The wolf stalking us was winter, and it devoured us one by one.”

  Jeanne took Pierre by the hand and led him to our campfire where she had cooked a rabbit stew. She sat him down on a blanket and served him in a wooden bowl. As he ate, I joined them, having first sent the children away. I did not want them to hear the story he was about to tell. They had befriended many of the children from French Cross, and although they had become accustomed to death and suffering, they did not need to hear all the gruesome details of the early deaths of their friends.

  Pierre and his Mi’kmaq friend devoured the stew, barely pausing to breathe. It was the first real meal they had eaten in some time, it was clear. Only when he was sated did Pierre continue his story of survival.

  “Why did I live and the others not? Only God knows. We were fine until Christmas. We had settled in and food was still plentiful. However, after the New Year the frigid cold winds descended upon us, the dampness from the bay penetrated our bones, and soon it was impossible to remain warm. The northwest wind became our enemy. When it snowed, we were relieved, for it covered us like a blanket. But soon the mornings began to deliver to heaven those who had died in the frozen night.

  “We seemed to forget all the lessons the Natives had taught us and scurvy became rampant in the camp. We ran out of ammunition and were unable to hunt. Even the rabbits refused to become trapped in our snares. Those who still had some semblance of health began to fight among themselves, stealing food from one another like thieves. In time, starvation and typhus took hold of our group. It appeared that everyone was in a state of delirium. One by one my compatriots perished before my eyes, and when they died, we wrapped their bodies in birch bags to keep them frozen. We dragged them into the woods to keep the pestilence at bay.

  “When the camp and surrounding woods became a graveyard of the entire community save myself, this Mi’kmaq boy appeared miraculously out of the woods. He has been my guardian angel ever since. I do not wish to be parted from him. Our spirits are one. He saved my life. I call him Angel.”

  Jeanne, moved by the sadness of his story, said to Pierre, “There is always a divine purpose when one is permitted to continue living on this earth against all odds. God has guided you to us, Pierre, and now you have no need to fear starvation. Although we too endured the cruel winter, spring is here and we have prevailed. We embrace you as a member of our family. You must leave heaven to those who are gone and join us on our journey.”

  “You are so kind, Jeanne. Perhaps I will be your lucky charm!”

  We all smiled then, and we saw that humour in this man was a sign of his healing soul.

  Chapter 36

  In early summer I convinced
the Acadian elders that we should abandon the refugee camp on the Petitcodiac and travel to the coast. There we could venture north to be safe from the guns of the British. It was only a matter of time before the English and New England troops at Beauséjour found their way up the river. We were aware at the time that England was at war with France in Europe, therefore we perhaps cautiously hoped the English had larger battles to fight.

  Our destination was the Miramichi River, a place none of us had ever been but one that was much talked about by the Native peoples. They spoke of a sea of salmon plentiful enough to walk across. There we would be among the Malecite, who were the people of the more northerly lands. We hoped to reach the coast by the first of July. The Natives informed us it was a week’s journey.

  We found pathways mixed with brush, trodden down by groups travelling before us. This eased our efforts as we were loaded down with our food, ammunition, and iron cooking pots. We had been forced to leave our vessels behind.

  We were aware that when we arrived at the coast other Acadian communities there would be expecting our arrival. When we reached the coast a fortnight later we found a huge group of our compatriots. Indeed, as the ocean came into view, we beheld thousands of Acadians camping at the beach. The place was called Cocagne.

  The sandy beach spanned farther than the eye could see. The encampment stretched endlessly in both directions. Beyond the water’s edge, fishing weirs followed the coastline for miles and the beach was filled with refugee Acadians working, playing, and enjoying the summer sun.

  There was little evidence of the winter the people here must have endured. Sun and heat warm the soul as well as the body, filling us with energy. The Acadians on the beach when we arrived may have been thin but they were not unhappy. This was a relief for us. We felt the safety one feels when one is living among large congregations of like-minded people. These were our people. Like us, they had escaped the deportation and lived to tell a tale of survival. Many of these would reach the Promised Land with us. None of us, however, was sure where that was.

  I soon made it my business to acquaint myself with all the elders of the camp. Daily I walked the beach, stopping by each group and discovering from whence they came and what Acadian community they had escaped from. Their stories of survival were similar to ours. These were the Acadians who, like me, had had their ears to the ground during the spring and summer of 1755. Like us, they owed a great deal to the Native peoples.

  Introducing myself to hundreds of compatriots made it easier for me to influence a large number of people to continue our trek. I spread the word that we should move on to the mouth of the Miramichi as soon as possible for our greater safety, and I told the people that the sooner we established permanent lodgings for the winter the better. It would give us more time to clear the land. In a more settled camp we could co-operate to plant root vegetables to be harvested in late fall, and we could dry berries, meat, and fish to last the winter.

  At the end of each day, having travelled the beach for miles, I returned home with tales of those who had been forced into exile. We learned through a few who had eluded the expulsion at Grand Pré, and there were only a few, that Jeanne’s beloved Isabelle had been placed on a ship bound for Louisiana with her entire family.

  “It is so comforting to know that Isabelle is with her family,” Jeanne said with relief. “Perhaps she will be fortunate, landing in a territory that is friendly and kind to French speakers. Is not Louisiana a French territory?”

  “That is my understanding,” I answered, “and having Mama and Charles safely delivered to Quebec also eases my mind to no end.”

  “Indeed.”

  Jeanne invariably became quiet after hearing news of loved ones. It appeared to improve her mood considerably. She treated each piece of good news as a gift, as we all did.

  What I remember most vividly of those first summer nights at Cocagne were the miles and miles of bonfires on the beach stretching north and south, illuminating the night skies and demonstrating a hope that God would not forget where we were. We received no sign that the Lord had seen our fires, but they did attract French ships sailing along the coast from Quebec. These French vessels often moored off the shore, sending provisions by tender and keeping us abreast of the events in what was to be known as the Seven Years War. Their generosity knew no bounds, and they shared as much as they could spare to supply us with the things we were not able to provide for ourselves, particularly ammunition and gunpowder for our muskets. These we preserved for the winter game hunt, restricting our diet primarily to fish during the summer months.

  After discussing our trek north with all the heads of the families along the seashore, we began our journey, beginning with those farthest up the beach. Because of the numbers of people on the move, the process of relocating took longer than we had anticipated, but we managed to reach the mouth of the great Miramichi River by mid-July. Once arrived, we all acknowledged that our new location could sustain the Acadian refugees who had made the trip. Together with the settlers who had already taken root there, we numbered in the thousands. This was one time when one could say there was safety in numbers.

  The Malecite welcomed us on our arrival at the mouth of the great Miramichi River. They let us know that they would assist us in constructing our wigwams. French ships continued to arrive with messages from Governor Vaudreuil of New France, placing all the Acadians under his express protection. He sent written messages outlining the details of France’s war with Britain. He declared that the British treatment of the Acadians during the 1755 deportation was beyond cruelty and a crime against decent people everywhere. He stated that French ships would create a sea blockade from Louisbourg to Quebec, preventing the British from hunting down and terrorizing any French-speaking people in the New World. For the first time in my life I felt that I was being protected by those that govern and respected by them as a human being. I was fifty years old and finally being recognized as someone who mattered in this world.

  There was music, dancing, and games that summer. Our encampments were further upriver, following the habits of the Malecite who fish in the ocean in summer and move inland to seek protection from the tidal surges and winds in the winter. And so we gathered into family groups, and we cleared enough forest to have small gardens alongside our wigwams and create a more permanent existence for as long as we could manage it.

  Regularly, in the summer and autumn, a priest was sent from Quebec to administer the blessed sacraments. On one of these visits my twenty-two-year-old daughter, Madeleine, married Jacques (known as Tourangeau) Amirault. This happy event was the first of its kind while we were in exile. The event was hopeful and gave us all a sense that life was continuing as it should.

  Named after my mother, Madeleine was the most beautiful of my daughters. She resembled Grandmama Marie but clearly favoured my mother in temperament. There was no shortage of people to celebrate the nuptials, and a party mood spread like wildfire down the river.

  “Please sing for us, Papa — something romantic,” requested Madeleine.

  “Am I able to refuse my beautiful married daughter anything?” I asked.

  At the first notes of the song a sudden silence descended on the river. My voice echoed into the night.

  Ah, si l’amour prenait racine,

  Dans mon jardin j’en planterais,

  J’en planterais, j’en sèmerais aux quatre coins,

  J’en ferais part à mes amis qui n’en ont point.

  As I continued to sing I was joined by hundreds along the river. I felt the arms of our new community wrapping around me as I stood facing my daughter and her new husband. Applause spread through the settlement like a warm breeze. That was a special moment for me during those times of trouble. Madeleine ran into my arms and kissed me.

  “Thank you, Papa. That was the most wonderful gift you could possibly give me on my wedding day.”

  I l
ooked over her shoulder to see her mother with a huge smile and tears in her beautiful eyes. Life seemed blissful for those brief shining moments.

  The summer of 1756 was particularly pleasant and warm, with only a smattering of rain. The seasons passed, and winter moved on to summer, bringing few changes in our lives. We had become accustomed to wilderness living and we were now assured assistance from both the French and the Native peoples.

  The last ship to visit our settlement was in the summer of 1758. It was sailing from Quebec to Louisbourg. The news it carried was not good. New France, particularly the city of Quebec, was plagued by a smallpox epidemic; and all the ships had been directed to Louisbourg, for it was about to be besieged by the British navy. We learned from the captain of the last vessel to stop at our camp that many of the Acadians who had travelled to Quebec from the St. John River had succumbed to the disease.

  This news made us very uneasy for my relatives in Quebec. It was only during the final years in exile that their fate was confirmed by an unexpected source. Both my mother and Charles died of smallpox in 1758. After all his heroic exploits and their survival of the journey by river to Quebec, he and Mother lived only two more years.

  The news from Quebec was delivered by a far greater human force than we were anticipating. In the middle of June 1760, just when we were becoming accustomed to our existence at the Miramichi, events began to unravel that would alter our life in the wilderness. Summer took us all to the mouth of the river to reap the benefits of the sea and to feel the hot sands beneath our feet. That is when we first heard the rumblings from the south.

  Legions of Acadians and Mi’kmaq, fifteen hundred strong, appeared by land and by sea. Hundreds of schooners sailed into the bay, while militiamen and tribesmen swept into our communities. They told us that Quebec had fallen in October of the previous year and demanded that our men join them in their battle against the British. They gave us no warning and they expected every man in our region to decide immediately whether to join the fight or remain with our families. They told us that Father Manach, the priest who had been leader of the Acadian and Mi’kmaq militias, had made peace with the British following the fall of Quebec. The Acadian leaders, like the elusive Beausoleil, declared that Manach and the other priests who followed his example were traitors and that there was still a chance to vanquish the British.