Promises to Keep

by Genevieve Graham

  “What a wise young lady you are,” Papa told her. “Just like your Maman.”

  Maman. The word landed like a stone in my belly. How was I going to tell him she was gone? I opened my mouth to speak, but he was already walking away, his mind on Giselle’s plan.

  He stood before the rest of our people, his arms folded over his chest, looking as he had the first day after we’d taken the Pembroke: strong and brave and dependable. He was a born leader, my papa. His eyes passed over the others, silently counting to be sure no one had been hurt, and I found myself doing the same. Miraculously, no one had fallen. Before he could speak, a wail rose from down the beach. Suzette Landry, her mother, and her sisters were kneeling in a miserable, swaying pile of skirts and bonnets. That’s when I recalled that Suzette’s husband, François, was the pilot who had disappeared along with the English.

  “That ship is gone,” Papa said, “and with it our noble friend, François Landry. We grieve with you, dear Suzette.” He paused a moment as the crowd muttered their sympathies. “But that ship—” He turned and jabbed his finger in the direction the British ship had just taken. “It will report its findings. They found us because they saw the Pembroke. Others will come, eager to take both us and our ship.” He gave Giselle a small, secret smile before he faced the others again and shared her idea. “I believe we must say farewell to our transport.”

  A few people frowned, and I imagined they had dreamed of sailing it away, far from this place. But Papa and Giselle were right. The British would always be looking for it.

  “Eh bien. After we have removed what useful things may still be inside, we shall burn it.”

  My horrible news would have to wait. All the supplies had already been unloaded and brought to our shelters, but we rowed the tender back to the ship to be sure we’d left nothing of use. When all was done, some of the younger men stayed behind to accomplish the challenge of setting the Pembroke alight. The rest of us returned to the stony beach and bowed our heads, saying prayers of thanks for our deliverance to this place. When it did catch, Giselle squeezed my hand. Papa stood behind us, a hand on each of our shoulders, and we stared at the fire, mesmerized. Eventually its intensity weakened, the inferno dying down to a strong, crackling blaze, and more smoke clogged the air. We turned away.

  Finally, we were alone. I could wait no longer. Oh, how my heart ached. How could I tell him we were all he had left?

  My throat closed, and his name came out in a sob. “Papa.”

  His eyes searched mine; then they filled with tears. I wouldn’t have to tell him after all.

  “Where is Claire?” he managed.

  “Gone,” I whispered.

  I had never seen my father cry before that moment. It was the most terrible thing I’d ever seen. He sat quite suddenly, unable to stand, and Giselle and I knelt on either side of him.

  “Sylvie,” he whispered hoarsely to my mother, wherever she was. “Que ferais-je sans toi?” His hands clenched then opened into claws, and he brought them to the sides of his head as if to hold it together. “Que ferai-je sans toi?” What will I do without you?

  The shoulders I had seen bear so much weight now shook with sobs.

  “I am sorry, Papa,” I said, over and over. “I am sorry.”

  “Oh, Amélie.” The pain in his eyes almost destroyed me. “It is I who am sorry. I should have been here with you.” He reached to pull us against his chest. “I shall never leave you again.”

  I held on tightly, but I didn’t want to hear him promise anything; it seemed to me that all promises did was break hearts.

  A loud crack split the air, and I turned back toward the fire. A rope hanging over the side of the ship had burned through and snapped, sending a long, thin line of flames skyward. Smoke billowed into the sky like bubbling tar, dropping ashes onto the beach. I was close enough that curious tendrils of heat tickled my face, bringing comfort to such a cold day, but before long the fire shoved at me with a weight too hot to bear, and I turned away, my eyes burning.

  Without another word, we trudged back toward our pitiful accommodations, all of us miserable. Other than what was left of my family, the horrible, stinking ship which now roared with fire had been the last connection we had to home.

  Giselle and I each took one of Papa’s hands, and we led him past our little settlement to the mounds of rocks which sheltered the bodies of our loved ones. Theirs were not the only new graves. After the final stones had been placed, Giselle and I had bound two sticks together, marking both graves with a cross, then our friends had come to say prayers with us and send Maman’s and Claire’s souls to God.

  Papa stood and stared, and I saw a beaten man.

  “Papa,” Giselle eventually said, “we must be strong for them. They would want us to be.”

  But Papa was not ready. He shook his head slowly, his eyes on the graves. “I am not strong, ma petite.”

  “You will be,” she assured him gently. “We need you.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  When Papa returned to us an hour later, the whites of his eyes were red from crying, but he had washed his face and slicked his hair back, bracing himself. His strength was coming back one breath at a time.

  By now, some of the others had started a massive bonfire near our homes. It didn’t matter if anyone saw it, I imagined, since the burning Pembroke would already have alerted anyone to our presence. Tonight was a night to remember those who had passed, and perhaps to celebrate our small victory over the English ship. For whatever reason, it was comforting to gather like this with our friends. We could almost pretend we were still at home for a little while.

  “We had success on our scouting journey,” Papa told Giselle and me, settling on a log with us. “I brought someone back with me, and I asked him to come and see us tonight. He should be here soon.”

  “Oh?”

  “They call him Boishébert. He is from a nearby village which already houses about two hundred Acadians. They are settled farther inland, where it is safer, and he has invited us to join them.”

  I nodded, willing myself to hope.

  “I think you will find him interesting.”

  “In a good way?” I asked. Something about his expression made me wonder.

  He smiled in welcome and got to his feet. “Ah, here he comes.”

  A man approached, hand outstretched. I stared not only at the formality of the stranger’s gesture but also at his immaculate clothing. Beneath his tricorne he wore a white wig, and that accoutrement here, in this rough place, struck me as almost ridiculous. I supposed he aimed to impress upon us all that he was a man in control, a man of some circumstance, but the effort seemed unnecessary.

  “Bonjour, Charles,” said Boishébert.

  They clenched their right hands together, and Boishébert covered them both with his left. I stood beside Papa, but the man gave me little more than a nod. A number of other men had come with the stranger, and they reminded me of my Mi’kmaq family. I looked over their faces, searching for a familiar one.

  Papa leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, “They’re Maliseet. Cousins of the Mi’kmaq, sort of.”

  I regarded the visitors with fresh eyes, curious to know if they spoke the same language as the Mi’kmaq. A couple of them glanced at me, met my gaze with the guileless expression I knew well, and something inside me calmed.

  Papa was still standing, and I could see he meant to address the group. His expression was tight with grief, but he was moving forward as he must, as our father, and as our leader.

  “May I have your attention, my friends?”

  He held out a hand, gesturing to our group, then apologized to Boishébert. “Please forgive my friends and family if we stare. We have been here about a month, and you are the first souls we have seen.”

  “That is why I have come,” the man declared to them all. “My name is Charles Deschamps de Boishébert,” the man said, “and I represent our Acadian village on Beaubears Island on the Miramichi River.” He cl
eared his throat and made a poor attempt to look humble. “We call it Camp de l’Espérance, but some call it Boishébert’s Camp.”

  I was not the only one to lean closer, hearing this wondrous news. Our shared hopes were whispered through the crowd: A village of Acadians? Surely there will be food! Maybe even homes protected from the freezing tempests! Perhaps we may be safe at last!

  Boishébert nodded, appearing to enjoy the sounds of interest. “And we would like to welcome you all to our humble home, since we understand you are looking to settle in more permanent quarters.”

  After a brief, unanimous vote, our whole group left with Boishébert and the Maliseet. His village’s fleet of boats transported us up the Bay of Fundy and into the Petitcodiac River, going as far as we could. I was disappointed to note that the coastline changed little; the terrain remained bleak and rocky, but I kept my hopes up. When we could sail no farther, we trekked across the land for four days until we reached another waiting ship moored at Cocagne Bay. Along the way I listened to Boishébert speak with Papa. He said in confidence that he had been promised provisions but none had been sent. He reluctantly admitted that he feared the coming months, since there was already a shortage in the village.

  “Already?” Papa frowned. “Why take us in if you are already suffering?”

  Boishébert put his hand on Papa’s shoulder. “Because we are Acadians, oui? We help each other. And there is strength in numbers, my friend. We are stronger together.”

  To my delight, I discovered the Maliseet travelling with us did indeed speak Mi’kmawi’simk. Of course they were strangers, so our conversations could not be the same, but I was comforted by the soft, round syllables. I begged them to tell me what they knew of the Grand Pré region and its people, but they had little news. The system of communication among the Mi’kmaq was well developed, with messengers keeping everyone as up-to-date as possible, and the Maliseet were the same. Unfortunately, news had been sparse of late because of the danger of travelling anywhere near the British.

  “If the people did not go to the boats,” one man told me, “they were taken away. Some went to the jails in Halifax; many were killed.”

  My mind went immediately to André, but he shook his head. “I have not heard of any real trouble with the French resistance.”

  “What of the Mi’kmaq?”

  “Our brothers and sisters of the forest are safe. They know how to avoid these English pond scum. Many have moved to safer camps, though some fight because they feel they must.”

  He knew no more than that, so I had to be satisfied. I could not ask about eight English sailors making their way to l’Acadie, but the question sat heavy on my tongue. Every day I wondered about Connor, envisioned him on board a ship, returning without me to my old home. I could only pray he was safe. But when I thought of him, I also thought of Fitch, remembered the terrible threat he had shouted. The dark voice in my heart hoped that Fitch’s ship might sink, that he might not live to see his hateful threat fulfilled.

  The ship eventually sailed down the Miramichi River, and the closer we got to Camp de l’Espérance, the more our excitement grew. Boishébert had said there were houses, and all we could think of was warmth and comfort and food.

  When at last we put down anchor, the few people who came to greet us smiled and waved, but their cheery welcome seemed forced. The truth, when we saw it, was more than just a little disheartening. Conditions were worse at the camp than Boishébert had said, and the settlement was far from what we’d hoped it might be. Many of the Acadians already living there were ill, some gravely. The familiar build of their log houses was relatively sturdy, but fitting all of us in was difficult. I wasn’t concerned; our people had always helped each other build homes, and with the wealth of pine all around, we’d have no trouble finding supplies. I hoped we would start soon, because despite the friendliness of our hosts, I felt certain we would all weary of each other in such close quarters. After all, our coming had swollen their little village to double what it had been.

  Early spring was on its way, and the wet land underfoot was littered with millions of White Pine needles. At night we huddled near weak fires, trying to convince ourselves we were sated by the scant food. The Maliseet occasionally brought in meat, which was quickly devoured. Giselle and I went into the woods and set snares for muskrats, otters, and martens, but game was difficult to find. At one point we wandered along the river and discovered a beaver dam, which was a rare opportunity. The animals were usually hidden at this time of year, but when we found them, they were easy prey, since they could be caught when they came to their breathing holes in the ice. Still, it wasn’t enough. If it hadn’t been for the weak run of fish, we would surely have starved. I knew Papa felt as I did: this was hardly an improvement from the frozen banks of Saint John Harbour.

  “Why did they bring us here?” I whispered to him one night.

  “We must do what we can, Amélie.” He shook his head. “This is not what we had hoped for, but it is what we have. It is up to you to create your life out of what you have been given.”

  I planted my wise father’s words in my heart, and they began to grow.

  The Mi’kmaq believe Kisu’lk created the world so our spirits can live here as humans and heal through our experiences. They say our lives are shaped by the spirit world so we can accomplish what we are meant to do. Everyone we meet and everything we do is for a greater purpose. Mali’s mother had told me that once we found the path we were intended to walk, everything we needed—though not necessarily what we might want—would come to us.

  What was my purpose? It seemed suddenly so important for me to know the answer. It had been a while since I had done any true thinking; I had simply been reacting. As a child, I had been carried by my family and friends; then I had let the British push me. What if I dared to walk forward on my own?

  Outside the ramshackle house we shared with eight other people, the full moon shone on fresh snow. Ice crystals sparkled a greeting to the stars, inviting me to join them, so I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and stepped into the bright winter night. Quiet as the stars themselves, I waded into the forest, listening for the answer I needed.

  Life had dropped me in this terrible place, and all my body wanted to do was lie still. And yet a small part of me dared to believe I could find the courage to fight back. The easiest thing to do would be to fail, to resign myself to dying here along with so many others. The challenge was to look ahead, to stand up to death. I had never been one to flinch from a dare, and the realization that I was allowing myself to give in made me angry. You must be strong, Papa had said. You are special.

  I did not know which path I was meant to follow, but seeing my footprints in the moonlight reminded me I was already on one. I must not rely on others to find my direction for me, though their guidance might be of help.

  I decided my first duty had to be caring for Giselle, for she had declined until she was a shadow of herself. She slept with her back pressed against me, and during the day she was constantly underfoot or following closely behind. She grieved and was afraid. I needed to divert her. I went in search of other girls her age and found more of the same: starving, confused, and anxious young people either orphaned or left without siblings. Without our farms or dikes to tend, we had no real chores. Boredom stretched the hours, creating more time in which to wallow in despair.

  In the morning Giselle and I walked to the little church to speak with l’Abbé Le Guerne. As always, he was warm and welcoming as he ushered us inside. When I asked if there was anyone in the village who might be able to teach, if only to draw people’s minds from our circumstances, he smiled broadly and said he knew just the man for the job. Within a few days, the church began opening its doors for a few hours each day, and Monsieur Pitre taught lessons to anyone who might be interested, whether child or adult. Even Giselle brightened briefly whenever I asked what she’d learned that day.

  The lessons could do nothing to help with our hunger
, though. The village had outgrown itself. The river could no longer provide what we needed, and it showed in the dragging feet and skeletal faces all around me. One time I saw a man chewing on his moccasin, and when I asked what he was doing, he explained that it had originally come from a deer, and he was sure he would find more meat inside the skin if he kept chewing.

  I had not sunk to that level; however, I had adjusted. The small pieces of stale bread I occasionally received hurt my bleeding gums, but they were something. One day I bit into a crust but dropped it with disgust when I spotted two pale maggots within. I squatted by the morsel, watching the maggots take their fill, and wished it could be that easy for me. Back at our farm, I’d laughed at the antics of our chickens when they begged for a piece of earthworm. The hens were healthy, and they were always happy to devour little creatures just like these maggots. Eventually, we had eaten our chickens—the same ones who had eaten the worms. Intrigued, I picked up the bread and took a wriggling maggot between my fingers, imagining how the chickens would react if they saw it. They’d think I’d found a treasure.

  It is meat, I told myself, nothing more. I placed it back onto the bread where it calmed its squirming, then I took a bite. The maggot was gone when I looked again, and I had not tasted a thing. I ate the rest of the bread, and after that I barely thought about the little white worms.

  A long time ago, in another lifetime, Connor had warned me that one day I would have to change my way of living. I’d been sure he exaggerated, and I had shrugged off his warning. But his earnest expression hadn’t changed. You must adapt, he’d said.

  I finally understood.

  TWENTY-SIX

  June 1756

  Week after week more Acadians arrived either singly or in groups, escaping from wherever they had been taken. Partway through June, five families arrived from South Carolina. The governor of that colony had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with forcing the expelled Acadians to stay; he’d been relieved to see them go. The group had arrived by boat, and we were well acquainted with the travails of that kind of journey. They had brought mothers and fathers and children to our crowded village, but they had not brought any food.