Piau Read online

  “Why was your family spared?” I inquired, horrified by what I was hearing.

  “In La Rochelle the citizens were further away from the seat of power, and most people living in the walled city were Huguenots. With the fortress to protect them, they were able to defend themselves time and time again. Of course, my father was not born at that time and by the time he was, King Henri IV, a man raised a Huguenot, sat on the throne of France. Unfortunately, Good King Henri was assassinated in 1610, three years after my father’s birth, and things became difficult for those who were practising the Protestant religion. By the time my father reached adulthood, he had decided to immigrate to Yorkshire to avoid persecution. That is where I was born.”

  Benjamin and I often sat spellbound as Uncle Pierre retold these stories again and again, each time embellishing them with more details for the entertainment of his captive young audience.

  During the summers, there were many days when I sailed from Melanson Village the short distance to Annapolis with my brother Charles, who worked daily in the shipyards constructing and repairing ships and boats. Many of the soldiers and officers of the garrison at Annapolis adopted me as their special pet. They valued my ability to communicate with them in English, and I thrived on their attention.

  Although I chose conscientiously never to enter the fort, not even when Uncle Pierre inhabited the garrison during harvest time, I sought the company of the British soldiers whenever they sauntered through the town. Acting Lieutenant-Governor Caulfield continued to share his library with me, but for some reason I always made an effort to return the books to their owner. Perhaps it ensured more contact with him, or perhaps it was that nagging guilt that was never far from the surface when I cavorted with the conquerors.

  One day in early March of 1717, following my return from Grand Pré, I was passing the gates of the fort when I noticed the Union Jack flying at half-mast. I inquired at the guard post as to its meaning. The soldiers solemnly informed me that the lieutenant-governor had suddenly and unexpectedly passed away during the night. I turned about-face and ran down the street of the lower town sobbing uncontrollably. I wished to escape the horrid news, hoping that if I ran far enough the truth of it would disappear. I followed the path along the river to a place of sanctuary. How could someone just die? I was eleven years old and could not remember ever losing someone to death — my departed father I had never known. This was only the beginning of a series of tragedies that plagued my life in those early years.

  With the death of Caulfield came the usual unsettled feeling among the Acadians that the new lieutenant-governor would force the issue of taking the oath of allegiance to the British king. Caulfield’s replacement, like every new lieutenant-governor, took the hard line at first and insisted the Acadians swear without any qualifications. Uncle’s dealings with the new lieutenant-governor were more circumspect and less cordial despite the usual acceptance of Uncle Pierre’s “Englishness.” Uncle railed about the new lieutenant-governor’s lack of understanding of the situation in Acadia. On his annual visit to Annapolis he told his family how he had pressed his case with the new Lieutenant-Governor Doucette.

  “We have ever been loyal to the British Crown, Your Excellency, but abandoning our neutrality in times of war would force us to take up arms against our kinfolk who live in the French colonies surrounding Acadia. It would force me to take up arms against my own children. That part of the oath can never be sworn by His Majesty’s loyal French-speaking subjects. The remainder of the oath is agreeable to us. I represent the wishes of Acadians throughout His Majesty’s colony in this matter.”

  Over the next two years Uncle Pierre’s efforts with Doucette did eventually reap the benefits he so desired to achieve. Overhearing his discussions on the matter with René and Isabelle, I sensed, though, that his success would only survive the time of the current lieutenant-governor.

  During the summer of 1719 Isabelle permitted Benjamin to spend the summer with his cousins at Port Royal. He was now ten years old and able to be taken in for a season by my family. I was overjoyed, and we both relished the idea of the warm days of summer when we could mix the carefree life by the river with the chores of the farm and fields. The purpose of this arrangement was to allow Isabelle a more relaxing summer as she prepared for the arrival of a new child. It was strange for me to imagine her with child, and I experienced benign feelings of jealousy that the new baby would eclipse me in Isabelle’s affections. However, I kept these thoughts in check, forcing myself to be joyful for the new life inside the woman I cared for more than any other.

  Chapter 3

  Days of mists and fog delayed our departure for Grand Pré in the autumn of 1719. After several days of waiting for the fog to lift, Uncle made the decision to risk the lack of visibility, fearing that to wait too long might cause us to be marooned at Port Royal for the winter. Our vessel sailed blindly through the mist, filling all those aboard with the same uneasiness Odysseus must have felt on his journey home to Ithaca. I pondered this as I sat wrapped in a blanket at the bow of the boat.

  As our vessel finally sailed into the bay at Grand Pré, I could see a ghostly figure standing at the edge of the pier in the distance. As we approached the dock, I realized that it was Isabelle awaiting our arrival wrapped in a cape and hood.

  “Welcome home.” The sound of her voice filled me with a familiar joy and a relief that now we were safe in the bosom of Grand Pré.

  Isabelle had chosen to spend the remainder of her confinement in the big house under the watchful eye of her mother, Aunt Marie-Marguerite. The house was, therefore, filled with laughter and stimulating conversation: Uncle’s stories of dealing with the new lieutenant-governor at Annapolis; my tales of my widowed grandfather, Jean Antoine Belliveau, courting my mother’s sister Aunt Cecile, a woman a full generation younger than he; Benjamin’s recounting of our summer exploits in the forests around Port Royal; and general family gossip.

  After four years of struggling with Robinson Crusoe, I now was able to read the story with some fluency and understanding. During the days of inclement weather, I lounged by Uncle’s warm hearth reading chapter after chapter to the entire household. I held my audience captive, especially Isabelle who wondered at the possibility of there being such a paradise on earth. One evening she remarked pensively, “Crusoe’s sense of survival seems to be as strong as that of the Acadians. I sometimes lament that we cannot be left alone in our little paradise called Acadia, free of the capriciousness and unpredictability of the British who govern us.”

  In the coming weeks, Isabelle was to remark how active the baby in her womb was and that he or she would become a great Acadian warrior, judging by its energy and constant movement. However, one day I heard her comment casually to Aunt that the little one inside her had been sleeping a great deal in the past several days. I suspected nothing in what she said. Then the pains arrived and suddenly my world was turned upside down. Aunt instructed me to find René and tell him to come quickly. I was to remain at his house with Benjamin and the other children until further notice. I suspected nothing. The child was about to arrive into this world, I thought. Again I suspected nothing. Several hours later Uncle sent for us.

  When we reached the Manor House, we were informed by Uncle that the baby, a girl, had been born and had mercifully survived, considering her early birth. She was now nestled in the arms of her grandmother. The priest was with Uncle as he delivered the news, but their grave expressions seemed to reveal something far more sinister. We were all told to congregate in Isabelle’s room immediately, where the priest was to perform the necessary prayers for such an occasion. We solemnly mounted the stairs to Isabelle’s room. Isabelle lay quietly in her bed, pale and lifeless, with René staring on. Her breathing was laboured. Her spirit appeared to have vanished from her body. I hoped she was resting after the ordeal of giving birth. The priest continued to pray as we all looked on in disbelief. Was this the face of d
eath? Before long, Isabelle’s grasping for each breath ceased. I stood paralyzed on the spot, oblivious to the sobs and crying around me. I could not run away from the presence of death this time. I stood completely still — not able to grieve, not able to believe. That day, in the late autumn of 1719, I became a man.

  For the next five years I continued to spend my winters at Grand Pré, not yet willing to abandon the memory of Isabelle nor the education that Uncle Pierre and René provided me. In addition, I felt a certain responsibility for Benjamin.

  Sadly, Aunt Marie-Marguerite died within months of Isabelle’s death. With the passing of her beloved daughter, she seemed to lose the will to live. René remarried within six months of his wife’s demise, thus beginning a new life and a new family. In my mind his grief evaporated while Isabelle’s body was still warm in the ground. But who was I to say such things? I was a fourteen-year-old, and at that age I was rash in my judgments for lack of experience. Uncle hired a widow, Madame Thibideau, to run his household. Benjamin, his sister, Marie Josephe, and the newborn baby remained in the Manor House in the housekeeper’s care. They never lived with their father again.

  Lessons abounded during the final winters of Uncle’s life. Besides giving us the use of his growing library, he provided experiences that broadened our knowledge of the world. Every autumn, on our return to Grand Pré, we were greeted by a French vessel and we witnessed the annual delivery of dispatches in exchange for crates of books, furniture, and foodstuffs not available in the colonies — all these for the secret documents he gave to the French officers. There were friendly greetings between Uncle and the French captain, but no more than pleasantries. For years Benjamin and I were present at these exchanges, but it was not until a year before his death that Uncle Pierre was forthright in describing the nature of the written dispatches.

  “Piau and Benjamin, you have been witnesses to my annual trade with the French and you have been very patient with me, not asking me to explain the true nature of these mysterious dealings. Well, because I am old and my time on this earth is coming to an end, I feel it is only fair that I share the truth with you both. Since the British began to rule Acadia or, as they call it, Nova Scotia, I have been relaying secret information to the French. That is true. When I visit the fort at Annapolis each year, I keep my eyes and ears open to any privileged information that might cross my path, and believe me, when you are in the company of soldiers who are under the influence of drink, much confidential information emerges. That which I hear, I write down in dispatches once I arrive at Melanson Village for the Harvest Festival. If I have noticed changes to the battlements at the fort, I draw those also. If British or New England ships arrive during my visit, I mention them and observe any cargo they bring ashore or put on board their vessels. Over the years I have had an accomplice in this enterprise, for I am only present at the fort of Annapolis for one week a year. This does not provide a great deal of information. Because your brother Charles works daily in the shipyards, Piau, he long ago agreed to be my second pair of eyes in the town. And, may I say, his enthusiasm for the task is prodigious, for he has a profound distaste for the British, primarily because he witnessed your father’s murder at a young age. This fuels the hatred building inside his soul.”

  I had often speculated about the nature of the secretive dispatches, but the disclosure of Charles’s involvement in their creation shocked me. How could I not be aware of such subterfuge? As usual, this provoked an instant response from me.

  “Why would you engage in such a spying operation, Uncle Pierre? What did you have to gain from such a dangerous enterprise? Why would you put my brother in such a position of jeopardy? For what reason, Uncle, tell me?”

  Uncle did not appear to be surprised by my sudden outburst. Benjamin grasped my shoulder to contain my surging emotions but he remained calm.

  I could feel this anger rising in me but I knew to keep it in check, for it would be unacceptable to show disrespect for a patriarch.

  Uncle was quick to respond. “I am not surprised that you are angry, Piau. However, it is necessary to place these things I have related in a perspective you can understand. Acadia has existed for more than a hundred years. For only twenty of those years have the British ruled here. I have lived in this colony for almost seventy years. Where should my allegiance lie? Think carefully about this last question!”

  I stood there speechless, seriously pondering the question put to me by Uncle. My understanding was insufficient for an intelligent response so I remained speechless.

  “The fact that you are unable to answer my question is a tribute to your intelligence, Piau, for it is not an easy one to answer, not even for me. Therefore, I have chosen not to answer it myself. The only answer I will put forward is that I was motivated by a desire to engage in good commerce — call it trade, if you wish. Trade does not involve allegiance, only fair exchange. The French required confidential information about the British in Acadia, and I wanted those things I could not acquire any other way but through trade with the French. There you have it. The French books you have enjoyed at the Manor House for all these years were provided by this commerce.

  “As for your brother, he is a man who needs an outlet for his anger. That is essential; otherwise he may act upon it unwisely.”

  Benjamin interjected into the conversation as a means of defusing the emotions surrounding Uncle’s revelation.

  “Thank you, Grandfather, for entrusting us with your secret. We may not completely comprehend this business you have had with the French, but we respect your judgment in these affairs and hope in time we are able to grasp what you have done.”

  Uncle responded by kissing Benjamin on the forehead and patting me gently on the back.

  “Thank you, Benjamin. You are very gracious to respond as you have. And Piau, may you continue to contemplate these things so you can truly understand the workings of the people around you. Bless you both.”

  During my Grand Pré years I witnessed the wedding of my brother Charles to Marguerite Granger. He was nine years my senior, and because of this and my frequent absences from Port Royal, our relationship only grew as I advanced into adulthood. Since he had witnessed the death of our father and the brutality of the British in 1706, he was never inclined to embrace his English side, except when it was useful for him to do so. In fact, he had a benign contempt for my English education and he disapproved of my associations with the officers at Annapolis. This was so, even though his wife was the granddaughter of Lawrence Granger, a sailor from Plymouth, England.

  Following the marriage of Charles and Marguerite, my mother decided that, as the firstborn, Charles was to inherit the family farm. My grandmother Marie lived alone in her homestead at Melanson Village, and since my brother Jean was still unmarried, as was my seventeen-year-old sister, Madeleine, we all moved in with my grandmother to start a new life. My mother was to live with her mother for the remainder of her life.

  My grandmother was elated that we were coming to live with her. Our relationship blossomed because she had many life lessons to teach me and she had many stories to relate about my forefathers both in Acadia and France.

  Often she spoke about her father, Abraham Dugas, who was a man of great importance when France governed Acadia in the century before. He was a gunsmith by trade, and she prided herself in commenting that his title while in France was Gunsmith to His Majesty the King. The Dugases were from Vaucluse in Haute Provence. Abraham’s parents moved to Toulouse just before he was born; there he was educated and trained as an armourer.

  One day after our arrival at my grandmother’s house, she caught me in a pensive moment. “Piau, you know that your great-grandfather, Abraham Dugas, was an eminent man here in Acadia and in France. He was sent here by the king of France to Port Royal, and he held the position of lieutenant-general and armourer of Acadia.”

  “I know all of this, Grandmama,” I said, feeling a lit
tle frustrated thinking that my grandmother would be repeating an oft-told tale to me.

  “Of course you do, my dear,” she replied. “And you know that he met my mother here and married her not long after. And not long after that, I was born. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you today. What I wanted to share with you is one of the stories that my father shared with us when I was young.

  “My father often spoke of his days in Toulouse and especially relished telling us stories of the family’s ancestral home, Fontaine de Vaucluse, in Provence. He told us how he and his family travelled over a great distance every summer to Vaucluse, which was at the foothills of the Alps, to escape the crippling heat of the city. He referred to it as a pilgrimage to his ancestral home.

  “Now, Fontaine de Vaucluse is famous for these things: the presence of the famous Italian poet Petrarch centuries before, and its miraculous fountain in the hills above the town.”

  Having caught my imagination, I inquired, “Grandmama, what was magical about this fountain? Did it shoot water into the air?”

  “In answer to your question, no. What is special about this fountain is that no one knows its source and no waterfall provides its deep pool. The mystery lies in the fact that the pool high on the mountainside forever remains filled and yet perfectly still. From this still pool come a hundred waterfalls that flow down through the town into the Sorgue River and ultimately into the mighty Rhone. The waterfalls fall fiercely, never running out of water.”