Carrier-of-Bones

By John Francois

Toward the end of the French and Indian War in 1761, when England and France are battling for a continent, Pierre takes his son and his son's friend with him to return the remains of his wife and child to the family graveyard in Acadie, Canada. When Pierre dies along the way, his son, Jean-Claude, promises to finish the journey. His friend Louis agrees to go with him.

The two boys are changed forever by their experiences in the wilderness as death stalks them along the way. At the end, if they survive, they must face the wrath of a vengeful Seneca warrior who swears to kill them for what they did to his brother.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Francois
• Release date: Jan 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9780966780635

John Francois

John Francois lives in Louisiana. He has six novels, the most recent one titled Revolutions, set in 1848 Paris. His fifth book, Pontiac, is a sequel of Carrier-of-Bones. Pontiac is now an E-Book, and can be ordered from Smashwords, B&N, Kindle, and E-pub. Printed version can be ordered from www.johnfrancois.com.Francois would appreciate feedback from his readers. He can be contacted at [e-mail]. Your e-mail will go to my spam box, since he doesn't have you in his Address book, so just make your e-mail subject "Carrier-of-Bones." He will retrieve it and respond to your mail. Thanks.

Book preview

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Pointe Coupée, 1761

Water roared in Jean Pitre’s ears as the river pulled him into its silty depths. He fought against the pull, kicking hard, but his woolen clothing weighed him down as though he had bricks in his pockets. Water of the flood-swollen Mississippi entered his nose and seeped into his lungs and his mind panicked. Only the primordial instinct of survival caused him to make one last try to escape the watery grave. Kicking hard, he managed to break the surface, gave a strangled cry, then began sinking again. In a final defiant act, he thrust a hand up to grab the surface as though it were something solid he could cling to.

Louis Comeau saw Jean’s head break the water just ahead of him. A quick stroke of his paddle got the skiff there just as Jean began to sink again. Louis stood and was ready to dive in when a clawed hand broke the surface next to the boat. He leaned over and grabbed it, then barely keeping the unsteady little craft from capsizing, he pulled until his friend’s head was out of the water.

Jean, tiens toi sur le bateau! Jean, hold on to the boat!

When Louis saw that the sputtering and gasping Jean was able to do so, he began rowing hard for the right bank. The current of the Mississippi carried the lopsided craft a long distance before Louis was able to make the bank. When he did, Jean found footing, waded out of the river, fell to his knees and vomited.

A few horrifying minutes ago Louis was sure he’d lost his best friend. Now that Jean was safe, a great euphoria came over him. Mon Dieu, Jean! I thought you was gone for sure, he began babbling in French, thumping him on the back. I saw you go under, but I kept coming for you as quick as I could. Giving a shaky laugh, he said, I kept yelling at you when you were under water as if you could hear me.

When Jean was able to speak, and with the smell of vomit hard in his nose and his head aching, he replied in English, for the two Acadian boys spoke both languages, You can’t tell anyone what happened, Louis. My Papa must never find out.

So why is he being so hard on you all of a sudden? Louis said, puzzlement showing in his eyes.

The dregs of Jean’s stomach tickled the back of his throat, which created another spasm of coughing. When he could speak once more, he said, I don’t know. Ever since I turned fifteen, he wanted me to start acting a man. He blew to clear his nose. Let’s go. I should of been home an hour ago.

After they got the little skiff up behind the Comeau’s house, Jean ran home, the legs of his woolen trouser slapping wetly against his ankles. The cabin where he and his father lived rested on tall wooden pilings. Running up the narrow steps to the porch that ran across the front of the house, he entered the kitchen. On the left was a fireplace with ashes from last night’s supper fire. On the bare walls of the kitchen, cast iron pans and articles of homespun clothing hung on crude wooden pegs. Across from the kitchen were the two narrow bedrooms.

Relieved at not seeing his father home, Jean hurried outside to the woodpile. When he came back with an armload of firewood and kindling, the voice of his father startled him.

Jean-Claude, t’est tard. Pour quoi? You’re late. Why?

Jean dropped the wood and kindling by the fireplace and hurried to his father’s bedroom, surprised to see him sitting in bed. In the fading light of day he saw the displeasure marking his father’s face as well as the bitterness in it that had lately grown more and more pronounced.

Sorry I’m late, Papa. We was fishing. Me and Louis. He spoke French to his father, who knew only a little English. Jean did not explain what had made him late. If his father pushed he would have to lie because he couldn’t tell him that he’d nearly drowned. If his father wanted him to be more like a man, then he supposed a man could tell a lie when he had to.

Pierre regarded him for a long moment, but when he spoke the impatience in his voice was gone, replaced with disappointment. For someone I’m trying to turn into a man, you keep falling short, Jean. Can you refresh me on just what it is I’ve been trying to teach you?

Not so long ago, he would have looked down at his feet and stuttered an answer. But not now, though. His father had told him to look a person in the eye and never show fear or anxiety, no matter what the circumstances were. Jean held his father’s eyes. He would have shown contrition, though, if he thought that would help.

I’m expected to be where I’m supposed to be, he said, reciting what had been pounded into him since his fifteenth birthday a month ago.

And were you? Pierre stared at him, rubbing his stomach in small tight circles with his thumb. If he noticed his son’s wet clothing he did not comment.

No, Papa. Not tonight. He instinctively wanted to look down, but continued to hold his father’s gaze, which was what a man would do. He felt water dripping on his feet.

I had to leave home when I was your age, Jean, to go and make my living in the world. That’s how it was. Pierre looked down where he continued to work his thumb. But things here can’t stay as they are. His father swung his bare feet to the floor. I was thinking all kind of things while waiting for you. Do you remember the names of your grandparents?

Jean struggled with the unexpected question. He could barely remember any of them, and only one vague face, his grandmother’s, who had died when he was six. He never knew the rest of his grandparents, all having died before he was born, or before he was old enough to remember them.

Why do you ask me that?

Because we’re all that’s left of our family. You and me. Can you tell me why that is?

Jean wondered where this was leading to. Because Mama and Ti Jacques died at that Indian village.

And buried there. I wasn’t referring just to that. Let’s work backward. Why were they buried in the wilderness and not in our family graveyard in Chipoudie?

Jean cleared his throat from some dregs that were still in there. Because the English soldiers came and burned our house and took us away in that big boat. Then Mama and Ti Jacques got sick and died after the Indians made us slaves on our way here.

Pierre was silent for a moment before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was husky. And why did the English burn down our farm?

Because we were French.

Pierre sighed a slow, heavy exhalation. He patted the bed next to him. Sit, Jean-Claude, and I’ll tell you our history because I don’t think you know it as well as you should. Jean moved to the bed, sat on the very edge so as not to get it too wet. His father picked up his yellow, long-stemmed pipe from the bed stand, but didn’t light it.

Just because we’re in Louisiana today doesn’t mean your grandparents never lived, or that their memory isn’t worth cherishing. I want to tell you things you must know so you can tell your children and the children of your children since I may not be around to tell them myself.

Jean frowned. His father was only forty-five, and not old enough to be talking like that. Death began in the sixties.

I’ll tell you of your grandmothers and grandfathers whose blood you carry and who are buried in Chipoudie, back in Acadie. Then I want you to know and remember your uncles and aunts and cousins who, if they aren’t already dead, are now scattered to the ends of the world. Pierre flung his hands in the air, his eyes suddenly blazing. Our entire family has disappeared, Jean. Poof! All gone like smoke!

His father focused his eyes beyond the walls of their crude little cabin and recited the litany of family names. Jean tried to put faces to them, those he’d known and could remember. When the genealogy lesson ended Pierre glanced at him. I don’t suppose you can remember so many names or who each one was, but they were part of our family. We had each other, depended on each other. That’s what families did. Then his voice filled with a swelling bitterness that grew raspier as he continued.

This next part is very important and you must remember it. In Acadie we first lived under the French, then later, under the English. We never took part in their wars. We desired only to be left alone, to go about making a living. But then one day the English said we were traitors. Pierre’s eyes burned in the darkness. Traitors, Jean, because we would not take the oath of loyalty to the English crown, and because we would not abandon our Catholic faith. That was their excuse to get rid of us. They wanted the lands we had worked so hard to make sweet. Being branded as traitors made it easy for them. They could take it for nothing.

When his father recited the part of having to leave their home at the end of English bayonets, a part that Jean still remembered clearly, and began speaking of the fiery destruction of all the farms of their little village, his father said something else that surprised him.

I have dreams of those fires. I run around trying to put them out, but the heat drives me back. It burns my face and hands. I wake up at night calling for help.

Jean had been awakened many times by his father’s muffled shouts, but had never known the reason. When he’d asked about the cries, his father said he didn’t remember. Jean certainly did his own bad dreams. Two in particular. One recurring dream was of Indians with horribly painted faces chasing him as he ran against a great wind that kept him from getting away no matter how hard he tried. The other recurring dream, his worst one, was of his mother lying in a grave too small for her, holding his little brother, Ti Jacques, in her arms. A frozen baby, while large flakes of snow decorated her dark hair in white, lacy spots. After those dreams, or nightmares, he woke up crying and feeling an empty, aching pit in his stomach.

He closed his eyes as his father continued the deportation story that he remembered all too well; the terrible sea voyage in the crowded, vomit-slicked belly of their tossing transport, of their two years working for the fat German farmer in Pennsylvania until early one morning when they ran away with the five fur trappers going to Fort Duquesne. At this point in the narrative, Jean became aware that his father had stopped talking. There was only the noise of mosquitoes buzzing.

I should fix supper, Jean said quickly, not wanting to relive the rest of the story.

His father nodded, rose to his feet. Why are you so wet?

Jean started to tell of the fish that had taken his hook, probably one of those great river catfish or garfish. He’d held on too long and was pulled into the treacherous current that swirled around his hips. When he’d finally let go, the river had him. This foolish error had nearly resulted in his drowning, which was not something he could tell his father. Not today, and maybe not ever.

I slipped and fell in the water.

Get changed. Pierre grunted and his bare feet whisked on the floor as he went out on the porch to smoke his pipe.

Once Jean got the fire going, he hung the black wrought iron pot in which dried beans had been soaking all day onto the fireplace swing bar, threw in a cup of cornmeal when the water began boiling and added a handful of salt. While this cooked he cut up the squirrel he’d killed that morning, spooned lard from a tin can into a black iron skillet and put in the meat to fry.

When everything was ready, he put two plates on the rough table that occupied the center of the kitchen, retrieved the day-old cornbread from a covered pan in the keeping cabinet and called his father.

The pungent odor of tobacco smoke drifted into the kitchen.

I’m not hungry. You eat.

Jean wondered if his father was feeling well. Madame Elise Comeau, Louis’s mother, had always pronounced his father tough and strong as a mule. That was the same day she told Jean he must have taken after his poor, sainted mother, because he was so slender compared to his father. But he knew the difference between them was not only physical. He was much more emotional than his father, whose only feeling he showed lately was this deep bitterness. The thought of his dead mother, for instance, could trigger tears if he didn’t quickly think of something else. He didn’t like being the way he was, and wondered if he was supposed to have been born a girl, then at the last minute God had changed his mind. He wanted to be more like his father, but no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t. He was too soft and knew his father didn’t like his being that way.

Although it was dark enough, Jean didn’t light the tallow candle that occupied the middle of the table. It was there for when company came at night, which was not often. The illumination from the fireplace sufficed. He ate facing the flickering light, listening to the soft popping of the wood as it burned. To Jean, there was something reassuring about a chimney fire and the comfort it brought, the permanence it suggested. He liked their little cabin, liked living here, fishing and hunting with his friend, Louis. When he rose to clear the table, his father stepped inside.

That can wait. I want to finish. He placed his dead pipe on the table.

I know the rest of it, Papa. It was only three years ago.

Pierre pulled up a chair. Where did I stop?

Jean sat back down at the table and braced himself for what was to come. We were with the trappers going west.

When his father related their capture by the Delaware, Jean turned his head and closed his eyes. He had tried to bury these next memories as deeply as he could, for they were the subject of his dreams and ones that brought tears if he dwelled on them. He clamped his teeth hard on his bottom lip.

As his father talked, vivid memories flashed in his mind of the village chief who gave away Ti Jacques to a couple who had no children, of how his mother was beaten away with a stick each time she tried to see her little son, and of her wasting sickness after Ti Jacques died.

All these things scraped away at the thin, pathetic layers he’d laid down to protect himself from those painful memories. He blinked hard against the tears forming, tasted blood in his mouth. Then a fist crashed on the table. Jean looked up at his father through wide, brimming eyes.

Men do not cry, Jean! They yell and they curse and they hit things, but they do not cry! Pierre rose unsteadily from his chair and lurched to the door to stare out into the darkness, his chest heaving. Jean sat with his head down, wiping away at his shameful tears. When Pierre returned, his father stood before him with the fireplace at his back, the orange, wavering light sputtering behind him. When he spoke his voice was hoarse, even apologetic.

I’m sorry if I seem harsh, son, but it’s because I want you to survive what this world will throw at you. I want you to understand that. I want you to be strong here and here. He pointed to his heart, then to his head. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I decided this afternoon. We’re going back to that Delaware village where Mama is buried. We’ll dig up her up, her and Ti Jacques, and take them back to Chipoudie. We’ll bury them behind our little church of Ste. Marie.

Jean gaped at the blurry, dark profile of his father against the fire. For the third time that evening he’d been caught off guard.

Back to Chipoudie?

Before she died, Mama took my hands in hers and made me promise. She wants to be buried next to her mama and papa. I promised her I would do that. What else could I do?

Jean wiped his nose on the back of his hand and squeezed his eyes hard. But how can we do that? It’s too far away.

Pierre leaned forward as if in conspiracy. We got here, didn’t we? It might take time, but we can do it. Mama isn’t happy buried in that wilderness. He put his hands to his ears, closed his eyes and his voice broke. At night in my dreams I hear her calling me to come and take her home.

Jean stared at his father, seeing the first deep emotions he’d ever seen his father show other than anger. But couldn’t we…I mean, why don’t we just go get them and bring them back here to Pointe Coupée?

His father shook his head. That’s not what I promised her. Besides, she wouldn’t be happy here. He paused, opened his eyes. They were black pits again, fixed on him. Do you like it here?

Yes. Why should he want to go back to Chipoudie where there was nothing left, leave from where the only people he knew and cared about were?

Ah. Then you don’t remember what Acadie was like at all. And again Pierre’s dark eyes looked beyond the walls of the cabin and his voice turned curiously soft. Acadie was a paradise, a beautiful, golden place where we were happy. I had my farm and my animals. In my wheat field, I could judge the hour of the day by the angle of the sun, by the glint of it on the water in the bay. I knew when the seasons would change, when they came and when they finished. I knew the ebb and flow of the tides. Acadie had a pulse, Jean. I felt it. I was alive there.

Pierre flung his arms out and his voice became accusing. Louisiana is a failed promise. It’s a place of swamps and floods and mud. There are no seasons here, there is no pulse. Two years we’ve been here and I’ve grown to hate this place. The fire cast jumping shadows, changing his father’s familiar contours into grotesque angles. I’m going to keep my promise. We’re leaving as soon as I make arrangements.

Jean gaped. But it’s thousands of miles away.

It’s not that far. Mama wants us to take her home. We will do that.

Chapter 2

Leaving Pointe Coupée

Jean hardly slept that night. His father’s decision left him feeling as lost and afraid as did the nightmares of his mother in her grave. He didn’t want to go back to Acadie, but there wasn’t very much he could do about it.

Pierre went into the village in the morning to see about selling the cabin and the arpent of land it occupied. Jean was sweeping the kitchen when Louis came stomping up to the porch. He and Louis were of the same age and height, but Louis was more compact and had broader shoulders that the more slender Jean envied. He carried a fishing line in one hand and a gourd of chicken guts in the other.

Put that broom away. Can’t let what happened yesterday scare us into not going back. And this time if you hook a big one, maybe you’ll have sense enough to let go before you get pulled into the river again.

Jean’s hands tightened on the twig broom, his knuckles white. We’re leaving, Louis. Papa says we have to go back to Chipoudie.

Louis stared at him for a moment then his gray eyes crinkled. This is one of your jokes, right?

Jean shook his head. I wish it was. Louis frowned as he listened. When Jean finished, Louis shook his head in wonder.

Your papa hears your mama calling him?

Yes. He said he made a promise to her when she was dying that he would take her home. I guess she’s tired of waiting.

Mon Dieu! Louis stared at Jean.

I don’t want to leave, but I’ll have to. Papa can’t do this by himself.

I can’t believe this. Louis walked around the kitchen shaking his head. So when are you supposed to go?

As soon as he can sell the house and everything. Maybe tomorrow, who knows? Tears of frustration weren’t all that far away.

That’s going to be one heck of a trip, Louis said, his face suddenly animated.

Jean frowned, taken aback by his friend’s reaction. You mean us paddling all that way up the Mississippi, then all the way up the Ohio in that heavy old dugout? Oh, sure. A heck of a trip.

Darn! The word burst from Louis’s mouth. I’d give anything to go with you.

Jean stared at him. You’d go with us?

Why not? I could help paddle and things like that. It could be a great adventure, Jean, you and me going back to get your mama and little brother. His face shone with the prospect of the great trek through the wilderness.

Even in Jean’s imagination which had always been strong, a ‘great adventure’ was the last thing he would call this, what with the distance they would have to travel and all the wild Indians in the forests. Still, if Louis could come, it would sure make things a lot better.

You think your papa would let you come?

Louis shrugged, his enthusiasm somewhat lessened. I don’t know.

After Jean had done all he could to make the cabin look presentable in case someone came to look at it, they went to their favorite haunt on a bluff under a huge live oak that overlooked a bend in the river. They had spent many hours there the past two years since they’d known each other, talking and planning their future, but in their wildest dreams their future had not included this turn of events. Their plans had included fishing and hunting together and at some point marrying one of the local girls. Now they sat without speaking, looking out over the brown waters of the deceptive Mississippi. Far out in the current the carcass of a large animal, possibly a cow, rotated slowly, carrying two black buzzards dining on it.

Madame Elise, Louis’s mother, treated him like he was her own son as well. Once when he came to visit and Louis was away helping his father to build a cistern, she noticed a rip in his shirt. She had him take it off so she could mend it. He’d sat on the edge of the porch feeling half naked.

Jean-Claude, she said, using his full name, you and me, we hardly ever have a chance to talk by ourselves. There’s a question I’ve been wanting to ask you. Do you know if your father plans to marry again?

He told her he didn’t think so, because as far as he knew, his father was not courting anyone.

Louis told me the other day that your father expects you to behave like a man, to be a man. Jean, you’re still a boy. She had looked at him then with those same solemn gray eyes that Louis had. Many of us lost our kin in the deportation, but for a boy to lose his mother at your young age, that is the worst thing that can happen. Your father should remarry. A boy needs a mother to soften the rough edges of life.

Her words dug deep down into him and torn loose the plug that stoppered a large part of the grief that he’d never before had a chance to express. The tears came with a muffled cry and broke and he could not stop them. Madame Elise put down his shirt and sat down next to him, placing an arm around his shoulder.

Go on and cry, mon cher.

He didn’t try to fight his tears, and while he wept, she gently rocked him. When he was finally all cried out, he felt like all his grief and worries had been washed away. She gave him the edge of her thin, blue apron to wipe his eyes. The apron had the clean smell of lye soap, of home, of permanence, and of his mother.

Your papa is raising you the best way he knows how. Just don’t worry. There’ll be plenty of time for you to grow to be a man.

Since that day he swore he’d never cry again. But he had, of course, but never where his father could see him. Until last night.

Louis broke the silence. When you get your mama and little brother back home, you’ll be coming back here, right?

Jean shook his head. Papa’s not bringing them back here. He said he’s not coming back. He hates it here.

He does? But what about you? Are you coming back?

How do you expect me to come back all by myself, Louis?

His friend was silent for a moment then smacked his fist in his hand. That’s it! That’s why my papa has to let me go with you. If your papa is not coming back, then I should go so you and me can come back. Then he laughed. Don’t you think that would be funny, us dragging dead bodies all the way to Acadie? People would think we were crazy.

Papa said Mama and Ti Jacques are just bones by now.

Louis seemed to think about that for a moment. Well, anyway, I’ll just have to convince my papa to let me go. I’ll tell him you will need help to get there, and then I can help you to come back if your papa’s going to stay. Do you think Monsieur Pierre would let me go with you?

Jean brightened a bit. I don’t see why not. You could sure help with the paddling. But you just said your papa probably won’t let you come, and I sure don’t see your mama saying you could go.

I’m not so sure about that. She cares a lot about you. It’s like we’re brothers, you and me. If I could go to help you get back, I think she’d let me. And it’s not like Papa doesn’t have anyone else to help him with his carpentry work. My two older brothers could do that while I’m gone.

I guess if you were a man you wouldn’t have to ask, Jean said mockingly. You’d just say, ‘Papa, I’m going to Acadie with Jean. I’ll see you in a year or so,’ and that would be that.

Louis rolled his eyes then looked at Jean and tilted his head as he had a habit of doing when he was latching onto a new idea. Maybe that would work. I could use that argument, because if you’re supposed to be a man at fifteen, then I sure as heck am one, too.

Jean’s father sold the cabin that day. Later that afternoon after Louis told his mother what was happening, Madame Elise sent him over to invite the two to supper. Pierre declined, saying they were leaving first thing in the morning and he needed to finish getting things together, but allowed that Jean could go. Pierre whistled as he went around deciding what to take and what to leave behind.

During supper Madame Elise kept urging Jean to eat more potatoes, more chicken, more beans, more cornbread, drink more milk, as if he could store all that food for use later. No one had spoken yet of his leaving, but the subject weighed heavily all through supper. Louis wasn’t saying much. Jean figured he was working on the presentation of his proposal. Near the end of the meal Louis brought the subject up kind of sideways.

Well, Mama, I guess we won’t be seeing Monsieur Pierre, anymore. Did you know he doesn’t plan to come back?

Louis’s mother looked at him then at Jean in alarm. Your papa, he’s not coming back?

No, Madame Elise. That’s why he sold the house.

But Jean wants to come back, Mama, said Louis, and he can’t. Not all by himself.

A frown etched her brow. How’s your papa these days, Jean?

All right, I guess. Why?

I think he’s losing weight.

Louis tilted his head, a new speculation arising in his eyes. If Monsieur Pierre got sick along the way, Jean couldn’t paddle that heavy old dugout all the way to Acadie by himself, now could he? He slid his eyes over to this father. Papa, wouldn’t it be the Christian thing for you to offer my services to Monsieur Pierre? This way, after we got there, Jean and me, we’d be able to come back.

Madame Elise gave her son a shocked look. Louis looked pleased, having set things up even better than he had hoped.

We sure could use help, Jean said, not having to try hard to look worried. And that’s the only way I could ever come back, because I sure don’t want to stay over there all by myself.

Madame Elise started to say something then checked her tongue and looked at her husband. Charles Comeau chewed his food and kept his eyes down on his plate. After a while he looked up at Louis. It’s good of you to want to help Monsieur Pierre, son, but I think that war is still going on up there.

What war? said Jean, frowning.

The war between the French and the English. I think they’re still fighting up there.

Madame Elise put her hand on Jean’s shoulder. Maybe it’s all over by now. Maybe everything’s safe. He felt her hand tremble.

Charles got up from the table. Mama, I think I’ll walk over and see if I can do anything to help Monsieur Pierre. Jean, wait here until I get back.

The boys sat on the porch in the darkness and slapped at the mosquitoes. There weren’t many yet, but by the time the full heat of summer arrived there would be millions flying out of the swamps and bayous to feed on anything with blood.

Well, said Louis, his voice low, I did pretty good, huh?

You did, Jean admitted. But what your mama said about my father, is that true? Does he seem to you like he’s lost weight?

I haven’t noticed myself, but Mama, though, she’s got an eye for things like that. She can even tell when a woman is just one month pregnant.

They fell silent. Not from a lack of things to say, but from too much to be said. Jean listened to the sounds from the kitchen of rattling dishes and banging pots. His mother had made those kitchen noises, too, and they were sounds, comforting sounds he realized he’d missed. He wondered what else he’d missed these last three years without her.

The prayer came unbidden. ‘Please God, please let Louis come and help us get Mama and Ti Jacques to Acadie, then help me and him get back here and–’

What time are you supposed to leave tomorrow? Louis said.

Papa always leaves before sunup whenever he has to go anywhere. I figure it’ll be the same tomorrow. His stomach felt hollow even though he was stuffed, and as much as he swallowed, he couldn’t seem to clear his throat of the stubborn knot that was fastened there.

Charles came walking up out of the darkness. Jean, your papa says for you to come home. Madame Elise came out on the porch. She saw Jean’s pale face and instead of hugging him as she wanted to, she only put her hand on his shoulder. No need to bring such a sensitive boy to tears that a hug and a heartfelt goodbye might do.

I’ll be praying for you every day, mon cher, and I’ll be waiting for you right here. She pointed to the rocker on the porch, her voice cracking. Jean kept his head down and nodded, fighting his tears.

I’ll walk home with Jean, Louis said.

As they made their way, Louis put an arm around Jean’s shoulder. Ask your papa tonight if he would take me. That’s half the battle, and maybe in the morning we won’t have to say goodbye.

Jean nodded, not trusting his voice. He was glad to postpone what was sure to be another emotional and unmanly moment for him. He watched as Louis turned away and disappeared in the darkness.

He found his father kneeling by the chimney lighting his pipe. On the table the candle for company burned brightly, illuminating the things they were taking: clothing, blankets, a small iron pot with a slab of smoked bacon in it, two sacks, one of dried beans, the other of cornmeal, two spoons and tin plates, two drinking cups and an extra flint. The musket with the powder horn, bullet molder, shot pouch, and lead bar were on a chair by the door next to a bucket with two iron traps, fishing lines, fish hooks and a hatchet.

Jean cleared his throat. Papa, Louis wants to come with us. He says he could help paddle and everything. Did Monsieur Charles talk to you about that?

Pierre stood, drawing on his pipe, eyed him. He shook his head. No.

When we get to Acadie, if Louis was to come with us, we could come back together. I’m not going to stay up there.

His father puffed on his pipe and said nothing. Jean realized at that moment his father would have to be responsible for Louis if he did come, but he thought he saw a way around that, a way that would use his father’s way of thinking in his favor.

"Louis is a man, too, Papa. He’s