CHAPTER III.
FROM BOSTON TO ACADIE.
"For this is in the land of Acadie, The fairest place of all the earth and sea."
J. F. H.
It is always amusing to be among a crowd of people on the Lewis Wharf,in Boston, when a steamer is about to leave for the neighboring provinceof Nova Scotia. The provincials are so slow, so deliberate, sodetermined not to be hurried. The Americans are so brisk, soexpeditious, so bewildering in the multitude of things they willaccomplish in the briefest possible space of time. They surround theprovincials, they attempt to hurry them, to infuse a little more lifeinto their exercises of volition, to convince them that a busy wharf isnot the place to weigh arguments for or against a proposed course ofaction, yet the provincials will not be hurried; they stop to plan,consider, deliberate, and decide, and in the end they arrive atsatisfactory conclusions without one hundredth part of the worry andvexation of soul which shortens the lives of their more nervous cousins,the Americans.
At noon, on the Thursday following his decision to go to Nova Scotia,Vesper Nimmo stood on the deck of the _Royal Edward_, a smile on hishandsome face,--a shrewd smile, that deepened and broadened whenever helooked towards the place where stood his mother, with a fluffy whiteshawl wrapped around her throat, and the faithful Henry for a bodyguard.
Express wagons, piled high with towers of Babel in the shape of trunksthat shook and quivered and threatened to fall on unsuspecting heads,rattled down and discharged their contents on the already congestedwharf, where intending passengers, escorting friends, custom officials,and wharf men were talking, gesticulating, admonishing, and escapingdeath in varied forms, such as by crushing, falling, squeezing, deathsby exhaustion, by kicks from nervous horse legs, or by fright from beingswept into the convenient black pool of the harbor.
However, scorning the danger, the crowd talked and jabbered on, until,finally, the last bit of freight, the last bit of luggage, was on board.A signal was given, the ambulance drew back,--the dark and mournfulwagon from which, alas, at nearly every steamer's trip, a long, lightbox is taken, in which one Canadian is going home quite still and mute.
A swarm of stewards from the steamer descended upon their quarry, thepassengers, and a separation was made between the sheep and the foolishgoats, in the company's eyes, who would not be persuaded to seek thefair Canadian pastures. Carefully the stewards herded and guarded theirgiddy sheep to the steamer, often turning back to recover one skippingbehind for a last parley with the goats. At last they were all up thegangway, the gorgeous ship swung her princely nose to the stream, andVesper Nimmo felt himself really off for Nova Scotia.
He waved an adieu to his mother, then drew back to avoid an onset ofstolid, red-cheeked Canadian sheep and lambs, who pressed towards therailing, some with damp handkerchiefs at their eyes, others cheerfullyexhorting the goats to write soon.
His eye fell on a delicate slip of a girl, with consumption written allover her shaking form; and, swinging on his heel, he went to strollabout the decks, and watch, with proud and passionate concealed emotion,the yellow receding dome of the State House. He had been brought up inthe shadow of that aegis. It was almost as sacred to him as the blue skyabove, and not until he could no longer see it did he allow his eyes towander over other points of interest of the historic harbor. How manytimes his sturdy New England forefathers had dropped their hoes to manthe ships that sailed over these blue waters, to hew down the Agag ofAcadie! What a bloodthirsty set they were in those days! Indians,English, French,--how they harried, and worried, and bit, and tore ateach other!
He thoughtfully smoothed the little silky mustache that adorned hisupper lip, and murmured, "Thank heaven, I go on a more peaceful errand."
Once out of the harbor, and feeling the white deck beneath his feetgracefully dipping to meet the swell of the ocean, he found a seat anddrew a guide-book from his pocket. Of ancient Acadie he knew something,but of this modern Acadie he had, strange to say, felt no curiosity,although it lay at his very doors, until he had discovered the letter ofhis great-grandfather.
The day was warm and sunshiny. It was the third of June, and for sometime he sat quietly reading and bathed in golden light. Then across hiscalm, peaceful state of content, stole a feeling scarcely to bedescribed, and so faint that it was barely perceptible. He was not quitehappy. The balm had gone from the air; the spirit of the writer, who soeloquently described the lure of the Acadien land, no longer communedwith his. He read on, knowing what was coming, yet resolved not to yielduntil he was absolutely forced to do so.
In half an hour he had flung down his book, and was in his stateroom,face downward, his window wide open, his body gently swaying to and frowith the motion of the steamer, the salt air deliciously lapping hisears, the back of his neck, and his hands, but unable to get at hisface, obstinately buried in the pillow.
"Sick, sir?" inquired a brisk voice, with a delicate note of suggestion.
Vesper uncovered one eye, and growled, "No,--shut that door."
The steward disappeared, and did not return for some hours, whileVesper's whole sensitive system passed into a painless agony, the onlymovement he made being to turn himself over on his back, where he lay,apparently calm and happy, and serenely staring at the white ceiling ofhis dainty cell.
"Can I do anything for you, sir?" asked the steward's voice once more.
Vesper, who would not have spoken if he had been offered the _RoyalEdward_ full of gold pieces, did not even roll an eyeball at him, butkept on gravely staring upward.
"Your collar's choking you, sir," said the man, coming forward; and hedeftly slipped a stud from its place and laid it on the wash-stand."Shall I take off your boots?"
Vesper submitted to having his boots withdrawn, and his feet covered,with as much indifference as if they belonged to some other man, andcontinued to spend the rest of the day and the night in the same stateof passivity. Towards morning he had a vague wish to know the time, butit did not occur to him, any more than it would have occurred to a stoneimage, to put up his hand to the watch in his breast pocket.
Daylight came, then sunlight streaming into his room, and cheery soundsof voices without, but he did not stir. Not until the thrill of contactwith the land went through the steamer did he spring to his feet, like aman restored to consciousness by galvanic action. He was the firstpassenger to reach the wharf, and the steward, who watched him going,remarked sarcastically that he was glad to see "that 'ere dead man cometo life."
Vesper was himself again when his feet touched the shore. He lookedabout him, saw the bright little town of Yarmouth, black rocks, a blueharbor, and a glorious sky. His contemplation of the landscape over, hereflected that he was faint from hunger. He turned his back on thesteamer, where his fellow passengers had recently breakfasted at finetables spread under a ceiling of milky white and gold, and hurried to amodest eating-house near by from which a savory smell of broiled steakand fried potatoes floated out on the morning air.
He entered it, and after a hasty wash and brush-up ate his breakfastwith frantic appetite. He now felt that he had received a new lease oflife, and buttoning his collar up around his neck, for the temperaturewas some degrees lower than that of his native city, he hurried back tothe wharf, where the passengers and the customs men were quarrelling asif they had been enemies for life.
With ingratiating and politic calmness he pointed out his trunk andbicycle, assured the suspicious official that although he was anAmerican he was honest and had nothing to sell and nothing dutiable inthe former, and that he had not the slightest objection to paying thethirty per cent deposit required on the latter; then, a prey to inwardlaughter at the enlivening spectacle of open trunks and red faces, heproceeded to the railway station, looking about him for other signs thathe was in a foreign country.
Nova Scotia was very like Maine so far. Here were the Maine houses, theMaine trees a
nd rocks, even the Maine wild flowers by the side of theroad. He thoughtfully boarded the train, scrutinized the comfortableparlor-car, and, after the lapse of half an hour, decided that he wasnot in Maine, for, if he had been, the train would certainly havestarted.
As he was making this reflection, a dapper individual, in lighttrousers, a shiny hat, and with the indescribable air of being atravelling salesman, entered the car where Vesper sat in solitarygrandeur.
Vesper slightly inclined his head, and the stranger, dropping a neatleather bag in the seat next him, observed, "We had a good passage."
"Very good," replied Vesper.
"Nobody sick," pursued the dapper individual, taking off his hat,brushing it, and carefully replacing it on his head.
"I should think not," returned Vesper; then he consulted his watch. "Weare late in starting."
"We're always late," observed the newcomer, tartly. "This is your firsttrip down here?"
Vesper, with the reluctance of his countrymen to admit that they havedone or are doing something for the first time, did not contradict hisstatement.
"I've been coming to this province for ten years," said his companion."I represent Stone and Warrior."
Vesper knew Stone and Warrior's huge dry-goods establishment, and haddue respect for the opinion of one of their travellers.
"And when we start we don't go," said the dry-goods man. "This traindoesn't dare show its nose in Halifax before six o'clock, so she's justgot to put in the time somewhere. Later in the season they'll clap onthe Flying Bluenose, which makes them think they're flying through theair, because she spurts and gets in two hours earlier. How far are yougoing?"
"I don't know; possibly to Grand Pre."
"A pretty country there, but no big farms,--kitchen-gardening comparedwith ours."
"That is where the French used to be."
"Yes, but there ain't one there now. The most of the French in theprovince are down here."
Vesper let his surprised eyes wander out through the car window.
"Pretty soon we'll begin to run through the woods. There'll be a shantyor two, a few decent houses and a station here and there, and you'dthink we were miles from nowhere, but at the same time we're runningabreast of a village thirty-five miles long."
"That is a good length."
"The houses are strung along the shores of this Bay," continued thesalesman, leaning over and tapping the map spread on Vesper's knee. "TheBay is forty miles long."
"Why didn't they build the railway where the village is?"
"That's Nova Scotia," said the salesman, drily. "Because the people werethere, they put the railroad through the woods. They beat the Dutch."
"Can't they make money?"
"Like the mischief, if they want to," and the salesman settled back inhis seat and put his hands in his pockets. "It makes me smile to hearpeople talking about these green Nova Scotians. They'll jump ahead ofyou in a bargain as quick as a New Yorker when they give their minds toit. But I'll add 'em up in one word,--they don't care."
Vesper did not reply, and, after a minute's pause his companion went on,with waxing indignation. "They ought to have been born in the cannibalisles, every man Jack of 'em, where they could sit outdoors all day andpick up cocoanuts or eat each other. Upon my life, you can stand in themiddle of Halifax, which is their capital city, and shy a stone at halfa dozen banks and the post-office, and look down and see grass growingbetween the bricks at your feet."
"Very unprogressive," murmured Vesper.
The salesman relented. "But I've got some good chums there, and I mustsay they've got a lot of soft soap,--more than we have."
"That is, better manners?"
"Exactly; but"--and he once more hardened his heart against the NovaScotians,--"they've got more time than we have. There ain't so many of'em. Look at our Boston women at a bargain-counter,--you've got a lot ofcurtains at four dollars a pair. You can't sell 'em. You run 'em up tosix dollars and advertise, 'Great drop on ten-dollar curtains.' Thewomen rush to get 'em. How much time have they to be polite? About asmuch as a pack of wolves."
"What is the population of Halifax?" asked Vesper.
"About forty thousand," said the salesman, lolling his head on the backof the seat, and running his sentences as glibly from his lips as if hewere reciting a lesson, "and a sly, sleepy old place it is, with lots ofmoney in it, and people pretending they are poor. Suburbs fine, but thecity dirty from the soft coal they burn. A board fence around every lotyou could spread a handkerchief on,--so afraid neighbors will see intotheir back yards. If they'd knock down their fences, pick up a little ofthe trash in the streets, and limit the size of their hotel keys, they'dget on."
"Are there any French people there?"
The salesman was not interested in the French. "No," he said, "not thatI ever heard of. They could make lots of money there," he went on, withenthusiasm, "if they'd wake up. You know there's an English garrison,and our girls like the military; but these blamed provincials, thoughthey've got a big pot of jam, won't do anything to draw our rich flies,not even as much as to put up a bathing-house. They don't care acontinental.
"There's a hotel beyond Halifax where a big excursion from New York usedto go every year. Last year the manager said, 'If you don't clean upyour old hotel, and put a decent boat on the lake, you'll never see meagain.' The hotel proprietor said, 'I guess this house is clean enoughfor us, and we haven't been spilt out of the boat yet, and you and yourexcursion can go to Jericho.' So the excursion goes to Jericho now, andthe hotel man gets more time for sleep."
"Have you ever been in this French village?" asked Vesper.
"No," and the salesman stifled a yawn. "I only call at the principaltowns, where the big stores are. Good Lord! I wish thosestick-in-the-muds would come up from the wharf. If I knew how to run anengine I'd be off without 'em," and he strolled to the car door. "It'sas quiet as death down there. The passengers must have chopped up thetrain-hands and thrown 'em in the water. If my wife made up her mind tomove to this province, I'd die in ten days, for I'd have so much time tothink over my sins. Glory hallelujah, here they come!" and he returnedto his seat. "The whole tribe of 'em, edging along as if they were afuneral procession and we were the corpses on ahead. We're off," hesaid, jocularly, to Vesper, and he kicked out his little dapper legs,stuck his ticket in the front of his shiny hat, and sank into a seat,where he was soon asleep.
Vesper was rather out of his reckoning. It had not occurred to him, inspite of Longfellow's assurance about naught but tradition remaining ofthe beautiful village of Grand Pre, that no French were really to befound there. Now, according to the salesman, he should look for theAcadiens in this part of the province. However, if the French villagewas thirty-five miles long there was no hurry about leaving the train,and he settled back and watched his fellow passengers leisurely climbingthe steps. Among those who entered the parlor-car was a stout,gentlemanly man, gesticulating earnestly, although his hands were fullof parcels, and turning every instant to look with a quick, bright eyeinto the face of his companion, who was a priest.
The priest left him shortly after they entered the car, and the stoutman sat down and unfolded a newspaper on which the name and place ofpublication--_L'Evangeline, Journal Hebdomadaire, Weymouth_--metVesper's eye with grateful familiarity. The title was, of course, apathetic reminder of the poem. Weymouth, and he glanced at his map, wasin the line of villages along the bay.
The gentleman for a time read the paper intently. Then his nervous handsflung it down, and Vesper, leaning over, politely asked if he would lendit to him.
It was handed to him with a bow, and the young American was soon deep inits contents. It had been founded in the interests of the Acadiens ofthe Maritime Provinces, he read in fluent modern French, which greatlysurprised him, as he had expected to be confronted by some curious_patois_ concocted by this remnant of a foreign race isolated so longamong the English. He read every word of the paper,--the cards ofprofessional men, the advertisements of shopkeeper
s, the remarks onagriculture, the editorials on Canadian politics, the local news, andthe story by a Parisian novelist. Finally he returned _L'Evangeline_ toits owner, whose quick eyes were looking him all over in mingledcuriosity and gratification, which at last culminated in the remark thatit was a fine morning.
Vesper, with slow, quiet emphasis, which always imparted weight andimportance to his words, assented to this, with the qualification thatit was chilly.
"It is never very warm here until the end of June," said the stoutgentleman, with a courteous gesture, "but I find this weather mostagreeable for wheeling. I am shortly to leave the train and take to mybicycle for the remainder of my journey."
Vesper asked him whether there was a good road along the shores of theBay.
"The best in the province, but I regret to say that the roads to it fromthe stations are cut up by heavy teaming."
"And the hotels,--are they good?"
"According to the guide-books there are none in Frenchtown," said thegentleman, with lively sarcasm. "I know of one or two where one can becomfortable. Here, for instance," and one of his facile hands indicateda modest advertisement in _L'Evangeline_.
Sleeping Water Inn. This inn, well patronized in the past, is still the rendezvous for tourists, bicyclists, etc. The house is airy, and the table is good. A trustworthy teamster is always at the train to carry trunks and valises to the inn. Rose de Foret, Proprietress.
Vesper looked up, to find his neighbor smiling involuntarily. "Pardonme," he said, with contrition, "I am thinking that you would find thehouse satisfactory."
"It is kept by a woman?"
"Yes," said the stranger, with preternatural gravity; "Rose aCharlitte."
Vesper said nothing, and his face was rarely an index of his thoughts,yet the stranger, knowing in some indefinable way that he wished forfurther information, continued. "On the Bay, the friendly fashionprevails of using only the first name. Rose a Charlitte is rarely calledMadame de Foret."
Vesper saw that some special interest attached to the proprietress ofthe Acadien inn, yet did not see his way clear to find out what it was.His new acquaintance, however, had a relish for his subject ofconversation, and pursued it with satisfaction. "She is veryremarkable, and makes money, yet I hope that fate will intervene topreserve her from a life which is, perhaps, too public for a woman ofher stamp. A rich uncle, one Auguste Le Noir, whose beautiful home amongorange and fig trees on the Bayou Vermillon in Louisiana I visited lastyear, may perhaps rescue her. Not that she does anything at all out ofthe way," he added, hastily, "but she is beautiful and young."
Vesper repressed a slight start at the mention of the name Le Noir, thenasked calmly if it was a common one among the Acadiens.
The Le Noirs and Le Blancs, the gentleman assured him, were asplentiful as blackberries, while as to Melancons, there were eightyfamilies of them on the Bay. "This has given rise to the curioushouse-that-Jack-built system of naming," he said. "There is Jean aJacques Melancon, which is Jean, the son of Jacques,--Jean a Basile,Jean a David, and sometimes Jean a Martin a Conrade a Benoit Melancon,but"--and he checked himself quickly--"I am, perhaps, wearying you withall this?" He was as a man anxious, yet hesitating, to impartinformation, and Vesper hastened to assure him that he was deeplyinterested in the Acadiens.
The cloud swept from the face of the vivacious gentleman. "You gratifyme. The old prejudice against my countrymen still lingers in thisprovince in the shape of indifference. I rarely discuss them unless Iknow my listener."
"Have I the pleasure of addressing an Acadien?" asked Vesper.
"I have the honor to be one," said the stout gentleman, and his faceflushed like that of a girl.
Vesper gave him a quick glance. This was the first Acadien that he hadever seen, and he was about as far removed from the typical Acadien thathe had pictured to himself as a man could be. This man was a gentleman.He had expected to find the Acadiens, after all the trials they had gonethrough in their dispossession of property and wanderings by sea andland, degenerated into a despoiled and poverty-stricken remnant ofpeasantry. Curiously gratified by the discovery that here was one whohad not gone under in the stress of war and persecution, he remarkedthat his companion was probably well-informed on the subject of theexpulsion of his countrymen from this province.
"The expulsion,--ah!" said the gentleman, in a repressed voice. Then,unable to proceed, he made a helpless gesture and turned his facetowards the window.
The younger man thought that there were tears in his eyes, and forboreto speak.
"One mentions it so calmly nowadays," said the Acadien, presently,looking at him. "There is no passion, no resentment, yet it is a livingflame in the breast of every true Acadien, and this is the reason,--itis a tragedy that is yet championed. It is commonly believed that thedeportation of the Acadiens was a necessity brought about by theirstubbornness."
"That is the view I have always taken of it," said Vesper, mildly. "Ihave never looked into the subject exhaustively, but my conclusion fromdesultory reading has been that the Acadiens were an obstinate set ofpeople who dictated terms to the English, which, as a conquered race,they should not have done, and they got transported for it."
"Then let me beg you, my dear sir, to search into the matter. If youhappen to visit the Sleeping Water Inn, ask for Agapit Le Noir. He is anenthusiast on the subject, and will inform you; and if at any time youfind yourself in our beautiful city of Halifax, may I not beg thepleasure of a call? I shall be happy to lay before you some historicalrecords of our race," and he offered Vesper a card on which wasengraved, Dr. Bernardin Arseneau, Barrington Street, Halifax.
Vesper took the card, thanked him, and said, "Shall I find any of thedescendants of the settlers of Grand Pre among the Acadiens on thisBay?"
"Many, many of them. When the French first came to Nova Scotia, theynaturally selected the richest portions of the province. At theexpulsion these farms were seized. When, through incredible hardships,they came struggling back to this country that they so much loved, theycould not believe that their lands would not be restored to them. Manyof them trudged on foot to fertile Grand Pre, to Port Royal, and otherplaces. They looked in amazement at the settlers who had taken theirhomes. You know who they were?"
"No, I do not," said Vesper.
"They were your own countrymen, my dear sir, if, as I rightly judge, youcome from the United States. They came to this country, and foundwaiting for them the fertile fields whose owners had been seized,imprisoned, tortured, and carried to foreign countries, some yearsbefore. Such is the justice of the world. For their portion the returnedAcadiens received this strip of forest on the Bay Saint-Mary. You willsee what they have made of it," and, with a smile at once friendly andsad, the stout gentleman left the train and descended to a littlestation at which they had just pulled up.
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