Piau

by Bruce Murray

  One of the priests who had remained loyal to the French cause informed us that he had administered the last rites to the now famous Charles Belliveau and his mother at Quebec. Despite our grief, we were comforted by the fact that neither had suffered for long. Amen!

  Most of the elders understood that with the loss of Quebec an Acadian victory was impossible. Some were caught up in the excitement of the imminent battle and joined the militias, but I persuaded most of my group to wait and see. In the coming weeks we watched from the shore as flotillas of French and British warships forged their way through the choppy seas, sailing north to meet in battle at the mouth of the Restigouche River. Militias of Natives and Acadians continued to parade north through the woods to help defend the communities in Chaleur Bay.

  It was through the network of communications of the Mi’kmaq, Malecite, and Algonquin tribes that we had become aware of the fall of the fortress of Louisbourg in 1758 and the capitulation of the people of New France in 1759 to the British. Beaten and wounded survivors of the Battle of Restigouche returned south to tell stories of victory against the British. However, the final page of their saga was one of defeat. The colonies in the New World were now in the hands of the British. Hearing this news, we realized that the game had abruptly changed and we were hiding out in a territory that was under British domination. The idea of living peacefully under French rule had evaporated not long after it had begun and our future suddenly became uncertain.

  Chapter 37

  The changes we make in life are governed by time and circumstance. After Quebec fell to the British in 1759, we found that we were again living in a time of English rule. We were again fugitives fleeing the British forces, not refugees under French protection. Changes of time and circumstance force decisions that would otherwise not be necessary. We Acadians at the Miramichi were compelled to plan our next move. Better to hasten the inevitable than run away from it. I set about to convince the elders of our settlement that our only choice was to give ourselves up to those who now governed us and finally sign the unconditional oath of allegiance.

  Many were unwilling to make this move. I had learned from my experience at French Cross that it is impossible to convince everyone to make a prudent decision. Fortunately, at least half those assembled at the Miramichi saw the wisdom in my suggestion. Therefore, in the summer of 1760, after a gruelling winter with no assistance from the French and no ammunition or gunpowder for our weapons, we gathered our belongings and began to travel by foot south along the seacoast, returning by the route from which we had come four years earlier. At Cocagne we united with other fugitives who had fought at the Battle of Restigouche but had come to the same conclusion, that it was best to surrender to the British and give up our arms.

  Early in summer we arrived at Fort Beauséjour, now Fort Cumberland, at what had been known to us as Beaubassin. The British received us outside the walls of the fort at gunpoint. They declared that we were prisoners of war according to the law passed by the English Parliament that no Acadians were permitted to reside in Nova Scotia. We relinquished our arms and our liberty with profound regret, for we had been the ones among our people to retain those rights the longest. As prisoners of war, however, we were assured of food and some degree of lodging. It was indeed ironic that our captivity was to be our place of greatest safety. Had those same British officers known of my complicity in stealing the schooner four years earlier and the execution of its captain and crew, I would have been executed myself. Ah, the vagaries of war!

  The young commanding officer who read the declaration had a most familiar face, startlingly, a ghostly memory from the past. The resemblance was uncanny, but this officer was too young to be the man I remembered. That man would be in his seventies by now. I watched him carefully as he read the document perfectly in the King’s English. Then the recollection became clear. This was Samuel Mangeant, thrown by fate back into my life. Here stood the son of Benjamin’s nemesis and murderer, François Mangeant, a young man who twenty years earlier had stolen my Cousin Elizabeth’s innocence, only to desert her. I stood there paralyzed, attempting to keep my anger from erupting.

  Having delivered his declaration in English, he repeated it immaculately in French. This confirmed my suspicion. This was indeed Samuel Mangeant! He did not have the haughty air of his father. Perhaps his father’s final banishment tempered any feeling of superiority he may have had, or it was quite possible he inherited some of the good qualities of his mother. I remember her as a refined and gentle woman.

  Having completed his duty, he asked who among our large group spoke fluent English.

  “Monsieur,” I said, “I will speak for all the prisoners present.”

  Mangeant appeared puzzled.

  “You have a perfect English accent, sir. Are you English?”

  Ignoring the intent of his question, I remarked sarcastically, “I have been a loyal subject to His Majesty the King of Great Britain for nearly fifty years, monsieur.”

  Young Mangeant looked at me quizzically. I was not certain whether he noted the sarcasm, but my insolent tone was unmistakable.

  Dismissing my comment, he spoke emphatically. “Since it will be you who communicates with the officers at Fort Cumberland on behalf of the Acadian prisoners, I will require your name, monsieur.”

  “I am known to every member of this august group of proud Acadians as Piau. Using this name will be most convenient to all concerned. It has been so long since I have been referred to by my birth names, I almost forget what they are.”

  “When you sign the oath of allegiance, which you will see is the unconditional oath, you will have to sign using your surname and birth name. You must at least provide the officer who administers it with your proper designation. I trust you can write your name, sir.”

  “That I can, monsieur. I was formally educated in both French and English. I am an Acadian, there is no doubt, but my heritage is both French and British.”

  “You are a bold one. Your English heritage will not be recognized here or anywhere else in His Majesty’s colonies.”

  Did Samuel Mangeant recognize me? Perhaps, or perhaps not!

  So began our captivity. The Acadians were ordered to immediately set about restoring the dikes surrounding the fort. The system built before the fall of Fort Beauséjour had been badly damaged in the battles between the British and the defending French. Fortunately for us, the foundations were still intact, so the work was not onerous. By late summer they were completely mended owing to the work of hundreds of Acadians.

  Our numbers were not as numerous as they had been in exile, but they were still too great to be manageable in such a small fort. Therefore, it was decided by those in command that half our group would be transported to Fort Edward, situated at Pisquit on what they now called the Avon River, just upriver from Grand Pré.

  The prospect of returning to the valley near Minas filled us with some excitement. For me, it would be close enough to consider this move a return home. Grand Pré was as much a part of me as Melanson Village and Port Royal. It would, of course, be difficult to return to a land where all the Acadian farms had been transferred to English and New England planters. Our destiny would take us to our previous lands, but we would be forced, as prisoners of war, to work the land as indentured servants, unable to reap the benefits of our labours.

  It came as no surprise to me that Captain Mangeant accompanied us to Fort Edward. By the end of August we boarded ships that conveyed us by sea across the Bay of Fundy into Minas Basin and up the Avon River to our new home, or prison camp.

  We entered the basin, sailing past Grand Pré as the sun was setting over the valley. Tears streamed from my eyes as I stood on the deck with six others in our group.

  Mangeant sensed my nostalgia for this special place. “Piau, do you know this place, Grand Pré?”

  Not wishing to share my important memories, I merely nodded.


  The young man persisted. “When I was little more than a teen, I passed a most agreeable summer visiting my parents at Grand Pré. My father was the magistrate there at the time. My youngest brother, Jean Baptiste, was born there. There are few places on earth as beautiful as this valley in summer.”

  “I must agree with you on that point. As for me, I spent every winter here when I was a child, in the home of my great-uncle. He was responsible for my English education. He was born in Yorkshire.”

  “So, that is the British heritage you referred to when we first met at Fort Cumberland.”

  “That is so.” I was reluctant to offer any more information about myself.

  “You might find this odd, but I am a British officer with not a drop of English blood flowing through my veins.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, and I am at liberty and you are not.”

  “The state of being free is not of the body but of the soul,” I said as a rebuke.

  Mangeant thought for a long moment. “I suppose one does have to adopt that attitude when one is under arrest, monsieur.”

  There the conversation ended. This was an exchange I was certain he would not have had with one of his fellow officers.

  To my surprise, as our vessel sailed closer to Pisiquit I could see in the early evening sun that, unlike Grand Pré, all the farms still retained their houses, barns, and outer buildings. I was certain that this was a unique situation, for on our travels to this place we had seen no evidence of Acadian farms being left intact. The British had burned all the Acadian villages to the ground to prevent us from returning to them and using them as a place to resist the British army. Not only were these farms intact, but there appeared to be people actively working them. How strange, we thought.

  We soon came to realize that our futures would be tied up with these former Acadian lands.

  Arrival at Fort Edward was routine. Captain Mangeant presented several hundred of us to the commander of the fort, Captain Jotham Gay. We were all accounted for, and the prisoner list was transferred into the hands of the commanding officer. Mangeant and Gay saluted one another and shook hands in a friendly and familiar way.

  “It is good to see you again, Samuel. It has been some time since we have been in one another’s presence. I trust your wife and children are happy and in good health.”

  “Kind of you to ask, Jotham. They were robustly healthy when I last saw them, but, of course, the war has prevented me from returning to them in Boston, my leaves have been so infrequent. I receive their news by letter when the dispatches are delivered from New England.”

  “Your human cargo appears to be in excellent health compared to those I have witnessed previously. They will make strong and productive workers.”

  “Indeed. I believe they lived quite comfortably in isolation on the Miramichi River, regular recipients of victuals, arms, and ammunition from the French at Quebec. Once they realized that Quebec had fallen to our forces they surrendered voluntarily. They have even signed the oath of allegiance to His Majesty King George III.”

  “Voluntary submission, you say. Well, these prisoners will provide the labour we need to build a productive English-speaking colony here.”

  Hearing these words, I became aware of what these plans implied. Like the Israelites in bondage in Egypt, we were destined to be a people forced to endure a life of servitude. This was something I had not anticipated; we were now indentured servants, stripped of our rights and freedoms. My hope evaporated like a morning mist. I was the only member of the group fluent enough in English to understand their intent, so I was left to suffer my own anguish in silence. The inevitable would be revealed to the rest of my family and friends in due course.

  “Captain Gay, I would like to introduce you to Piau.”

  Mangeant motioned for me to come forward. I complied, not showing any pleasure being singled out in the group.

  “This Acadian gentleman is the leader of this group. He speaks the King’s English far better than either of us and has been well educated in our language.”

  Gay laughed as he scrutinized me carefully. “Has he indeed? And where, Monsieur Piau, did you acquire this education?”

  “My grandfather was the son of a Huguenot, born and raised in Yorkshire. He and his brother came to Port Royal with his parents when the English first took possession of the colony in 1657. Both my grandfather and his brother married Acadian women. His brother, my great-uncle, took on the responsibility of my English education when I was a young child.”

  When I had finished, I noticed a change in Captain Mangeant. Our eyes met. It was obvious to me that his mind was stripping away the layers of the past and discovering our common history. The look I gave him was one that could no longer conceal what I knew. He knew what I knew, it was now clear, although I could not be certain if he was in possession of the complete story of Benjamin’s death and his father’s complicity.

  “Well, Monsieur Piau, I am fortunate to find that you will be a useful liaison between my company and your people. I am certain we will get on famously. This man is truly unique, Captain Mangeant, would you not agree?”

  “I agree, Captain. Quite unique.” His expression never changed as he uttered those words.

  The following day, Samuel Mangeant approached me while I was stoking the fire at the tent site where the soldiers had assembled sleeping quarters for the newly arrived prisoners of war. It was still summer, so these were sufficient until the colder weather arrived.

  “Bonjour, Captain.”

  “So, Monsieur Belliveau, when were you going to reveal your true identity to me? Your great-uncle was Sieur Pierre Laverdure, the founder of Grand Pré, and your cousin was Benjamin LeBlanc.” Mangeant seemed to take a degree of pleasure in finding me out.

  “That is true. Elizabeth LeBlanc is my cousin as well,” I responded, adding this comment to inflict a well-deserved sting on behalf of my dear exiled cousin.

  “It has been more than twenty years, Piau. I was no more than a boy that summer at Grand Pré.”

  “I do not consider eighteen a boy, Captain. You were a young officer in His Majesty’s army. You were certainly old enough to tarnish the reputation of a naive and unsuspecting young lady. She never recovered, you will be pleased to know. But, as we all do, she learned to accept her lot in life. I hope she is safe in some friendly corner of the globe.”

  “She is, monsieur, I assure you. I was part of the military battalion under Winslow who evacuated the Acadians from the lands of Minas Basin in 1755. I made certain that Elizabeth’s father and his entire family were safely shipped to New England through the port of New York. I was captain of a ship sailing to Philadelphia and I manoeuvred to ensure that Elizabeth, her sister, and her brother Désiré were aboard my vessel. And so they were. On our arrival in Philadelphia, employment was arranged for all three in the home of a wealthy Quaker merchant. Elizabeth is governess to his children. René LeBlanc and his family were reunited with Elizabeth and her two siblings in Philadelphia. Monsieur LeBlanc has since died. I sense he was not a happy man. But those were the times, Piau. You see, sir, I am not the villain in this story.”

  I stood still and remained speechless. I knew, of course, that it was his father who had been the villain. The son resembled his father in appearance, not in character. François Mangeant had been a demon, but the son clearly was not. I felt ashamed of myself for unjustifiably making the wrong judgment about this man.

  “I owe you an apology, Captain, and a huge debt of gratitude for all you have done to soften the blow of expulsion for my poor exiled family. Kindness from a British officer is not something any of us have experienced in a long time. So, thank you, Samuel.”

  “There is no need for thanks or apologies. You must believe me when I say that my intentions toward your cousin Elizabeth were honourable and that I loved her and hoped to marry her. My father woul
d have none of it when our affair was revealed, and he banished me to New England, ordering me to concentrate on my standing in the British army and improve my fortunes with a suitable New England girl. I did marry an English girl from Boston, and we have lived a reasonably happy life with two children. You understand, however, I have been at war for the past four years, and army life allows few opportunities for one to be with one’s family. Despite your captivity, I envy your being able to be with your loved ones daily.”

  “All I can say to you, young Mangeant, is God bless you. You cannot carry the burden of your father’s crimes, nor should you. François Mangeant, wherever he may be, dead or living, will eventually be judged on the same scale as all of us. Justice comes from only one place. Believe me, my soul has been tarnished by many sins. I wish to live to be an old man so I can make proper restitution for what I have been forced to do in this ghastly war.”

  “Did you join the resistance at Restigouche? You can answer truthfully; I will impose no punishment. This, after all, is a time of war.”

  “I left that battle to the young. I have a large family to raise and I am of no use to them dead. I learned from my father’s early death when I was one year old that a man has a responsibility to live and care for his children. My father died a hero, attempting to protect our home, but he was also fighting to defend French rule at Port Royal. And there lies the problem. From that time until the deportation, we attempted not to take sides, but the fates refused to allow us the luxury of neutrality. And so we are here, alive and together. And you have told your story, so I can find it in my heart to forgive you for my cousin’s sadness and her brother’s murder.”