Jeanne Dugas of Acadia

by Cassie Deveaux Cohoon

  In a nostalgic mood, she took out the statuette of Sainte-Anne, the embroidered shawl with Mère Saint-Joseph’s initials on it, and her portrait in the blue silk gown still kept in the woven-grass pouch Martin had made. Who was that young girl in the portrait? she wondered.

  —

  There was great excitement when the men arrived, waving the land-grant in the air. They also had several small kegs of rum, which they took turns carrying. They had obviously been tippling on their way. The whole community gathered and they ate and drank and talked and talked, and talked some more. They made music and sang and danced – it was a wonderful Acadian soirée.

  When Jeanne and Pierre returned to their house, Pierre saw Jeanne’s portrait in the blue silk gown lying on the table. “Ah, Jeanne,” he said, “I remember when I first saw this portrait of you, before we got married. I fell in love with you then. Ever since, when I look at you, this is how you always look to me.” Jeanne smiled; it was amazing, she thought, what a little rum could do.

  Chapter 46

  There seemed to be a change in Jeanne’s inner life, or character, in the years following the receipt of the land grant. She recognized it in herself and was not sure what brought it about, seeing it as a weakness. Was it the fact that she was no longer constantly living on tenterhooks, waiting for the next war, the next displacement, the next disaster? Was it just her age? After all, she was now over sixty and surely could make a claim of weariness. Or was it simply that when she looked on the portrait of herself as the young woman in blue she wondered what her life might have been if events had unfolded differently? And she wondered whether she had done everything she could to help others and herself in the life she had been dealt.

  Then there was the melancholy that she felt living in the valley of Le Platin out of sight of the sea. She had spent so much time on and near the sea, and had been comfortable on ships, where she had felt a sense of freedom and adventure. Even when they had lived in places where they did not want to be seen from the sea, she had been able to look out on it. But their home in Chétican was landlocked. On dull, grey days she felt oppressed by the mountain on one side, the hill on the other and the dark sky looming above.

  She could not discuss her feelings with anyone, but Pierre surely knew she had changed. He was aware that she missed the sea and he asked her if she would like to go sailing one day and where she would like to go.

  “Ah, Pierre, yes, I would” she smiled. “You know, I think I’d like to go and see what is left of Louisbourg. I was thinking of it just the other day.”

  True to his word, on a sunny autumn day, Pierre sailed with Jeanne and Régis to the old town. By the time they arrived, grey clouds had gathered and the air was cool and damp. It was ominous.

  Jeanne knew that the British had destroyed the town, but she had not expected such a complete physical devastation. The wharves were in ruins. The proud stone buildings that had once housed the governor, the militia, the elites, the hospital and the convent were reduced to rubble. There was an eerie silence, except for the wind whispering like a host of ghosts, where once there had been such a loud hubbub of activity. Vegetation was ruthlessly taking over wherever it could. It was difficult to even make out where some streets had been.

  The only living being here now was a solitary man dressed in shabby black clothes sitting on a stone block some distance away. He did not approach them. Mon Dieu, Jeanne thought, What has become of the bustling port, the governor, the militia, the merchants, the missionaries, the nuns, the music teachers, the dancing masters, the laundresses, the artist who painted my portrait, the workers who tended the cod flakes?

  Jeanne had trouble orienting herself in what was now a strange landscape. Her face looked drawn and dazed. Pierre and Régis exchanged worried looks. She had not uttered a word since they had arrived, but they did not want to break her silence. She started to walk inland and they followed her. Finally, she stopped in front of what was left of a partly destroyed building. She turned to her husband and son.

  “I wanted to show you my father’s house, where I was born, but.... But nothing is where I am sure it should be.” She spoke falteringly. “I believe this is what’s left of my stepfather’s house. Imagine, Monsieur de la Tour’s house had an elegant parlour, with a clavecin, and a tapestry with beautiful shepherdesses in it hanging on the wall. My sister Angélique was in love with both the clavecin and the shepherdesses. Poor Angélique.”

  “I’m sorry, Jeanne.”

  “No, Pierre. Don’t be.” She shook her head. “I wanted to come and I’m glad I did.”

  She took a final look at the ruins around her. Mais, mon Dieu. Ah, mon Dieu.

  “There are only ghosts here. I’d like to go home, Pierre.”

  “Come, Jeanne.” Pierre put his arm around her and she slid her arm around his back as they slowly walked down to the harbour together. Régis followed them at a short distance as he tried to imagine his mother’s life in the once-great fortress and what his parents and especially his mother, had suffered through since then.

  As they sailed away and rounded the cape, the sun came out again.

  —

  Jeanne and Pierre’s family grew. In 1792, Régis married Apolline Arsenault, and two years later Geneviève married Maximilien Gaudet. With their two younger children now married and settled in homes of their own nearby, Jeanne and Pierre had an empty nest. Jeanne had convinced Pierre that there was no need for him to work as hard, and he was now fishing on a reduced scale with his son Régis.

  Jeanne herself was letting go of some activities. Her daughter Marie was taking over her mother’s duties as the village midwife. All the early babies in Chétican had been baptized in the embroidered shawl and under the protection of Sainte-Anne, and Marie continued the tradition. Marie’s daughter Eulalie was the apple of her grandmother Jeanne’s eye. Eulalie, married to a son of Augustin Deveau, was beginning to follow in her mother and grandmother’s footsteps.

  Chapter 47

  In the summer of 1805, Jeanne noticed that her husband’s health was failing. Pierre’s movements were slow and he sometimes looked confused, though he refused to stop working. Jeanne urged Régis to keep an eye on his father when they were at sea.

  Jeanne felt such an outpouring of love for him in these later years – this small man with his rolling sailor’s gait, now bent with age. His whole life had been wrapped up in his love for his wife and children. He had been a good father and now a good grandfather. Jeanne could not imagine her life without him. But le bon Dieu came for him in the autumn, when the trees were at their most defiant with colour. At least they had had time to talk. She, about her love for him – he, about his concern for her when he was gone. He was buried in the new cemetery on the side of the hill, with his back to the sea, facing toward the mountains and the sky, which Jeanne in her heart knew was all wrong.

  Jeanne refused to leave her home and her children could not bear the thought of her being there alone, so it was agreed that her favourite granddaughter Eulalie and her husband Jean Baptiste Deveau would live with her.

  —

  On a beautiful morning the following summer, as Jeanne was weeding her garden, she saw Marie coming to see her. There was a man with her, but Jeanne’s eyesight was failing and she did not recognize him from a distance, although she thought that by his erect walk and the way he held himself that he was probably a Mi’kmaw. It was only when he came closer to her that she realized she was looking at—

  Martin? My Martin? Am I dreaming? Am I losing my mind? But there he was, her young, handsome Martin.

  “Martin?” she asked softly and hesitantly.

  “No, Maman Jeanne,” he smiled. “My name is Joseph-Martin. I am Martin’s son.”

  “Ah, mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” She held out her arms to him and hugged him as tears ran down her cheeks

  “Maman Jeanne, please don’t cry,” he said. “I am
so happy to see you.”

  “But I am crying because I am so happy to see you.” She smiled through her tears. “You look just like your father. Ah, mon Dieu. How did Marie find you? Or how did you find me?”

  “I heard there was a sister of Joseph Dugas here and I thought it must be you. It was my great-uncle Jean Sauvage who told me about you and your family. And about how my father was your friend. I was very young when my father died, but my great-uncle Jean told me stories about him when I was a small boy.”

  “Marie, you remember Martin, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course, Maman. I knew him when I was just a little girl. I used to call him Uncle Martin. He told me once that he was the first person in the world to set eyes on me when I was born. I knew him as a wonderful man. And Maman is right, Joseph-Martin, you look just like him.”

  Jeanne brought him into the house and happily chatted with him about his life and his family. Marie did not interrupt; she was happy to see her mother so animated. Joseph-Martin shared the noon meal with the two women and he seemed to be as taken with Jeanne as she was with him.

  They talked about the fate of the Acadians and the Mi’kmaq. He asked if Jeanne and her family were happy to be in Chétican.

  “Well,” said Jeanne, “we finally have a home. We have been granted title to this land. It’s good not to have to face the possibility of being uprooted each spring. We spent so many winters worrying about ‘what news spring would bring’ and wondering if we would have to sail away again. You know, I still find myself slipping into the same thoughts each winter and sometimes I even dream about it.”

  “You’ve never mentioned this before,” said Marie.

  “I know, Marie. But it’s true.”

  As Joseph-Martin was leaving, Jeanne asked him to come to visit again and he promised he would.

  Then she remembered the statuette. “Wait,” she said, “I want to show you something.”

  She brought him the statuette of Sainte-Anne.

  “Your father gave me this,” she told him, “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” said Joseph-Martin, looking at the statuette and then back at Jeanne. “She looks like you.” He saw that she was startled. “Had you not noticed?”

  “Mon Dieu.” Jeanne felt her tears coming again.

  Joseph-Martin gave her his father’s beautiful smile and quietly slipped away.

  Chapter 48

  In 1812, during Jeanne’s eightieth year, the Bishop of Québec, Joseph-Octave Plessis, came to Chétican as part of his pastoral visit to the Catholic missions in the golfe du Saint-Laurent.

  As one of the respected elders in the community, and a midwife and healer, Jeanne received a visit from the Bishop. He sat in her home and accepted a cup of herbal tea, as she told him of the years she and her family had spent evading the British, of their travels, and of how they had managed to escape deportation. And she told him that during all that time they had never gone to bed without supper.

  The Bishop was very impressed. “Madame,” he said, “what a difficult life you have led. I am sure that our good Lord will prepare a special place for you in heaven. It is wonderful to see how you strong Acadian women achieved such a noble survival.”

  Jeanne struggled to put a look of appropriate womanly submission on her face. She knelt when the Bishop gave her his blessing and left.

  She watched his black back recede as he was led away to make his next visit. Only then did she let the thoughts rush to the surface, giving the good Bishop a silent piece of her mind.

  Yes, my good Bishop, how nice to have a place in heaven. But how can I believe that, when le bon Dieu did not see fit to let us have a small plot of land here on earth where we can live in peace? Once again our lives are threatened by the effects of yet another war.

  You believe that we Acadian women survived because we were strong? No, that’s not how it happened. Those of us who survived became strong in the struggle. It wasn’t so much that we fought for survival; it was more a question of how much we could endure. And we were able to do it not for ourselves, but for our children. That was our survival. There was nothing noble about that.

  And what about the brave women and children among us who did not survive? Are they less worthy, less noble? Does their suffering count for nothing? Will they simply be forgotten?

  I told you one small lie by omission my good Bishop. It is true that we never went to bed without some food in our stomachs, but there were many nights when my children and I went to bed hungry because of too little food. My pride made me hide the truth.

  Jeanne realized that for only the second time in her life she had let herself be overwhelmed by anger. The first time – many years ago, in a moment of despair – she had been able to spit her anger out loud to Martin, that night in the woods. But she could not do that with the good Bishop.

  Ah, mon Dieu, I should have knelt before him and confessed all my angry thoughts. Would he have taken away my special place in heaven and sent me straight to hell? Well, so be it, for at times I think I have already been there.

  —

  The War of 1812 was over in three years, and although the Chéticantins were not directly affected, Jeanne and others of her generation had felt the weight of it over their heads. And because it worried Jeanne, her children worried about her.

  It was clear that her health was failing, although Jeanne continued to work in her garden as long as she could. She visited with her children and grandchildren and Joseph-Martin brought his family to visit more often. She enjoyed seeing his children and grandchildren as much as her own.

  In the winter of 1817, Jeanne was bedridden. She did not seem to be suffering from a specific malady, but rather was simply wasting away. Marie spent most of her time at her bedside. Jeanne knew she was instinctively passing on her mantle to her daughter and that Marie was accepting it silently.

  Jeanne lived through spring and into summer. As summer drew to its end, she called Marie, Régis, Geneviève and Eulalie to her bedside. Their worried faces gathered around her.

  “No, I’m not dying yet,” said Jeanne. “But I have something serious to ask of you.”

  “Yes, of course, Maman.” Marie spoke for all of them.

  “Listen my children, when I do go, I want to be buried at sea.”

  There was a soft involuntary gasp from Marie and then total silence.

  “Eh bien?”

  Régis, aghast, looked at Marie. His sister remained silent for a few moments. Jeanne watched different emotions move across her daughter’s face. No one said a word.

  Then Marie smiled. “Yes, of course, Maman, if that is what you truly want.”

  “Yes, that is what I truly want. Thank you, Marie, my big girl.”

  —

  A few weeks later, as the first leaves were starting to turn colour, Jeanne Dugas passed away in her eighty-seventh year. The family held the usual veillée at her home, where the whole village and the surrounding communities paid their respects. Then they kept Maman’s body at the house one more night, with only the family in attendance. To Marie’s great relief, the priest was away on a pastoral visit.

  Early the next morning, Joseph-Martin arrived with two large canoes paddled by Mi’kmaw warriors. The family were waiting for him. A solemn Marie stood clutching the grass pouch containing her young Maman’s portrait.

  Joseph-Martin had brought a small bouquet of sweet grass and herbs tied with a ribbon, which he placed beside Maman’s body. Marie very hesitantly added the grass pouch. Her heart ached at the thought of letting it go forever, but she felt it was important for her mother to have it with her. It completed the story of her life.

  Joseph-Martin helped the family to wrap Jeanne’s body in her best blanket and then in the animal-skin shroud he had brought. The warriors carried her down to the shore and put her in one of the canoes. Joseph-Martin acco
mpanied them.

  Marie, Régis, Geneviève, Eulalie and their spouses, together with Joseph-Martin’s family, followed in the second canoe.

  They seemed to travel a great distance. When they stopped, they were out of sight of land. The sea was calm, there was no wind, the air was warm and moist. But Marie could feel the strength and power of the sea surging under the boats. The two canoes drew close. No one uttered a word.

  A Mi’kmaw elder in the first canoe stood and said a short prayer in his native tongue, accompanied by a softly muffled drum. The warriors then lifted Jeanne’s body and very gently lowered it into the sea.

  Geneviève and Eulalie wept softly. Marie was dry-eyed, but could not speak. She sent a silent message to her mother Jeanne Dugas. Go in peace, Maman. You no longer have to worry about what news spring will bring.

  What Became of...

  Charles Dugas, not taken captive in the MacKenzie raid because he was ill, left Nipisiguit about a month later. He took his wife and children to settle in Tracadièche (now Carleton, QC). One of his sons, Joseph, married a daughter of Alexis Landry and they eventually settled in Caraquet, NB. Joseph and his father-in-law were among the Acadians who obtained land in Caraquet under a government grant similar to that given to the settlers of Chétican. Charles Dugas died in Tracadièche in 1801 at the age of ninety. Many of his descendants can be found there and in Caraquet today.

  Joseph Dugas, after his escape from Georges Island in 1762 to hide in Chedabouctou, emigrated to St. Pierre et Miquelon two years later. His marriage to Louise Arsenault was rehabilitated there in 1766. In November 1767, as a result of French policy, he was deported to France, only to be forced to return to St. Pierre et Miquelon the following spring. In 1778, when the British captured St. Pierre et Miquelon, Joseph Dugas was again deported to France. He lived his last years in penury and died in Saint-Servant in 1779 at the age of sixty-five. His wife died five months later.