Читать книгу Piau - Bruce Monk Murray - Страница 8

Not only were my uncle and René welcoming when I first arrived, so, too, was my cousin Isabelle. She spilled a torrent of greetings when my uncle first introduced me to her and Benjamin.

“Could this be little Piau? How wonderful to finally meet you! I trust your mother is in good health. I have not seen her since the British took over the garrison at Port Royal, which I hear is now known as Annapolis. You certainly seem to take after her. And my father has boasted to me of your precocity. Here is your cousin Benjamin. He is just beginning his education, too. Together you will be learning the language of those who govern us.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Cousin Isabelle. My mother is in very good health, thank you, and she has told me all about you. And, yes, the town is now called Annapolis but we choose to call it Port Royal as we always have.”

I shook Benjamin’s hand.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Piau. I look forward to spending the winter in your company.”

Benjamin’s greeting was extremely formal in its delivery but unmistakably genuine.

“What did I tell you, young Piau,” interjected Uncle. “Like you, Benjamin is an extraordinary child, mature and intelligent beyond his years.”

Benjamin was also a handsome child. His eyes sparkled in a way I had never witnessed before. He seemed a most interesting person and I felt immediately that we would be bosom friends. The prospect of having a fellow student to share my learning filled me with a confidence I had not felt before. And, of course, I relished the prospect of having a playmate.

And so began our daily learning sessions. René and Uncle were responsible for my studies, and Isabelle oversaw Benjamin’s English and French lessons. While I practised my lessons, I listened to Uncle’s heated debates with René. They spoke of the constant indecision of whether to leave Acadia for Île Royale or Île Saint Jean, or to stay. The issue of whether or not to take the oath of allegiance to the British Crown seemed to riddle their discussions. I was made aware of the willingness of the Acadians to leave with their worldly goods and livestock and sail to the surrounding French colonies. But however much the British wanted us to leave, they feared us more in exile. The increased power of the French surrounding Nova Scotia should eight thousand of us enter the neighbouring French colonies was far too threatening. There was also the question of who would feed the one hundred and fifty British soldiers at Annapolis should we leave our farms. I heard that Lieutenant-Governors Nicholson, Vetch, and Caulfield all decided to prevent us from emigrating by denying us the sails necessary to wind our vessels.

Over time, Isabelle became a mother figure to me. She was everything one would hope for in a mother. She was beautiful, warm, comforting, and charismatic. She took me under her wing and was as kind to me as she was to her own son. She informed me of my family history, all the stories that were too painful for my own mother to relate. One day she sat on the floor before Uncle’s hearth and talked about my mother’s tragedy.

“Piau, your father was a great man and very heroic. When Colonel March and the British attacked Port Royal on two occasions in 1707, your father fought bravely to defend the fort and his property from the invaders. He became a victim of their treachery after holding out against many days of attacks. British retribution rained down upon your home and your family. They shot your father, burned your house, and killed and confiscated your livestock.

“Your mother fled with her children. You were a babe in arms. Your grandmother Marie took you in. When the British left Port Royal in ruins, Captain Pierre Morphan and the French privateers, who had fought alongside the Acadians in the battle, felt such compassion for your mother and such respect for your father’s courage in the face of the enemy that they presented to her a British vessel they had captured off the New England coast. You all were to live on that ship until your new home was constructed in the village. Your brother Charles’s passion for shipbuilding began at that period. He transformed his grief into something constructive. The ship was confiscated when the British arrived at the garrison five years ago.

“This is a story I believe you must hear and one you will in time pass on to your descendants so they can be proud of those who went before them.”

“Isabelle, it is true I was a baby when we lived aboard the British ship, but I have heard many tales told of those times living below decks. We never sailed her but I am certain it was fun to pretend we were at sea for my older brothers. Poor Mother never speaks of that time, though. But you are correct, my brothers Charles and Jean remember it all as a great adventure, raising the sails when they chose to and climbing to the crow’s nest to stand on guard for the first sight of an imaginary enemy fleet.

“Even though he was only ten at the time, Charles was forced to become the man of the family. Living on the ship made the finest shipbuilder in all Acadia!”

“How you boast, Piau!” said Isabelle.

We all began to laugh. I suppose I was a budding storyteller even then.

That first autumn, I learned more of my family and witnessed their life in their village. I saw the completion of the new church, observing how René instructed the men of the village how to place the stones. Uncle supervised from his seat in the churchyard, but it was René who made certain each stone was placed and mortared properly. They completed the construction of the roof before the first snowfall and prepared the church interior for the Christmas season. Although I was very young, I was able to absorb their joy and pride at midnight mass on Christmas Eve. Not even the British lieutenant-governor at Port Royal could threaten what they had rebuilt, for they had learned to savour each moment of this life as if it were a precious gift. The church was the gift they had given themselves and no one could steal that from them.

During that winter of 1715, I was to discover that René was no ordinary overseer. He was René LeBlanc, and, although only twenty-seven, he was a very influential person in the community at Grand Pré. I discovered that, at a very young age, René’s genius had been recognized by my uncle. Uncle Pierre had placed him under his patronage just as he had now placed me, and had educated him in English so that someone in the community could be a liaison with the English as Uncle grew older. Stonemasonry had been only a small part of his education. In later years his position as notary at Grand Pré would secure him a major role in the exile of our people. He became my teacher and mentor. He was married to Uncle Pierre’s daughter Isabelle and therefore he was also the husband of my mother’s first cousin. Even at my tender age, I was struck by Isabelle’s extraordinary beauty and vibrancy. She, too, became a part of my English world during those early years. Their son, Benjamin, only six at the time, became my closest friend.

When the spring arrived at Grand Pré I was anxious to return home to Port Royal. I was returning to my family at Melanson Village an altered person and far more enlightened. The influence of Uncle, Isabelle, René, and even little Benjamin was to survive each summer and spill over into my life with my brothers and sisters. My mother perceived a great change in her youngest son both physically and mentally.

“You have changed, Piau. You have grown and I notice a difference in your eyes. Perhaps they are wiser. We all missed you but I see that your winter with Uncle Pierre has been a benefit.”

She embraced me in a more meaningful way than I could remember. From that time on she never took me for granted again.

During the summer we received a visit from Uncle, Isabelle, and Benjamin. For a week Benjamin and I enjoyed the freedom of the hot summer days, swimming in the river and scaling the ramparts of the dikes. Occasionally we would find a shady spot in the town where I would read aloud from one of the English books from Uncle’s library.

One day, as we sat outside the blacksmith’s shop engaged in our usual pastime, a distinguished-looking officer chanced by and heard me reading aloud. He spoke to me with a sound of amazement in his voice: “Young man, where did you learn to read English with such fluency? That is remarkable for an Acadian boy and one of such a tender age.”

“My uncle taught me and has allowed me to choose some English books from his collection.”

“And who might your uncle be, young master?”

“Uncle’s name is Pierre Laverdure, of Grand Pré.”

“Indeed! I am acquainted with your uncle. He is a venerable English gentleman and you are a very fortunate young man to have access to your uncle’s library. I am Lieutenant-Governor Caulfield. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. And to whom am I speaking?”

“Pierre Belliveau, but they call me Piau. This is my uncle’s grandson, Benjamin. He speaks English as well.”

Despite my mistrust of the British at Port Royal, I felt proud that I was able to communicate with them in their own language. That being said, I always felt a degree of remorse after each encounter with the British soldiers of the garrison.

The lieutenant-governor appeared to be genuinely good-natured, though. My discomfort began to dissipate when he spoke.

“Come to the garrison tomorrow. I have something I wish to give to you. I will expect you after the noonday gun. Until tomorrow, young Piau.”

The following day at noontime, the soldiers guarding the gate at the fort were amused at the sight of two young Acadian boys requesting to see Lieutenant-Governor Caulfield. They were even more amazed that one of them spoke perfect English. Just as promised, the lieutenant-governor appeared at the gate with a book in hand.

Ignoring the guards, Lieutenant-Governor Caulfield spoke to us in a congenial and familiar manner.

“Good day, Master Piau and Cousin Benjamin. Recently, my wife forwarded to me a book newly published in England. It is a story of great adventure on an exotic island in the South Seas. The author is a Mr. Defoe and the title is Robinson Crusoe. It is a fascinating story, and although it will require much effort on your part to read it, I am certain in time you will find it most entertaining. It is my gift to your continuing education. Keep it. I am able to get another should I wish in future.”

He shook both our hands and sent us on our way. I have never forgotten his kindness, and history has shown him to have been the gentlest and most sympathetic of all the British lieutenant-governors of Acadia.

One winter followed the next, and the summers followed each other as well, and I enjoyed my two lives — winters at Grand Pré and summers at Port Royal.

My education continued under the tutelage of many. At Grand Pré, Uncle Pierre, René, and Isabelle each felt responsible for contributing something to my knowledge — sometimes, admittedly, my fog of knowledge. Absorbing all they hurled at me was daunting. It took my summers to digest all they chose to send my way during the winters.

Isabelle made certain that Benjamin and I perfected our penmanship, encouraging us to practise in both French and English. This was not an onerous task for us, because we rallied back and forth between languages on a regular basis. I don’t believe we were even conscious of which we were speaking at any given time. Certainly, in our community, however, we spoke to our neighbours in French.

René was responsible for our practical use of numbers, allowing us to create imaginary ledgers of goods one might purchase or trade. He instructed us in measuring the size of properties, particularly community fields, weighing bags of grain produced in those fields, and predicting what each was likely to yield in a growing season.

He instructed us also in stonemasonry. This skill I was not to perfect until much later in life, for I was only in residence at Grand Pré in the winter. Benjamin, on the other hand, became a master stonemason like his father and grandfather before him.

As for Uncle Pierre, he supervised what we read in both languages and was able to produce any number of volumes from his massive library to improve our reading. He encouraged us to practise incessantly so that we should become competent in French and English.

It was Uncle’s knowledge of history that captured my imagination most. In telling his own story he was able to bring to life a great web of stories that described the history of France and England over a period of close to a hundred years. One such story told of the execution of the English king.

“When I was thirteen, the king of England, Charles I, was beheaded. Can you imagine that, a monarch being executed by his own people?”

Benjamin and I sat there in total wonderment.

“Why would they cut the king’s head off, Uncle?” I asked.

“That is a good question, Piau. Well, the answer is clear. He went to war against his own subjects and lost that war. He was tried and executed. The stubborn King Charles believed he was only answerable to God, not the people of England, and it is a known fact, especially in England, that a monarch reigns only by the good graces of his subjects.”

“Who became king after the execution?” inquired Benjamin.

“That is also an excellent question, Grandson. There was no king. The commanding general of the army was a man named Oliver Cromwell, and he governed for ten years as Lord Protector of the Commonwealth. He did not wish to be king but he certainly was an able leader. My father was a member of Cromwell’s New Model Army. It was because my father was on the winning side that he was given land at Port Royal in 1657. That is how I came to live in Acadia.”

“How is it that we have a king now, Uncle Pierre?” I asked.

“Well, three years after my family arrived in Acadia, in 1660, to be exact, the English Parliament, the elected assembly where all the laws are created, invited the old king’s son to return to England as their new king. King Charles II happily agreed but he was forced to relinquish many of the powers his father had enjoyed. After he was crowned, we heard little news of His Majesty in the colony.”

“Tell us about our French history, Grandfather,” Benjamin requested.

“My father told me many tales of his growing up in France. He was a master tailor, you know, from a place in France called La Rochelle. He grew up in a family that was very religious, but they were not Catholics, they were referred to as Huguenots. They believed that a person could have a direct relationship with God through prayer and by reading the words of the Bible. Their church services were conducted in French, not Latin like the Roman Church. The Huguenots were mistrusted by many of the French Catholics, including the king of France himself. They were persecuted for their beliefs even to the point of being hunted down and murdered. The infamous St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre is an example. Under the leadership of the Duke of Guise, thousands of Huguenots were hunted down in one day and butchered like wild animals. My father always became very emotional when he related the story of that gruesome day.”

“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.