Piau Read online

  Foreword

  Even as a young child, my brother Bruce had an insatiable curiosity. It wasn’t unusual to see him rummaging through drawers, peering into our family’s old cedar chest, or sneaking into the attic to discover untold secrets and treasures.

  He loved the company of older folks, who would regale him with stories of their childhoods and family history while he peppered them with questions and begged to see pictures.

  He was fascinated with graveyards and visited them every chance he could get.

  So, it was no surprise to anyone when he chose to study history in university.

  By the time my brother had made the decision to enter show business, after six years of university, he was already a trained historian. He sang back-up for me both on tour and on several of my albums. In the years we toured the world together, he carried his passion for history with him, seeking out landmarks of significance everywhere we performed. Celebrity had made me reclusive and he would drag me from my hotel room and insist that I accompany him. Each tour was a fascinating history lesson and his enthusiasm was infectious. He singlehandedly changed my lonely life on the road.

  I remember him forcing our chauffeur to stop at a churchyard in the English countryside so that he could stand over the gravesite of Winston Churchill. I must say that I was caught up in that special moment, too.

  So when Bruce informed me that he was writing a historical novel based on the life of Piau Belliveau, it seemed like the natural thing. After all, Piau had been part of our family folklore for as long as I can remember.

  In the book, my brother summons our Acadian ancestors, skillfully weaving their stories into the fabric of the novel and lacing them with such passion and detail that they are hard to resist. Knowing that the majority of the characters existed, and the events actually occurred, allows the reader to be easily transported back in time, unconcerned about which of them is fictional and which is historical.

  I felt it was very courageous of Bruce to allow Piau to tell his own story. It is a risky business to channel the thoughts and words of a main character. It reads as a memoir but has the sense of a journal being written. Allowing Piau’s voice to be heard makes the narrative sound more authentic. Seeing the historical players in the story through Piau’s eyes allows the reader to penetrate his character and experience the people around him in an almost mystical way.

  And there is Piau’s singing voice, a personal touch, coming from an author who himself has an extraordinary singing voice. We were told that our great-grandfather Damien Belliveau, a descendent of the novel’s hero, was famous throughout the Acadian community for his magnificent singing voice. Using song in the novel to add the special meaning that music provides in the everyday lives of people everywhere is a nice touch and resonates to my very core! The times of celebration and sorrow in Piau are accompanied by French songs from the period, songs that tug at the reader’s heart- strings. And of course, the unique sound and tone of my voice and that of my brother’s had to have come from somewhere. Why not from Piau?

  I cannot ignore the perilous and heartbreaking journey that the Acadians were forced to endure during the Acadian Expulsion. When I filmed a music special for television several years ago in my native Nova Scotia, one of the filming sites was the Church of St. Charles at Grand Pré, the place where Acadian men were torn from their families, homes, and lives, were locked up in the church, and finally packed off on to ships and inhumanely exiled to far-off places. As I toured the museum, I found myself imagining the hopeless cries of the mothers and children. I became so overcome by the feeling that this place created in me that I found it difficult to proceed with the taping. I recovered, however, and proceeded to tell Piau’s story on camera: of his capturing of a British ship and the violent encounter that event created. I will leave that story to the storyteller here but I must say reading the novel resurrects those intense emotions in me.

  The story my brother has told is not only an Acadian story; it has a universal message. Those who were affected by this tragic story and survived, have descendants in all parts of the globe. Because this is such a momentous event in our history, its story is remembered by hundreds of thousands of people of Acadian descent throughout the world. Piau represents just one of these amazing stories and the tale of his courageous journey has been long overdue in the telling and deserves to finally be heard.

  — Anne Murray

  Introduction

  This novel is closely based on the life and times of Pierre Belliveau, an Acadian folk hero and also an ancestor of mine. Known as Piau, Pierre was a central figure in Acadian history, helping some of his fellow Acadians to escape the British expulsion of his people in the 1750s. He was the leader of a group that eventually settled in what is now New Brunswick, establishing a settlement there.

  You may wonder what motivated me to resurrect an Acadian patriarch 210 years after his death. Why not leave him to the world of cultural myths remembered by those whom author Antonine Maillet describes as “the Acadian nation”? Is it because I am a direct descendant of Piau and therefore I feel an obligation to tell his story? Perhaps. After all, he has been part of my consciousness for most of my life. I have collected a lifetime of stories about him and the Acadians from my maternal grandparents, whose own parents and grandparents and earlier ancestors had never married outside the Acadian community; from stories passed on by word of mouth by others; and from other stories published by uncles and cousins who happened to be Acadian historians. So it is natural that I, as a trained historian myself, should want to explore and relate the story of Piau’s life and great achievements. It may sound odd, but I have the mystical feeling that it was not I who chose Piau, but, rather, it was Piau who chose me. This claim requires a leap of faith on the reader’s part, I know, so I will leave it at that. My own journey to discover Piau deserves some explanation, however.

  Surprisingly, the seed for this book began with my unearthing of an ancient Protestant Bible in the dresser drawer of my Acadian grandmother. A budding historian even at the age of ten — some, however, might think I could be better described as a snoop — I intuitively had a distinct impression that the Bible was forbidden fruit. According to my grandmother, who eventually caught me red-handed perusing the well-worn volume, this was the King James Bible that had been passed down to her through her father. Ironically, although the book was a treasured family heirloom, those into whose hands it had come were forbidden to read it, because it was not approved by the Roman Catholic Church. This Bible plays an important role in Piau. To my supreme sadness, the Bible was burned when my grandparents’ home went up in flames in the late 1970s.

  My Uncle Harry, who was an author and Acadian historian, informed me that the Bible had belonged to one of our ancestors whose name was Piau Belliveau. It was he who first told me of the exploits of this ancestor, famous for leading his people during the expulsion of the Acadians. Not only was my uncle obsessed by our illustrious ancestor, but he was also an authority on Colonel Frederick DesBarres, who was connected in history with Piau. Their story also appears in the book.

  My family, ever rich in historians, produced a written account of Piau’s life that was published in a reputable magazine while I was still in my teenage years. The author was my cousin Edward “Ned” Belliveau. Inspired by his account, I set about to find out everything I could about my famous forebear. This pursuit has continued to this day. What a journey it has been, reading about Piau in nineteenth-century histories and listening to personal accounts of his life from centenarian cousins of my Acadian grandmother.

  So, there existed a considerable amount of written material on Piau, not to mention the great amount of oral history that was available about him. Still, I felt that Piau�
�s life hadn’t yet been properly told, and I knew that I was the person to tell it. So that is what I set out to do. Why, though, you may ask, did I write a work of historical fiction based on a lifetime of research rather than produce a non-fiction account?

  I believed, as I channelled the life and accomplishments of this great Acadian figure, that hearing Piau’s voice and those of the people in his life was essential to the telling of this remarkable tale. It would allow for his story to unfold in an emotional way for the reader — Piau’s struggles could be relived as he experienced them. It would be possible to see, almost firsthand, his joys and disappointments, and to feel the hopelessness the Acadians must have felt time and time again as they were perpetually challenged by the arbitrary behaviour and decisions of the British soldiers and their officers.

  So, I decided that the story of Piau’s life needed to be told not as a non-fiction history or biography but as a work of fiction. Nevertheless, despite the fact that this is a novel, all of the main events really happened, and all but two of the characters in the book are real — the only fictional characters in the book, Captain Tyrone and Madame Thibideau, play at best only minor roles in the story.

  Piau is not just the story of one man’s life and his struggle for survival, however. It is a far greater story, one of an exiled people, fifteen thousand souls driven from their lands, many displaced by force and stranded in unfamiliar lands around the world. This is a case of ethnic cleansing and forced human migration on a large scale, possibly the largest of its kind anywhere until the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. This story deserves to be known. It should provide universal lessons not only to Canadians but to people everywhere.

  THE EARLY YEARS

  Chapter 1

  I am Pierre Belliveau but my people call me Piau. I am in my hundredth year. My spirit has embraced this land and its ancestry for nearly a century. Every possible joy and calamity has come upon me because I am Acadian. Like Moses and the Israelites, who escaped the mighty pharoah and his army, my people and I escaped the British and their army and have wandered through the wilderness, searching for the Promised Land. The North Star guided me into exile and on my return I crossed the River Jordan into the land of Canaan. I am my own master here, and those I love are with me; therefore I am one with God, who has protected me, and one with my ancestors, who bore great hardships in order that I should survive, procreate, and live in this land. I was a witness to the resurrection of my people and I surrender my spirit happily in the knowledge that my descendants will forever remain in the land of their forefathers.

  I speak of the British as if they are other than me, but I have forever been a man with a divided spirit. I have witnessed the atrocities inflicted on my people and my family by British soldiers, but I must confess that I myself am part English.

  My mother was half French and half English. Her father, Charles Melanson, was an English Protestant, born of a French Huguenot father and an English mother. He sailed into Port Royal on the ship Satisfaction at age fourteen with his British parents and his brother, Peter (my great-uncle Pierre), when Acadia became an English colony in 1657. Her father was to become the patriarch of Melanson Village.

  In 1664 my grandfather Charles married my grandmother Marie, daughter of Abraham Dugas, the gun-maker to the king of France and armourer at the fort. Following their marriage, my grandfather decided to adopt his mother’s family name Melanson, doing so (I was told) to distinguish himself from his older brother, Pierre Laverdure. The influence of this English blood flowing through my family’s veins has been profound. Because Acadia has been a British possession for most of my life, I was inclined and encouraged to embrace both my heritages.

  If the influence of the English blood in my veins has been strong, even stronger has been the influence of the French blood. Perhaps this is a result of my father’s death. I do not remember that event — I was only a year old. However, I have heard so many tales of his courage fighting General March and the British that I have absorbed others’ memories of him as my own. In my own conflict with the conquerors, I heard my father’s whispers in my ear inspiring me to lead my people to a land of exile so that our survival would be assured. He has walked with me my entire life, whispering to me that I am the reason he lived. He has always been part of my journey.

  My mother, Madeleine, who spoke both French and English perfectly, realized that teaching the English language to her children would grant them special privileges in this life. No one embraced the English language more than I. My great-uncle Peter, called Pierre Laverdure, who lived in Grand Pré, announced when I was a boy, “Piau speaks the King’s English with the eloquence of a proper English gentleman.” I basked in his praise. Under his tutelage I learned to read and write English with considerable fluency. French and English had no nationhood for me. I do not remember not communicating in both tongues. But French was the language of my father. And was not my father killed by an English musket? There lies the conflict.

  Looking back on my life and the deportation of my people, I am aware that the actions of both the French and the English, with little concern for the well-being of the Acadians, shaped our tragic history, and each was responsible for our betrayal.

  As I have said, it was Pierre Laverdure who taught me to read and write English. My first recollection of Uncle Pierre (he was really my great-uncle) was from when I was eight years old. He visited us with his wife, Aunt Marie-Marguerite, an elegant woman, the daughter of Sieur de Pobomcoup. They arrived by vessel from Grand Pré, the settlement they founded. My uncle’s arrival was met with much fanfare in Port Royal.

  Because he was an English gentleman, he was received with the utmost respect by Lieutenant-Governor Caulfield at Annapolis. My uncle had a noble carriage but he had an easy way with people. His children he called his seeds, and he never failed to remark that the wind had blown them to all parts of Acadia, boasting that he had in excess of sixty grandchildren. He had arrived to celebrate the end of the harvest with the family of his deceased brother, Charles, at Melanson Village and to deliver his crops and produce to the English soldiers of the garrison at Annapolis.

  After doing business with the new British lieutenant-governor and spending several evenings in the company of the officers at the fort, he joined his family for a week of harvest celebrations. It was at this time, not too many years after the Treaty of Utrecht had established British rule in Acadia, that Uncle Pierre spoke to my mother about my spending the winter with him and Aunt Marie-Marguerite. He remarked to my mother that his home lacked the presence of children and he would like the opportunity to spend time with me, something he believed would benefit me.

  “I have noticed in Piau a rare intelligence in one so young. I can imagine he has a great capacity for learning,” he told my mother.

  I was the youngest child and she believed that she could spare me for the winter season. My grandmother was less easy with my leaving, however. She did not easily give me up for the winter. I was Grandmama Marie’s first grandson born after the death of my grandfather and she had pampered me from birth; I gave her love and affection in return. She was responsible for my French education. On parting with me she declared that every day she would blow kisses into the wind hoping they would find me in Grand Pré. I asked her how that could be possible and she replied that they would be soaring on a warm breeze and that they would find my cheeks and caress them.

  Uncle and I sailed with the tide and the wind to Grand Pré, journeying so that I could begin my education, an event that would change my life irrevocably. This was my first long trip by boat. We followed the shoreline of the mighty Bay of Fundy, witnessing the riot of colours from the sugar maples along the shore. We floated swiftly past Blomidon, the majestic mountain of the Great Spirit Glooscap at Cap Baptiste. As evening approached, I could see the autumn sun setting over the valley at Minas. The richness of the golds impressed me as a young boy — I believed I was entering paradise.


  As we sailed into Minas Basin, Uncle pointed to a stone building being constructed in the distance. With considerable pride, he declared, “There is the new church of Saint Charles rising up from the ruins of the old. It was destroyed by the English during the great battle of 1704. I am a master stonemason and I will resurrect the old chapel stone by stone in defiance of the British conquerors.”

  I was puzzled by the emphatic nature of Uncle’s comment.

  “But Uncle, you are English. You are friends with the lieutenant-governor and all the officers at the garrison.”

  “Piau, you must learn to see beyond appearances. It is true I was born in England — yes, I was educated there, I became a journeyman stonemason in Yorkshire, and my parents were English. However, I have lived in Acadia for over fifty years. I married your aunt, who is French, embraced the Roman Catholic faith as my own, and have more often than not been in the service of the French king. The blood that flows through my veins was at one time English but now it is Acadian. My English ways have stood us in good stead during these times of British rule, but there remains no more to it than that.”

  Over time, I, too, was to cultivate these skills, which had taken Uncle Pierre fifty years to perfect.

  On our arrival at the jetty in Grand Pré, there was a large vessel, flying the flag of the king of France, awaiting our arrival. When Uncle Pierre disembarked he encountered three officers dressed in French uniforms, spoke a few words to each, and slyly passed a roll of manuscripts to one of them. This was the first time I witnessed Uncle delivering dispatches to the French. This transaction completed, Uncle met my aunt and me on the dock and we continued to our carriage. Looking back, I saw the French ship lift anchor and drift into the bay, where it remained until the following morning. I was too young at the time to comprehend that Uncle Pierre was spying for the French. I was to witness similar events time after time over the years.