Piau Read online

  I clearly remember riding slowly through the village of Grand Pré for the first time and witnessing the respect and homage paid by its inhabitants to Uncle, the patriarch of their community. This regard was amplified by the sight of the seigneurial home at the western end of the village. It was grander than anything I had ever seen, a huge stone structure with two levels. Our homes in Port Royal were modest in comparison. On our arrival at the front gate a man greeted us.

  “Bonjour, René, comment allez-vous?” shouted Uncle. “Dites bienvenue à mon petit-neveu, Pierre, dit Piau Belliveau. Il va rester avec nous pendant l’hiver.”

  “Bienvenue à tous et à toi, Maître Piau.”

  The young man who greeted us was René LeBlanc, Uncle Pierre’s son-in-law, the husband of his daughter Isabelle. Even as an eight-year-old, I was struck by René’s extraordinary presence, for he truly was a force of nature, one of those beings who exudes a boundless energy even on first meeting.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Piau. I have a son named Benjamin — perhaps he can be your companion during your stay. I am certain that both of you will get on famously.”

  I was comforted by this news for I had feared I would be living exclusively in a world of adults. It was a prediction that turned out to be true — Benjamin and I became great friends and remained so for years.

  The comfort of my uncle’s home wrapped its arms around me in a way no human had ever done. The grand armchairs by the fire were finely carved and covered in tapestry. They always welcomed me on cold winter days and nights. The main room of the house was miraculously laden with books of every kind and size. These would be my refuge for the next ten winters of my life. Hidden amongst the books was a large ancient volume. On first discovering it, I realized it was written in English, a language I had yet to master, and it was filled with sacred images of the life of Jesus and other unknown characters that had some connection with the divine. Uncle often noticed my fascination with these printed images and one day revealed the true nature of this special volume.

  “I see, Piau, you have become enraptured with the holy book. It is the King James Version of the Bible. As you see, it tells of the life of Jesus and all those who went before. My parents brought this English Protestant Bible to Acadia when we arrived over fifty years ago.

  “You notice in the centre of the book that my parents have signed their names and written the dates of their births, the day of their marriage, and my birthdate and that of your grandfather as well. See Father — Pierre Laverdure, born in La Rochelle, France, in 1606; and Mother — Priscilla Melanson, born in Bradford, in Yorkshire, England, in 1613. And there I am, Peter Laverdure, born in Bradford, England, in 1636, and your grandfather Charles Laverdure, born in Bradford in 1643.

  “When my parents moved to Boston with my brother John in 1667 when the French regained their governance of Acadia, they left the family Bible with me. Over the years, I have returned to this book many times because it is the only thing that connects me to my parents and my distant past. This is not the Bible of the Roman Church but it still holds the secrets to our humanity and God’s divinity. I give you permission to read passages from the great book when your English improves.”

  Chapter 2

  Not only were my uncle and René welcoming when I first arrived, so, too, was my cousin Isabelle. She spilled a torrent of greetings when my uncle first introduced me to her and Benjamin.

  “Could this be little Piau? How wonderful to finally meet you! I trust your mother is in good health. I have not seen her since the British took over the garrison at Port Royal, which I hear is now known as Annapolis. You certainly seem to take after her. And my father has boasted to me of your precocity. Here is your cousin Benjamin. He is just beginning his education, too. Together you will be learning the language of those who govern us.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Cousin Isabelle. My mother is in very good health, thank you, and she has told me all about you. And, yes, the town is now called Annapolis but we choose to call it Port Royal as we always have.”

  I shook Benjamin’s hand.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Piau. I look forward to spending the winter in your company.”

  Benjamin’s greeting was extremely formal in its delivery but unmistakably genuine.

  “What did I tell you, young Piau,” interjected Uncle. “Like you, Benjamin is an extraordinary child, mature and intelligent beyond his years.”

  Benjamin was also a handsome child. His eyes sparkled in a way I had never witnessed before. He seemed a most interesting person and I felt immediately that we would be bosom friends. The prospect of having a fellow student to share my learning filled me with a confidence I had not felt before. And, of course, I relished the prospect of having a playmate.

  And so began our daily learning sessions. René and Uncle were responsible for my studies, and Isabelle oversaw Benjamin’s English and French lessons. While I practised my lessons, I listened to Uncle’s heated debates with René. They spoke of the constant indecision of whether to leave Acadia for Île Royale or Île Saint Jean, or to stay. The issue of whether or not to take the oath of allegiance to the British Crown seemed to riddle their discussions. I was made aware of the willingness of the Acadians to leave with their worldly goods and livestock and sail to the surrounding French colonies. But however much the British wanted us to leave, they feared us more in exile. The increased power of the French surrounding Nova Scotia should eight thousand of us enter the neighbouring French colonies was far too threatening. There was also the question of who would feed the one hundred and fifty British soldiers at Annapolis should we leave our farms. I heard that Lieutenant-Governors Nicholson, Vetch, and Caulfield all decided to prevent us from emigrating by denying us the sails necessary to wind our vessels.

  Over time, Isabelle became a mother figure to me. She was everything one would hope for in a mother. She was beautiful, warm, comforting, and charismatic. She took me under her wing and was as kind to me as she was to her own son. She informed me of my family history, all the stories that were too painful for my own mother to relate. One day she sat on the floor before Uncle’s hearth and talked about my mother’s tragedy.

  “Piau, your father was a great man and very heroic. When Colonel March and the British attacked Port Royal on two occasions in 1707, your father fought bravely to defend the fort and his property from the invaders. He became a victim of their treachery after holding out against many days of attacks. British retribution rained down upon your home and your family. They shot your father, burned your house, and killed and confiscated your livestock.

  “Your mother fled with her children. You were a babe in arms. Your grandmother Marie took you in. When the British left Port Royal in ruins, Captain Pierre Morphan and the French privateers, who had fought alongside the Acadians in the battle, felt such compassion for your mother and such respect for your father’s courage in the face of the enemy that they presented to her a British vessel they had captured off the New England coast. You all were to live on that ship until your new home was constructed in the village. Your brother Charles’s passion for shipbuilding began at that period. He transformed his grief into something constructive. The ship was confiscated when the British arrived at the garrison five years ago.

  “This is a story I believe you must hear and one you will in time pass on to your descendants so they can be proud of those who went before them.”

  “Isabelle, it is true I was a baby when we lived aboard the British ship, but I have heard many tales told of those times living below decks. We never sailed her but I am certain it was fun to pretend we were at sea for my older brothers. Poor Mother never speaks of that time, though. But you are correct, my brothers Charles and Jean remember it all as a great adventure, raising the sails when they chose to and climbing to the crow’s nest to stand on guard for the first sight of an imaginary enemy fleet.

  “Even tho
ugh he was only ten at the time, Charles was forced to become the man of the family. Living on the ship made the finest shipbuilder in all Acadia!”

  “How you boast, Piau!” said Isabelle.

  We all began to laugh. I suppose I was a budding storyteller even then.

  That first autumn, I learned more of my family and witnessed their life in their village. I saw the completion of the new church, observing how René instructed the men of the village how to place the stones. Uncle supervised from his seat in the churchyard, but it was René who made certain each stone was placed and mortared properly. They completed the construction of the roof before the first snowfall and prepared the church interior for the Christmas season. Although I was very young, I was able to absorb their joy and pride at midnight mass on Christmas Eve. Not even the British lieutenant-governor at Port Royal could threaten what they had rebuilt, for they had learned to savour each moment of this life as if it were a precious gift. The church was the gift they had given themselves and no one could steal that from them.

  During that winter of 1715, I was to discover that René was no ordinary overseer. He was René LeBlanc, and, although only twenty-seven, he was a very influential person in the community at Grand Pré. I discovered that, at a very young age, René’s genius had been recognized by my uncle. Uncle Pierre had placed him under his patronage just as he had now placed me, and had educated him in English so that someone in the community could be a liaison with the English as Uncle grew older. Stonemasonry had been only a small part of his education. In later years his position as notary at Grand Pré would secure him a major role in the exile of our people. He became my teacher and mentor. He was married to Uncle Pierre’s daughter Isabelle and therefore he was also the husband of my mother’s first cousin. Even at my tender age, I was struck by Isabelle’s extraordinary beauty and vibrancy. She, too, became a part of my English world during those early years. Their son, Benjamin, only six at the time, became my closest friend.

  When the spring arrived at Grand Pré I was anxious to return home to Port Royal. I was returning to my family at Melanson Village an altered person and far more enlightened. The influence of Uncle, Isabelle, René, and even little Benjamin was to survive each summer and spill over into my life with my brothers and sisters. My mother perceived a great change in her youngest son both physically and mentally.

  “You have changed, Piau. You have grown and I notice a difference in your eyes. Perhaps they are wiser. We all missed you but I see that your winter with Uncle Pierre has been a benefit.”

  She embraced me in a more meaningful way than I could remember. From that time on she never took me for granted again.

  During the summer we received a visit from Uncle, Isabelle, and Benjamin. For a week Benjamin and I enjoyed the freedom of the hot summer days, swimming in the river and scaling the ramparts of the dikes. Occasionally we would find a shady spot in the town where I would read aloud from one of the English books from Uncle’s library.

  One day, as we sat outside the blacksmith’s shop engaged in our usual pastime, a distinguished-looking officer chanced by and heard me reading aloud. He spoke to me with a sound of amazement in his voice: “Young man, where did you learn to read English with such fluency? That is remarkable for an Acadian boy and one of such a tender age.”

  “My uncle taught me and has allowed me to choose some English books from his collection.”

  “And who might your uncle be, young master?”

  “Uncle’s name is Pierre Laverdure, of Grand Pré.”

  “Indeed! I am acquainted with your uncle. He is a venerable English gentleman and you are a very fortunate young man to have access to your uncle’s library. I am Lieutenant-Governor Caulfield. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. And to whom am I speaking?”

  “Pierre Belliveau, but they call me Piau. This is my uncle’s grandson, Benjamin. He speaks English as well.”

  Despite my mistrust of the British at Port Royal, I felt proud that I was able to communicate with them in their own language. That being said, I always felt a degree of remorse after each encounter with the British soldiers of the garrison.

  The lieutenant-governor appeared to be genuinely good-natured, though. My discomfort began to dissipate when he spoke.

  “Come to the garrison tomorrow. I have something I wish to give to you. I will expect you after the noonday gun. Until tomorrow, young Piau.”

  The following day at noontime, the soldiers guarding the gate at the fort were amused at the sight of two young Acadian boys requesting to see Lieutenant-Governor Caulfield. They were even more amazed that one of them spoke perfect English. Just as promised, the lieutenant-governor appeared at the gate with a book in hand.

  Ignoring the guards, Lieutenant-Governor Caulfield spoke to us in a congenial and familiar manner.

  “Good day, Master Piau and Cousin Benjamin. Recently, my wife forwarded to me a book newly published in England. It is a story of great adventure on an exotic island in the South Seas. The author is a Mr. Defoe and the title is Robinson Crusoe. It is a fascinating story, and although it will require much effort on your part to read it, I am certain in time you will find it most entertaining. It is my gift to your continuing education. Keep it. I am able to get another should I wish in future.”

  He shook both our hands and sent us on our way. I have never forgotten his kindness, and history has shown him to have been the gentlest and most sympathetic of all the British lieutenant-governors of Acadia.

  One winter followed the next, and the summers followed each other as well, and I enjoyed my two lives — winters at Grand Pré and summers at Port Royal.

  My education continued under the tutelage of many. At Grand Pré, Uncle Pierre, René, and Isabelle each felt responsible for contributing something to my knowledge — sometimes, admittedly, my fog of knowledge. Absorbing all they hurled at me was daunting. It took my summers to digest all they chose to send my way during the winters.

  Isabelle made certain that Benjamin and I perfected our penmanship, encouraging us to practise in both French and English. This was not an onerous task for us, because we rallied back and forth between languages on a regular basis. I don’t believe we were even conscious of which we were speaking at any given time. Certainly, in our community, however, we spoke to our neighbours in French.

  René was responsible for our practical use of numbers, allowing us to create imaginary ledgers of goods one might purchase or trade. He instructed us in measuring the size of properties, particularly community fields, weighing bags of grain produced in those fields, and predicting what each was likely to yield in a growing season.

  He instructed us also in stonemasonry. This skill I was not to perfect until much later in life, for I was only in residence at Grand Pré in the winter. Benjamin, on the other hand, became a master stonemason like his father and grandfather before him.

  As for Uncle Pierre, he supervised what we read in both languages and was able to produce any number of volumes from his massive library to improve our reading. He encouraged us to practise incessantly so that we should become competent in French and English.

  It was Uncle’s knowledge of history that captured my imagination most. In telling his own story he was able to bring to life a great web of stories that described the history of France and England over a period of close to a hundred years. One such story told of the execution of the English king.

  “When I was thirteen, the king of England, Charles I, was beheaded. Can you imagine that, a monarch being executed by his own people?”

  Benjamin and I sat there in total wonderment.

  “Why would they cut the king’s head off, Uncle?” I asked.

  “That is a good question, Piau. Well, the answer is clear. He went to war against his own subjects and lost that war. He was tried and executed. The stubborn King Charles believed he was only answerable to God, not the people o
f England, and it is a known fact, especially in England, that a monarch reigns only by the good graces of his subjects.”

  “Who became king after the execution?” inquired Benjamin.

  “That is also an excellent question, Grandson. There was no king. The commanding general of the army was a man named Oliver Cromwell, and he governed for ten years as Lord Protector of the Commonwealth. He did not wish to be king but he certainly was an able leader. My father was a member of Cromwell’s New Model Army. It was because my father was on the winning side that he was given land at Port Royal in 1657. That is how I came to live in Acadia.”

  “How is it that we have a king now, Uncle Pierre?” I asked.

  “Well, three years after my family arrived in Acadia, in 1660, to be exact, the English Parliament, the elected assembly where all the laws are created, invited the old king’s son to return to England as their new king. King Charles II happily agreed but he was forced to relinquish many of the powers his father had enjoyed. After he was crowned, we heard little news of His Majesty in the colony.”

  “Tell us about our French history, Grandfather,” Benjamin requested.

  “My father told me many tales of his growing up in France. He was a master tailor, you know, from a place in France called La Rochelle. He grew up in a family that was very religious, but they were not Catholics, they were referred to as Huguenots. They believed that a person could have a direct relationship with God through prayer and by reading the words of the Bible. Their church services were conducted in French, not Latin like the Roman Church. The Huguenots were mistrusted by many of the French Catholics, including the king of France himself. They were persecuted for their beliefs even to the point of being hunted down and murdered. The infamous St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre is an example. Under the leadership of the Duke of Guise, thousands of Huguenots were hunted down in one day and butchered like wild animals. My father always became very emotional when he related the story of that gruesome day.”