For a moment I couldn’t breathe, then we both stopped, distracted by a sound behind us. He turned to face it, and I watched, but his eyes showed no sign of alarm. Still, he was careful. With his face set, he gave a little bow and swept my hand into his.
“Tell them to stay away,” he whispered, raising my hand to the level of his lips as if he meant to kiss it. “I saw your family before this madness began but have told no one. You have two other brothers who did not come to the church. I don’t know where they are—”
“What are you—”
“—and I don’t want to know. But if you love your brothers, tell them not to come back.”
Shaken, I stepped away and tried to pull my hand from his. Instead, he seized my other hand as well. I felt truly afraid for the first time.
“Why are you doing this?” I whispered.
“If they are caught, they will be arrested.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand. It is your job to find them and arrest them. Why—”
He seemed unaware that his hands had closed far too tightly around my fingers, and I did not move. Instead of backing away, he stepped closer and slowly raised our joined hands so they were against his chest. I should have objected, should never have spoken to him again.
“There is no reason you should trust me,” he said, “and I have no expectations that you will. Regardless, I offer this information so that you might understand I am telling the truth when I say I mean you no harm. The British army is your enemy, but I am not.”
I had never been so physically close to a man unrelated to me, except for when I had danced with my friends. This was entirely different.
“Corporal MacDonnell—”
“My name is Connor. Connor MacDonnell, if you’d do me the honour of using my Christian name.”
I hesitated. “Connor.”
“Aye. That is what my friends call me.”
Our hands were still pressed against his chest, and I was suddenly uncomfortable. Despite feeling sorry for him, I pulled away. I understood he was unhappy being in the army, that these same people had done to him what I now knew they planned to do with us. But it did not change the fact of who he was, or who I was.
“Mathieu told us the British will be sending us all away from here. All of us. You cannot possibly believe I would want you as a friend after learning that.”
“I understand,” he said, standing taller. “And I do not question your resolve. But you should not question mine either. I am determined to prove to you that I am not the demon you see when you look at this uniform.”
“Why? Why should it matter to you what I think?”
At my question his expression softened, and his steady gaze intensified.
“It simply does,” he said quietly. “I will prove myself to you. And I swear to you that when the time comes, I will take care of you.”
EIGHT
One week later, the doors of the church swung open and our fathers, sons, brothers, uncles, cousins, and friends stumbled into the light of day. Hearing their voices, we ran to greet them, to welcome them back, but the soldiers stood before us, as solid as any barrier. We tried to push through, but our men were kept away from us.
Maman’s eyes were swollen from days of weeping when she’d thought we were not listening, and now her sobs changed to cries of relief. She clung to Claire’s sleeve, weak and grasping for balance. She had barely eaten while the men had been gone, and I worried for her health, but she had brushed my concerns aside, reminding me that our fears should be for my brothers and Papa, not for her.
“Papa!” I yelled, spotting him in the crowd. “Over here, Papa!”
Exhaustion melted from his face when he saw us, and I imagined he reached deep into his soul to find the strength to smile and wave back. Mathieu stood beside him, looking practically dead on his feet. Beside him, Claire’s beloved squinted into the sunshine.
“Guillaume!” cried Claire. “Oh, Guillaume!”
“Mathieu! Mathieu! Nous sommes ici!” I called.
My little brother spun toward me and made as if to run, but as soon as he took one step in my direction, he was grabbed roughly by a soldier and shoved back into the ranks. He blinked up at the man, not understanding, then looked back at me. Tears rolled down the dirt on his face, and I know he saw them on my own cheeks as well. I couldn’t hide my pain any more than he could.
I couldn’t see Corporal MacDonnell—Connor—anywhere, though I scanned the area for any sign of him. His commander, Colonel Winslow, observed from his post near the church. Though I had never seen the man before, I could tell who he was by the way others approached him, the way they ran to do as he bid. When would he issue the order that would release Papa and my poor brother? The prisoners seemed barely able to stand on their own feet. We needed to tend to them, to feed them. Winslow was wasting time. I stared hard at the stocky, middle-aged man, willing him to look my way, needing him to see my rage, but he was oblivious.
“Sergeant Fitch!” he shouted, snapping everyone to attention. “Formations!”
I remembered Fitch, the officer with the cruel smile and hungry eyes. It only seemed right that he should be a part of this horrendous day. He repeated Winslow’s command to his subordinates, and more English voices rang out, echoing his orders.
At first I couldn’t make out what was happening since all seemed utter confusion, then I surmised that the English had formed a rough formation around the prisoners, like a hastily constructed wall. What for? Did they think the weeping women would attack them? The orders continued, and I watched in bewilderment as Guillaume and my wide-eyed brother were herded into a line with a group of other young men and boys. Papa was led to a different group, one made up chiefly of older men. Their separation from each other sent fear racing through me. Did they intend to keep some captives here after they’d released the others? What would be the purpose of that?
Like Maman, the women around us fell into hysterics as the men were shifted around, and this evidence of our helplessness in the face of such evil was terrifying. Women I had known my whole life, women who had toiled in the fields, at the weirs, and in their homes without complaint, now leaned against each other for support, weak with despair. Claire cried out desperately for Guillaume, and Evangeline pressed up behind me, waving and crying for Gabriel, who looked back at her with agonizing sorrow. I wished I could give her some kind of comfort, but I could find none. Not even for me.
“What does this mean?” Claire cried. “Why are they doing this? Guillaume! Oh, Guillaume!”
“Gentlemen!” bellowed Colonel Winslow.
All eyes went to the commander. I was surprised to see Connor at his side, standing tall and stiff, and I couldn’t take my eyes from him. He didn’t see me, since he stared straight ahead, hands behind his back. I remembered those hands holding mine. I remembered the folded red coat on the grass, the sweat-stained marks on his white shirt, how his eyes lit when he smiled. That Connor was nothing like this man I saw before me, standing like a statue by Winslow.
“Messieurs!” Connor said, addressing the groups of men. “Votre attention, s’il vous plaît!”
His voice rang across the field—the same voice which had called me “friend”—strong enough that there was no need for him to yell despite the noise. It was then that I realized he was to be the translator for the crowd. He would be the one telling us what awful, undeserved future we faced. Knowing the words would come from his mouth made everything we’d shared before feel like a horrible, traitorous lie.
Again he called out for attention, and the people ceased shouting. They contained their sobs as well as they could, needing to hear what was being said.
“It is the king’s command that we march today,” Connor continued, his steady voice giving nothing away. “Five ships wait at harbour, and fifty men shall be boarded upon each one. Those not boarded today will await ships which are currently at sea and en route here.”
For the space of one breath, no on
e said a word. Maman, my sisters, and I exchanged a stunned glance, then the space erupted with agonized cries of protest. Some women fell to their knees, praying and crying, and I wondered how my dear little brother could bear this nightmare. He stood stock still, trembling hands hanging by his sides, looking so much younger than his thirteen years.
Papa’s eyes, dark with lack of sleep, were on me. Be strong, they commanded. Remember what I said. But I couldn’t remember anything. What had he said? What did he expect of me? I remembered how he’d faced Fitch in the house, how he’d kept his anger in check, and how he said I must learn to do the same. But how could I possibly hide the anguish I felt?
And now that I saw him here, hungry and helpless, I wondered what good his strength had actually done him.
“Papa!” I yelled. “I don’t know what to do!”
His stare never wavered. He nodded slowly at me, his face set. You will.
Maman had collapsed onto the grass, and Claire stooped beside her, cradling her head in her arms. I did not. I had to see what would happen next.
“Sergeant Fitch!”
Smirking, Fitch nodded at Winslow, then strode toward my brother and Guillaume, who huddled with others in a confused line. When he stood at the group’s head and ordered, “Forward march!” no one moved. It wasn’t for lack of understanding his English, since the physical command was obvious. It was simply a belated, doomed attempt to rebel. My heart raced, witnessing their act of defiance, and everyone’s attention focused on the ragged group of young men standing bravely against their oppressors. Too little, too late, I thought miserably.
“Attention, gentlemen!” Fitch ordered again, raising his nasal voice. “March!”
“We will go nowhere without our fathers!” yelled Giselle’s dashing young Jean Dupuis. Most of the others—my brother included—cheered their agreement.
I couldn’t help myself. I looked toward Connor, pleading, and saw him staring at me. Sympathy was in his expression, but contempt clogged my throat. How dare he offer such a useless apology? He was not in charge, but had he even tried to stop these foul orders? A last second spark of hope ignited, and I wondered frantically if there was a possibility he could change any of this because of his position. Could he use his ability to speak French and order the Acadian men to rebel? Could he save us?
“Please!” I cried, though I didn’t know if he could hear me.
He did. He shook his head in the smallest of movements, and his lips moved. “I’m sorry.”
I looked away, denying him forgiveness.
Colonel Winslow strode toward Papa’s group and stared down one of the men until he was forced to drop his eyes. Tears blurred my vision, but I watched nonetheless. I had never before witnessed such brutality. Had these men been born cruel or were they trained into it? How did one man look in the eye of another and inform them they had no choice, that some unseeable force had deemed him superior, that he had the right to take everything away?
“Gentlemen!” came Winslow’s voice.
The rolling tide of rebellion stilled at his authority.
“Hear me now,” he commanded. Strangely, the colonel’s expression was not angry; he looked . . . disappointed. As if we were recalcitrant children, nothing more. “I will have none of this insolence. I do not understand your use of the word no. You have been living here under the king’s generous allowance. The king’s command is absolute and must be absolutely obeyed.”
He scrutinized the captives, and they stared blankly back. Did he even realize that only a few understood his English tirade? Did he care? Connor did not step closer to his commander, did not offer to translate.
Winslow apparently didn’t see the need. He shook his head, lips tight with disapproval. “It goes against my temperament to use harsh means; however, I will not abide these arguments. Sergeant Fitch!”
Fitch’s nostrils flared. “Sir!” he replied, then he bellowed, “Company will fix bayonets!”
As one, the soldiers reached into the scabbard on the left sides of their belts and slid out thin metal spikes. Gripping the rifle barrels with their right hands, they lifted the weapons so the butts could be placed between their worn black boots, and I watched in silent, horrified alarm as they readied themselves. With practiced efficiency, they fitted the spikes over the mouths of their weapons then waited. At Fitch’s next command, the soldiers proceeded to march toward our brothers, sons, and friends, the lethal blades aimed directly at them.
I am certain I was not the only one to scream at the sight, but all I heard was my own voice. As the wall of steel marched closer, the fragile line of defence crumbled and four of the five lines—one of which included Papa—began to march. The once-strong farmers of Acadia were docile as lambs, a straggling herd shuffling helplessly toward the harbour.
Mathieu looked so small, walking with the group of men. I panicked when I lost sight of him, but he fell out of line and looked back.
“Papa!” he cried.
Papa remained tall and stoic, the sturdy oak for us all. “I will see you soon, son.” We heard a crack in his voice as his resolve weakened. “Listen to Guillaume and do as he says.”
“Papa! I’m afraid!” Mathieu sobbed, then he looked over at us. “Maman! Help!”
“Oh, Mathieu!” Maman wailed, reaching into the empty air as if she might draw him to her breast again. “I love you, my son! We will be together soon. God bless you. Be brave!”
Claire’s lips formed silent, earnest words, and I knew she was praying, her reddened eyes on Guillaume. I could no longer claim to be strong. Tears poured down my cheeks, and I choked for air along with the other women.
I hadn’t believed any of this could happen. To me it had been the worst of threats, nothing more than that. Connor had warned me that the British would eventually follow through with their evil plan; he had told me more than once that we should not underestimate the enemy. I’d paid him no heed.
“Come, Maman,” Claire said, gently tugging our mother to her feet. “We shall follow, and later we shall bring food.”
The mothers and wives, daughters and sisters clung to each other as they followed the forced march, stumbling through their grief. Unlike the men being herded before them, the women were not hushed. The mournful shrieks of gulls circling overhead on that beautiful September day were drowned out, overwhelmed by the sobs and prayers of the families left behind.
NINE
For the next two weeks the atmosphere around our home was subdued but determined. Even Giselle was quiet. We agreed we would not grieve—at least not when any of the others were watching—since no one had died. The ships still bobbed at the docks, jerking at their ropes like impatient horses, burdened by the captives in their bellies. We would see our men again, we told ourselves.
“God will protect them,” Maman assured us.
I performed my part as best I could: I limited my tears. But I was hard pressed to share her faith. Connor had told me the English coveted our land, and I knew he was right. If they wanted it as their own, why would they ever let our fathers, husbands, and sons go free? If our men posed such a threat, the army would never release them. Would we ever see them again? And if we did not, what would become of us—the women and children?
For two weeks Maman carried baskets of food toward the harbour, a resolute silhouette marching into the light of every sunrise. She would not allow us to either replace or accompany her, and every morning my sisters and I knelt in the doorway of our house, praying as we watched her go. By the time she returned it was always dark, and she did not want to talk. She told us she never saw Papa or any of the others; she was forced to give the food to the guards to pass on. The only other thing she mentioned was the reek of the ships.
I realized I was a hypocrite. At the same time as I cursed the foul English for their unthinkable cruelty and begged God to destroy them, I peered toward the docks or the churchyard, seeking a glimpse of one particular redcoat. Despite everything—despite knowing everything betw
een us was based on a lie—I missed Connor. Whatever the reason, he had worked his way so deeply into my thoughts that I found it difficult to think of much else.
He was a soldier, I reminded myself, bound to follow orders.
And yet it was I whose mind was at war, constantly condemning him, then seeking out an excuse. Papa had said I would know what to do when faced with making a decision, and that the difference between “right” and “good” came down to judgment. With that in mind, I tried to put myself in Connor’s position.
As a soldier, the right thing would have been for Connor to walk away from me in the very beginning. If he had, he would have said nothing to me of the terrible plans which were being made for my people. I would not have known, so I could not have blamed him. But he had not walked away.
As a friend, the right thing would have been for him to help us escape, taking us deep into the forest where we might elude the army’s reach. Then again, if he’d told me everything from the beginning, we would have told all our friends and family in turn. Since we had no weapons with which to defend ourselves, we would have run from our homes, seeking safety and a new life in the woods and beyond. But if there had been a mass exodus to the woods, the army would have been alerted to it. They would have come after us, and I was convinced their wrath over our attempted escape would have been met with even more despicable punishments. Would they have bothered to load us all onto ships and send us away? Or would they simply have imprisoned or killed us, along with our Mi’kmaq families?
As a man, he had been trapped. I clung to the fact that he had committed something close to treason when he’d warned me to keep Henri and André away. If he had not, they would be on the ships as well, or punished in an even worse way for trying to hide. I had to believe he had done the best he could. I had to.
One night as we were falling asleep, Claire whispered through the dark, “You’re so quiet. What are you thinking about?”
Promises to Keep Page 6
