Acadian Passage

By Jeanne Register

“Acadian Passage, a tale of flight and rendezvous, love and loss, is rich with detail. The story of Acadia and the beauty of the place are vividly drawn as the tale unfolds. Readers will savor this seldom revisited corner of history, now brought to light.”
—Elizabeth Pomeroy, historian and author of John Muir, A Naturalist in Southern California

“An enjoyable blend of history, romance and anthropology. Register brings the idyllic- then brutal- story of the Acadians to life.”
—Steven A. LeBlanc, author of Constant Battles: The Myth of the Peaceful, Noble Savage

Jeanne Gleason Register is descended from French Acadians through her mother Marie Daigle. She began writing ACADIAN PASSAGE after she retired from teaching history and eleven years as Head of Mayfield Senior School. She graduated from Wellesley College and lives in Altadena, California.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Aug 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483414508

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Copyright © 2014 Jeanne Register.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1451-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1450-8 (e)

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Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 03/05/2015

Contents

Acadian Pastorale June, 1750

A Wedding and Betrayal

Mi’kmaq and Acadian Dreamers

Menaced Happiness

The Grand Derangement

Eden Lost

Sanctuary Primeval

Flight into Wilderness

Chignecto

A Deeper Wilderness

St. Jean

While Waiting

Reunion

Up the River

New Lives

Papa and Maman

Blanche

Some Visitors

Odile

The Land of the Porcupine

Ready to Flee

Final Flights

Nouvelle Acadie

Quintuk

Epilogue

Historical Notes

Author’s Note

In memory of my parents

John and Marie Daigle Gleason

Acadian Pastorale June, 1750

A pale sunshine streamed down through the maple and chestnut trees, spreading a green and gold tracery over a large patch of raspberry brambles. A few birds called to each other and honeybees buzzed as they nipped in and out of the small white blossoms. Now and then, a cool breeze from Minas Basin whispered through nearby pines.

A solitary picker, the tall, slender, seventeen-year-old Alesse Daigle reached in among the arrow-pointed leaves for a dangle of luscious looking berries. When thorns raked her hand, she cried out, stamping her foot and shaking her head, "Mon Dieu, that hurts! Vicious bush!" A few errant black curls tumbled out from under her white linen cap to fringe her heart-shaped face. Looking down at the beads of blood welling up on her hand, she thought—How curious! The scarlet beads match the juicy knobs on the raspberries. But alike or not, Alesse licked off the blood and returned to picking.

She tossed the large berries into an old, wood-splint basket her grandpère had made. Those berries, that is, she didn’t eat. One for the basket and one for me, Alesse murmured as she popped one into her mouth—Mmm. She remembered Papa saying, ‘Raspberries are the succulent rubies sprung from the sweet soil of l’Acadie.’

Maman had said, Émile, what a poet I married! and on tiptoes kissed the top of his freckled baldhead.

Alesse smiled to herself. This really is the best raspberry patch, and except for the thorns, such easy picking, not like that picked-over patch closer to home. After awhile, with her belly full and her basket almost full, her eyelids began to grow heavy in the warm sun. She thought—I’ll just rest awhile on that mossy spot over there under the oak tree.

After carefully laying her basket on the moss, she sat down and leaned against furrowed bark. Oh no! a raspberry stain on my new blue skirt—and I tried to be so careful. She could just hear Maman’s frequent advice, ‘Alesse, more care makes less work.’

Oh well, I’ll wash the stain in the brook on the way home. Her eyelids grew heavy again and slowly closed. She sank into the soft moss and began to doze.

Sounds of breaking bushes, and a strange, deep smell bolted Alesse’s body upright. Across the berry patch, a huge, shaggy bear and her cub began to strip the branches of their berries. After a sharp intake of air, she bit down on her lips to stop a scream boiling up.

She mustn’t move. "Dieu, save me! I promise I’ll never come so far into the forest again. I know Papa warned me about bears. I know I disobeyed, but please, please, dear Dieu."

So far, in their eating frenzy, the bears didn’t seem to notice her, and the breeze was carrying their deep smell towards her, not hers to them. As the large bear stood up to rip the raspberries from a tall cane, Alesse started shaking. Mon Dieu, it’s taller than Big Pierre!

Suddenly, a shadow blocked the sun over her frozen body. Her stomach clenched. Another bear? But it was a human hand that clamped over her mouth. Eyes bulging and limbs trembling, she twisted around to see a Mi’kmaq’s almond-shaped eyes peering down into her eyes and signaling silence.

The Mi’kmaq lifted Alesse against his chest, and carefully placed each moccasin step to carry her away without a sound. Still trembling and with her heart racing against the his soft deerskin shirt, she wondered, "Who is this Mi’kmaq? Why is he here?"

With distance from the bears, her heart slowed and she gradually calmed down. As gently and easily as if she were a small child, the Mi’kmaq let her down by the side of the brook she had followed to the berry patch. A pile of beaver skins and other furs lay close by. So that was it. He was a hunter on his way to Pisiquid to trade his furs. Thank Dieu he happened by. She felt so relieved to be safe, so overflowing with emotion that tears flowed out of her great brown eyes and down her cheeks. After the deepest sigh of her seventeen years, she felt her chest and shoulders relax.

She looked up. Thank you, thank you. You saved my life! The Mi’kmaq was very tall, inches taller than any Pisiquid man, except maybe Big Pierre. And, how straight he stood, straight as a young pine—like most Mi’kmaq.

I always stop to eat these raspberries.

So he spoke her language, lilted with his Mikmawisimk accent. Most likely his trading deals required French.

I heard bears and saw you. Any bear with a cub means great danger. Then like a good trader, he stretched out a large brown hand with slender fingers. My name is Quintuk. I was baptized Jean-Claude, but please call me Quintuk.

My name is Alesse—Alesse Daigle, and I live on a farm near Pisiquid. Introducing herself brought thoughts of her family and the time. She looked up through the leaves of a willow to check the sun. Oh dear, it’s late. Maman must be worried, and I haven’t done my chores. Alesse frowned, I’ve left the basket my grandpère made and there’s no raspberries for the tarte.

I’ll get the basket.

No! What about the bears?

But Quintuk’s lean figure was slipping away with long, silent strides, and he disappeared between the pines. In no time, he returned and handed her the basket, still brimming with raspberries. She smiled at him in thanks. He didn’t smile, but his long, narrow face showed a calm satisfaction that comes from easily completing a task. The bears are busy eating berries, greedy bears—like some traders. His dark eyes danced, and he flashed a quick smile, showing very white teeth in the deep tan of his face.

Quintuk picked up his pelts, but instead of following the meandering brook, he led her off onto a narrow trail through the woods. Even with Papa, she’d never traveled this way. At times, Quintuk had to brush back stray bushes. Alesse guessed only Mi’kmaq knew this path. From the direction of the sun, Alesse knew that he was leading her to Pisiquid, but, in any case, she believed she could trust this Quintuk, so sure of himself in these thick woods.

Following along, for the first time Alesse noticed the beautiful red, white, and black design worked in porcupine quills and beads decorating the back of his deerskin shirt. She must remember every detail to share with Odile and Cécile, especially Cécile, who embroidered such pretty flowers on dresses. Feeling better, she ate two more berries and smiled in satisfaction. Maman’s raspberry tarte would crown Sunday dinner. Remembering her manners, she called to Quintuk several steps up ahead, Quintuk, please eat some of my raspberries.

He turned around. Yes, thank you, and dipped his hand into the basket and looked down at her seriously. Delicious berries, but too dangerous to pick.

I promise. Never ever again.

Time and again, she’d heard stories of bears chasing berry pickers. She remembered Big Pierre’s naughty story about a berry picker named Michel who went to relieve himself near the patch and met up with a huge bear. Michel ran, but the bear chased after him. Big Pierre asked his listeners, How did Michel escape? With a deep, rumbling laugh, Pierre answered, The terrified Michel soiled himself, and the bear slipped, slid and fell into Michel’s stinking mess, letting Michel escape! Alesse wasn’t supposed to hear this tale, but Big Pierre had drunk tankards of hard cider and his booming voice finished his tale before anyone could shush him.

Alesse broke into a trot to follow Quintuk’s long stride. She didn’t trust herself to find her way along this overgrown path, especially since the sun was sinking. At night the forest loomed over Pisiquid like a black walled fortress behind which all manner of devouring wolves and cougars lurked. Even Big Pierre avoided entering the night woods.

Quintuk must’ve heard her running steps because he slowed his pace. Shortly after, he stopped, looked up ahead, and pointed without saying a word. Alesse peered ahead. She gazed at a stand of ancient white birch trees, their tiny top leaves glistening silver in the sun. The huge white trunks enclosed an open circle of large mossy stones, ferns, and even some fragrant lilies of the valley. The hairs on her arms rose at its eerie beauty. She had never seen anything in nature somehow so perfectly arranged, as if Dieu had placed every rock and tree to create a holy chapel in the forest.

Quintuk studied the awed reaction on her face and quietly remarked, This circle is holy to the Mi’kmaq old religion. Gluskabe, the spirit protector, is present. As he and Alesse paused in the peace of the circle, all of a sudden, a sunbeam drifted down through the treetops into the circle and lit up Alesse’s face and figure, as if Gluskabe was revealing how her loveliness graced this sanctuary. A strange, deep current seemed to pass through Quintuk. He startled and his dark eyes stared at Alesse, but he said nothing. Quintuk’s solemn gaze puzzled Alesse, but she remained silent as well.

Soon the angle of the sun moved and so did Quintuk. He skirted around the open space, slipped between the two largest birches on the opposite side, and stepped back onto the narrow beaten path.

In a quarter hour, Minas Basin glinted through the maple leaves. But this is so quick, and I— It was on the tip of her tongue to invite Quintuk home. After all, he had saved her from a mauling death, and she knew Maman and Papa would welcome him. But she kept her tongue and thought rather than spoke. So many times after embarrassing herself in a rush of talk, Maman told her, think before you speak, not while you speak.

Maybe she was growing up at last. She planned to tell Maman and Papa about the most amazing afternoon of her life. Yes, it’d been that. But she had to think about how to tell of her adventure without alarming them. Of course, she would tell her parents about Quintuk, but she wouldn’t disclose the sacred circle. It wouldn’t do to have people invade its perfect beauty—just as no one would dream of picnicking in Sainte Famille Church.

When they broke through the thicket that edged the forest like a pale green ruffle, they stood at the top of a hilly apple orchard. Alesse gazed down on Pisiquid’s thatch roofs, on Sainte Famille’s steeple and on the community windmill where Papa hauled their grains to grind. As they hurried down through the orchard, they ducked under branches loaded with apples that were still small with rosy smiles coloring only one side. At the bottom of the orchard, she pointed, Look, there’s my farm. Those are our fields of corn, wheat, and flax. I must hurry home.

I’m taking my furs to Trader Thibodeau.

Then, good-bye and thank you for rescuing me from the bears. I still tremble when I think…

I’m happy fortune led me to rescue you. Quintuk once again put out his hand, and this time a smile cracked his long, brown face and squinted his bright dark eyes. When he let go of her hand, he strode off to Trader’s, and she veered in the opposite direction, trotting along the path next to the Daigle’s pasture. As she hurried through Maman’s vegetable garden, the evening Angelus bell was tolling, and the low sun was casting purple shadows. She had never been gone this long or late.

Papa, who during this busy season usually worked in the fields until after the Angelus bell rang, stood in the doorway with his arm around Maman’s shoulders. Maman was wiping the tears from her eyes. Ti’Pitou, her little brother, ran towards her. Alesse led by offering the basket and started, Look at the delicious raspber… but her sentence withered at the mixture of anger and relief on her parents’ faces.

In a low, stern voice Alesse had never heard, her father, usually so gentle, demanded, Where were you? We feared you’d drowned in the bay or were lost in the forest.

Ti’Pitou, tears overflowing his gray eyes, hugged her skirts.

I went to the raspberry patch. Look, they’re the largest, most delicious raspberries I ever tasted.

No, said Papa, with disappointment in his voice and large brown eyes, I went to the raspberry patch, and you weren’t there, Alesse.

I went to that large, faraway patch.

Really, Alesse, you’re far too daring. Maman shook her head back and forth with such emphasis that the bun at the nape of her neck trembled. A vertical worry crease marred her smooth, high forehead.

Ti’Pitou demanded in an excited voice, What happened in the woods?

Before Alesse replied, Maman said, Let’s go inside. You can explain during supper.

While they ate roast chicken, peas, fresh bread and sliced tomatoes, Alesse poured out the whole tale, except for the sacred Mi’kmaq birch circle. A chorus of "Mon Dieu!" from Papa and Really? from Ti’Pitou accompanied her story. Maman’s forehead continued to wear a vertical crease.

Afterwards, Papa sighed, You’ve frightened your family. You knew you could only pick those berries if I went with you.

Maman shook her head slowly. "What would’ve happened to you if this Quintuk hadn’t appeared? You were very fortunate. It’s not even the usual fur-trading season."

"Besides disobeying us, you’d promised your mother to weave the wool she spun. And, while she was so worried, she’s had to do all your other chores. Alesse, you’re Maman’s only help, you and Ti’Pitou. Dieu has not graced us with nine or ten children like most families in Pisiquid."

Alesse, who had only thought of providing a raspberry treat, never meant to hurt her parents. Knowing the small size of their family was a sorrow her parents carried, she looked down and tears rose in her wide-spaced eyes and fell onto her plate. I’m sorry I worried you. I’ll never go berry picking alone again.

Papa, still disturbed, said, Except for your lesson with Abbé Chauvreulx and Mass with us, you’ll not leave the farm for a month. After laying down her punishment, Papa left the house to work out his agitation chopping wood to the benefit of the woodpile.

Alesse tried to make amends. Maman, it’s still twilight. I’ll slop the pigs and wash the dishes.

Chores finished, she kissed her parents good night and took a candle to her tiny, whitewashed bedroom to translate the Latin of Psalm 96 for tomorrow’s class. The Latin did not present too many difficulties, and she loved the first line. "O sing to the Lord a new song; sing to the Lord all the earth!" When she translated line twelve, "Then shall all the trees of the wood sing for joy before the Lord," the Mi’kmaq sacred circle with the silvery leaves of the great birches fluttering joyfully in the sunlight immediately sprang to mind.

Before climbing into bed, she knelt down to pray for her family and to thank Dieu for sending Quintuk to save her life.

The next morning dawned one of those late June days that made Alesse want to lie on her back in the meadow clover and follow the puffy white clouds all across the deep blue sky. Instead, she plunked herself down in the kitchen garden among the radishes, onions, eggplants and other vegetables and weeded, and then weeded some more until she pulled out every last invading ragweed, dandelion, and clover plant. She picked enough green beans for dinner and joined her mother, who was sitting in front of the farmhouse churning butter. After Alesse washed her hands at the pump, she took over the monotonous churning task.

As she delivered the butter to her mother, the noon Angelus bell was ringing, and lunch was on the table. After Papa came in from the fields and said grace, they ate succulent pulled pork with bread, radishes and butter, and a tomato and watercress salad. Alesse’s raspberries with cream for dessert brought oh’s from everyone. Ti’Pitou, who had been baptized Jean-Baptiste, but never called that by his family, mashed his berries and cream into the prettiest rose-colored pile before he slurped the crushed berries down, save for those that ended up decorating his dimpled, smiling face.

After lunch, Alesse hurried off to the Sainte Famille rectory for her Latin lesson. This class was a special time for her. Before Abbé Chauvreulx had arrived at Sainte Famille, many children never learned to read. But after the good Abbé taught all the children to read their catechism, he had gathered Alesse and her friends, Odile Martin and Cécile Roy, and Paul Broussard and René LeBlanc to study Latin with him. Alesse had the quickest memory in the little class, but Paul’s ability at sight translation bested hers. Then again, Abbé Chauvreulx nodded most often at her understanding of the theology they discussed.

After six weeks, Odile quit the class. When Alesse tried to persuade her to return, Odile replied, Those mixed-up Latin sentences are so boring, I have to pinch myself to stay awake. Last year, Cécile also left the class to help her mother with her nine younger brothers and sisters. Cécile, too did not take to studying Latin as Alesse did.

Poor Paul Broussard! As soon as he turned thirteen, his father made him quit the class to work on the farm. When he confided this to the little class, tears squeezed out of his blue eyes, and he hung his head in shame. Kind Abbé Chauvreulx gave him one of his precious books from France and continued to lend him others. That had been five years ago. René LeBlanc and Alesse were making great progress, and Paul was following at home with help from the Abbé on one Sunday afternoon each month.

Studying Latin exercised Alesse’s mind and imagination. While she sat weaving at the loom, she recited the lines from the Aeneid in Latin and imagined the ancient times. It puzzled her that Odile found Latin boring. From the beginning, Latin’s sentence structure, somehow so sturdy, appealed to her. Time passed quickly when she was puzzling out a translation. Ah, hah, she would exclaim, that’s it! Sometimes the right translation just buzzed into her head.

Abbé Chauvreulx, a scholarly man blessed with a kind smile that softened his pale, ascetic face dominated by a long, thin nose and high forehead, loved teaching the small class, to which he had added four bright younger students. It gave joy to his week. He admitted he was training these young minds in skills and knowledge they would never need, but rather selfishly to provide parishioners with whom he could discuss theology and classical literature. He proved to be an enthusiastic natural teacher, ever ready to point out a connection or comparison in the Bible or classics to life in Pisiquid.

Sometimes, when the Abbé suffered from an arid loneliness, he felt the Sainte Famille parish had become his version of a martyr’s life. He always reminded himself that he had chosen to serve Dieu in this remote hamlet, but the thought did not relieve the ache. He would die here, far away from his brothers and sisters in Burgundy. If it came to war with England, he might even suffer a true martyrdom. There was no telling what the English, despising the Church and its priests, might do to him.

Despite any personal danger, he vowed to stay with his Sainte Famille parish flock. These Acadians were good people, their minds necessarily on their crops and preparations for the long winters. He found them joyful, fun-loving folks, dancing into their eighties like old Guillaume. He called to mind a silly joke Big Pierre once told. How does one torture an Acadian? The Abbé braced for an off-color answer, but Big Pierre responded, Tie his feet while the music’s playing, and burst into his rumbling bass laughter.

For his parishioners, l’Acadie was truly a sylvan Arcadia. Working hard on their farms and as a community on the cleverly engineered dikes that kept out the sea, they prospered in ways impossible for peasants in old France. But, he worried—how long could this Eden last? In 1713, France, using Acadians as pawns, ceded l’Acadie to England in the Treaty of Utrecht. Afterwards, the Acadian people proclaimed themselves Neutrals. An English governor verbally absolved them from bearing arms for England, but there was no written document.

The Abbé sighed and shrugged his shoulders. In the mortal battle for domination of the world, when France and England fought, the lightly populated L’Acadie offered a tempting target.

Today, after René LeBlanc and the other students hurried off, Alesse stayed to talk to Abbé Chauvreulx. The weaving she had promised Maman could wait.

Abbé Chauvreulx sat down beside her, his kindly blue eyes crinkling as he smiled at his secret favorite student. Alesse sat up straight, squared her shoulders and began. Abbé, I disobeyed my parents. She related the entire raspberries, bears, and Quintuk story.

Abbé Chauvreulx slowly shook his head several times. My child, my child, remember ‘Thou shalt honor thy father and mother.’ How rash and headstrong you were. You must realize now why you were forbidden that berry patch. The fruit in the Garden of Eden sprang to mind, but he didn’t make the connection to her.

Yes, I know. I love Maman and Papa so much. I try to obey. Sometimes, though, I get carried away with ideas like the faraway raspberry patch and disobey. Then it rushed out, But Quintuk saved me! Alesse’s face lit up.

Abbé Chauvreulx noted the flashing, daring eyes and lifted chin, but calmly replied, "Grâce à Dieu. However, this Quintuk cannot always save you from your folly. Pray to Dieu to give you the strength to avoid dangerous temptations."

I will. I promise. Thank you for listening to me, Abbé Chauvreulx.

Go in peace, my child. His high forehead wrinkled in worry. With her brave, impulsive nature, this bright, clever girl might founder. I will put her into my prayers.

When Alesse arrived home, Maman, an uncharacteristic strict look on her face, announced, That Mi’kmaq Quintuk came to bid you goodbye. He seemed very disappointed when you weren’t here and left you this lynx pelt.

Alesse’s head jerked back, Really? She took the soft pelt and buried her nose in the fur to hide a hot flush spreading across her face. It’s as soft as Minou kitty, and it smells like the forest. It only smelled pleasantly dry, but she wanted to keep it at her face. Won’t it make a beautiful muff for winter? I’ll put it in my room, and she wheeled away.

Yes, a beautiful, warm muff. She looked at her daughter skipping away, and the shallow crease between her hazel eyes deepened a bit. She wasn’t looking forward to her impetuous daughter growing up in that way. She had seen what happened to daring girls who acted before they thought.

In her room, Alesse threw herself across her bed and held the fur against her flushed cheek. Oh, Quintuk must really like me! Then she paused, but why do I care? I’ve never been silly about boys like Odile. Besides, I’ll never see him again. That thought gave her a sharp intake of breath. She regretted staying to talk to Abbé Chauvreulx.

Realizing Maman would wonder what she was doing, Alesse left her room and took a seat at the loom. Fired up with excitement, she threw the shuttle back and forth fast and furiously to relieve the whirl of emotions coursing through her. In her mind’s eye, Quintuk’s long body and intense face kept appearing. Thus occupied, the time passed quickly, and when at last she rested her aching arms, Maman came over and looked down at the growing thick wool blanket.

Why, Alesse, what a lot of weaving! I do believe it’s almost done. Tomorrow let’s add some stripes of that red wool I have and I’ll teach you how to finish it off. She embraced Alesse’s shoulders, not wanting the day’s unpleasantness to last.

Alesse went to bed early that evening. She gazed at the silvery crescent moon shining through her small window and wondered if Quintuk was looking at the same moon.

She knelt to say her prayers, climbed into bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Before Maman retired for the night, she looked in on Alesse and saw the lynx pelt held against her cheek. The crease between Maman’s eyes deepened.

The month confined to the farm dragged like the days spent inside during January’s snowstorms. Alesse occupied herself with the endless farm chores, finished weaving the blanket, and began weaving some linen for a new cap. Eight-year-old Ti’Pitou was her only playmate. While they hoed, she taught him to sing Savez Vous Planter des Choux. When she milked Bossie, she squirted the warm milk into Ti’Pitou’s waiting mouth and they both laughed. He looked up at his big sister with his wide-spread, shining gray eyes and his full lips parted in a broad smile that dimpled his flushed face. They walked back to the house hand in hand, and as Maman watched them, she smiled in love and gratitude for her children.

Mostly, Alesse daydreamed. She always had, spinning maybe stories and maybe adventures in her head. In her daydreams this week, she often acted out what she would say the next time she met Quintuk. Of course, she might never see him again. Then, knowing he came to Pisiquid to sell his furs, she dreamed of seeing him during the trading season next spring. Hopefully, he’d stop at the farm to see her, and she’d show him the elegant lynx muff Maman was fashioning.

Two weeks into her month’s punishment, her friends Odile Martin and Cécile Roy dropped by to invite her to go see if Trader Thibodeau had brought back pretty ribbons from Boston. Sorry, I can’t leave the farm. I disobeyed and went to that faraway raspberry patch. I was almost eaten by bears, not mentioning one was a cub.

Oh, no! they chorused, their mouths forming identical O’s. What happened?

In an offhand manner Alesse replied, The most handsome Mi’kmaq I’ve ever seen, named Quintuk, saved me. Her friends’ mouths opened in little O’s again. Alesse immediately knew they’d chew her escapade over and over, and she’d given Odile a new story to spread around Pisiquid. Maybe she should’ve kept quiet about Quintuk. But he lent a romantic mystery to her adventure, and she liked to say his name.

A Wedding and Betrayal

A lesse’s farmbound days finally ended—just in time for the wedding of Odile’s older sister Laurette, a blond, blue-eyed beauty reflecting the looks of her grandfather’s family from Brittany. As much as a young girl can admire an older girl, Alesse idolized Laurette, the beauty of the Pisiquid hamlet. Laurette possessed a serenity and poise that Alesse yearned to emulate. Although Laurette was a farm girl, burdened with endless chores, somehow her clothes never seemed to wrinkle or soil. How did she manage that?

Today, in a lovely muslin bridal dress embroidered with white fleurs-de-lis, Laurette’s regal bearing and lovely, oval face atop the long stem of her neck caused even old Guillaume to stare. "Mon Dieu," he exclaimed, Laurette’s so beautiful she could be marrying King Louis XV himself.

Instead, Laurette was marrying Alain, Trader Thibodeau’s son. On his father’s business, he regularly sailed down Minas Basin, out into the Baie Française, and down to Boston to sell the wheat, produce, lumber, and furs of L’Acadie and to buy manufactured goods. Dark-haired Alain with his acquiline nose and bony, tanned face, indicating some Mi’kmaq blood, was certainly not Laurette’s handsome equal, but he was highly intelligent, one of Abbé’s former students, and full of energy and stories of his travels and adventures. And, if Pisiquid had been big enough to have first families, the Thibodeaus would have been the first of the first.

Freckled-faced, straw-haired Odile, whose clothes always wrinkled, suffered by comparison in the eyes of the town. Laurette, though, told Alesse that she wished she were like Odile, always entertaining everyone with funny, exaggerated stories and full of quick energy like a fast running brook. She realized she loved Alain in part because he made her laugh like Odile.

Growing up together, while Laurette had few friends, Odile had friends come to the farm all the time. They trailed after her giggling and whispering confidences. On the other hand, though she never told a soul, Odile thought she would give anything for her sister’s beauty —and especially, attention from boys. She had grown up watching boys stare open-mouthed at Laurette while ignoring herself.

Alesse had been looking forward to Laurette’s wedding ever since Abbé Chauvreulx had announced the banns in church. Actually, before the banns, because Odile had whispered the news earlier but had sworn Alesse to secrecy.

No homespun linen for Alesse on this occasion, Maman had sewn a dress out of pale yellow cotton from Boston—part of the trade items at Trader Thibodeau’s store. Alesse decorated it with forget-me-not blue ribbons. Papa hugged Alesse, You look like a queen of France, just as your Maman, my darling Marie, did as a girl. Alesse glowed in his praise, feeling very grown up.

At the reception after the wedding Mass, Alesse ate very carefully to avoid spotting her pretty dress, but that didn’t stop her from having some of everything delectable. Laurette’s mother and her three sisters had been cooking and baking for days, and, as their wedding presents, the two best cooks in Pisiquid had cooked the food that had to be prepared today.

What a feast! exclaimed Ti’Pitou, whose shirt already demonstrated he’d sampled the salmon, something with gravy, and the sliced beets. It’s hard to know what to eat next.

And now the musicians were tuning up. To accompany the rollicking tunes old Jean Jalbert fiddled out, the Thibodeaus had hired a flutist all the way from Port Royal. Alain and Laurette led the first dance, smiling and locked in a close, private gaze. "Mon Dieu," murmured Alesse, they look as if they’d like to swallow each other! She was somehow disturbed, as if coming on something she wasn’t supposed to see.

But no one else seemed to notice, and then the floor was flooded with dancers. With carefree smiles, Maman and Papa kicked up their heels in the intricate old steps. The music ran through Alesse and set her foot tapping so she pulled a startled Ti’Pitou into the next dance. He gamely tried to follow her feet but then gave up and cleverly made up steps that at least held to the rhythm of the tune. Both doubling over in laughter at his creative efforts, they retreated to the side at the song’s end.

Alesse, she turned to see Paul Broussard. She didn’t see him often, just sometimes at Mass, and she was a bit startled at how tall and broad in the shoulders he’d grown. Although Paul was only two years older than she, hard work in the fields had turned him into a man. Would you like to dance?

At her assent, Paul took her hand and off they danced—and danced and danced until, out of breath, she had to stop. While she was sitting out one dance, her Latin classmate René LeBlanc came up and asked her for the next dance. Of course, she replied and off they went. When René and she finished their dance, they went to drink some cider. At the drink table, Odile whispered into Alesse’s ear. You’re so lucky. I wish Paul would ask me to dance. He’s gotten so handsome. I love the contrast of his high coloring and the straight black eyebrows over those blue, blue eyes.

Alesse had never noticed before. But then, here were the blue, blue eyes in the ruddy face before her, asking for another dance.

Maman and Papa both noted her dancing partner. This time Maman did not frown.

All of a sudden, men’s voices shouted out in argument. The hard cider had gotten to Big Pierre, and he yelled at Trader Thibodeau. "You’re a fool if you think the English will respect our neutrality. We call ourselves les Français neutres, but we delude ourselves. We live between the English hammer and the French anvil!" To demonstrate, the enormous blacksmith pounded his huge right fist onto his huge left.

Trader countered in a lower voice, Remember, Governor Philipps agreed to our neutrality. Our notary Bourg has a witnessed record of this concession, and he even sent a copy to Versailles.

Hah, a lot of good that will do. Bourg wrote it down, but it was only an oral concession on Philipps’s part. And, what good’s a copy sent to that worthless King Louis with his flossy Madame Pompadour? When has France ever come to our rescue or even helped us out? I tell you, we’re on our own. I spit on both England and France! and he spat on the ground and rubbed it into the soil as if he was grinding both nations to dust.

But on my trips to Port Royal— Trader began.

It’s not Port Royal now, and you know it. It’s been Annapolis Royal since 1713. Big Pierre began to mimic the smug, blue nose English officials in a strangled voice. You French, be good enough to sell us your wheat, rye, and your famous apples at a bargain. And we English will let you work on your farms. Big Pierre was a gifted mimic, and the small knot of onlookers sniggered. Seriously, Thibodeau, because you make money off them, you’ve been blinded.

Yes, I make money, but you want to buy my Yankee trade goods. Every woman in Pisiquid depends on me for her finery, and you know it. Even the Mi’kmaq come down to trade their furs for needles and axes and for the beads to decorate their clothes.

It’s the devil’s own bargain! yelled Pierre.

Hearing the row, Big Pierre’s wife Big Berthe, teasingly nicknamed because the tiny Berthe just topped five feet, came up and interrupted. I hear my favorite music, Pierre. Come dance with me, and she wheeled him around just like a big sailing ship turning off the wind. Indeed, Big Berthe’s charming ways and pretty smile frequently steered Big Pierre away from rocky coasts.

However, Old Guillaume, respected by all for his age and wisdom, quietly continued, Trader, what do you hear in Annapolis Royal and Boston about our situation?

"In Annapolis Royal, they are most cordial to me as Pisiquid is Acadia’s breadbasket. In Boston, they want our furs, and we’re a market for their manufactured items, but what I hear from the Yankees in the taverns does worry me. When drunks discover I’m Acadian, they start blaming us for setting the Indians on them. When I try to tell them that it’s the French in Quebec, not the Acadians, they don’t believe me. They lump all us French together. Last year, I ran into a man who had family members killed in that Indian raid on Deerfield back in 1704. He lunged at me and would’ve torn me apart if his friends hadn’t held him. Promise me you won’t tell my family."

Understood. Because of Deerfield, Acadians suffered terribly in 1713. Those Yankees knew they couldn’t attack Quebec so they turned on us—even though the authorities knew we had nothing to do with Deerfield. After the English devastated Grand Pré, they sailed down Minas Bay to Pisiquid. I’ll never forget the terror of gathering up the children and fleeing for our lives. A faraway look came into Old Guillaume’s rheumy, blue eyes. Unlike Grand Pré, no one in Pisiquid was killed, but the devils torched our houses, barns and crops, slaughtered our livestock, and broke the dikes letting seawater into our fields. We returned to a stinking mess of dead animals, destroyed crops, and gutted homes. When winter arrived, most of us lived with empty stomachs. Only turnips, potatoes and fish saw us through.

"Mon Dieu," murmured Trader sympathetically.

Old Guillaume shook his gray head. We pretty much had to start over. Fortunately, we Acadians are sturdy and hard working.

Trader added, Well, I say we must stick to our neutrality. Right now, trade’s better than ever. Better yet, the countries in Europe seem calm.

Papa, returning from the outhouse, joined them. Marie and I just want to live in peace. I don’t think the English will bother us as long as they need us to supply their food. I say, let them make their rules as long as we keep our farms and our church.

Off from the arguing group a short distance, Abbé Chauvreulx listened to the heated words. The views of Big Pierre and Old Guillaume confirmed his judgment of the perilous situation for the Acadians. How sad to end this joyous day with these somber thoughts. Dieu alone knows how much longer these merry Acadians will enjoy their small paradise.

While a rosy glow yet colored the western sky, the moon peeked over the pine forest looming over Pisiquid and cast a silvery light in the east. The first fireflies of the night began winking about. The musicians, tired from hours of playing, began packing their instruments away.

Accompanied by traditional songs and the customary double-entendres, Alain and Laurette had already left for the snug new home Trader Thibodeau had built for them. Their wedding day had been perfect, and they glowed with happiness. To Alesse, though, who always read Laurette closely, Laurette’s lovely face appeared a bit hesitant, as if the cool bay breeze was bringing love’s new responsibilities to her for the first time.

It wouldn’t be a quiet night for the newlyweds. As soon as darkness fell, their neighbors, beating copper kettles and blowing horns, would surround the newlyweds’ house for the traditional chivaree. The racket wouldn’t stop until Alain and Laurette invited them in for refreshments. Fortunately, knowing the custom, they had food prepared for the rowdy crowd, but quiet Laurette most likely dreaded the jokes and pranks to come.

Abbé Chauvreulx hadn’t been invited to the chivaree. His parishioners tried to hide their earthy fun from him, but, of course, in the confessional penitents frequently told of human nature gone awry. Walking slowly back to the rectory to finish tomorrow’s sermon, he decided to include today’s celebration, the wedding at Cana, and the virtues of the sacrament of marriage. His flock would like the reference to Alain and Laurette’s wedding.

Papa and Maman had danced themselves out and wouldn’t be joining the chivaree. A sleepy Ti’Pitou barely climbed into their wagon before he lay down and fell asleep. Only Alesse was feeling energy surge through her body. Indeed, she’d never felt so alive—alive to her power to attract notice and, for the first time, alive to an awakening desire for Paul’s notice in particular. When they reached home, she jumped down from the cart and spun around twice, belling out her yellow skirt. Papa asked, Alesse, what’s gotten into you? But Maman, understanding Alesse’s joy, smiled.

Big Pierre and Big Berthe were heading home too. Even considering his large appetite, Big Pierre had out-eaten, out-drank, and out-danced himself. And why not feast? The succulent bass, salmon, and shad had all deserved his attention. He couldn’t be asked to choose among the tender spring lamb, the beef cooked to perfection and the chicken in tarragon sauce, so he had appreciated them all, along with tiny new potatoes in shallot butter and the sliced beets. He had paused for a while before plunging into the desserts. He threw himself into the dancing. He and Berthe whirled and twirled until he said, My first courses are tamped down. Let’s eat dessert.

And what desserts! Raspberry tartes, the sweetest tiny wild strawberry tartes, blueberry pies, peach tartes, and cherries in clotted cream decorated the table as if it were an artist’s palette. Big Pierre curled his tongue around a portion of each.

But on the way home sleep overtook Big Pierre. His head nodded lower and lower until Berthe took over the reins. Fortunately, they lived close by and once inside his house, Big Pierre just had enough time to say, Wake me up for the chivaree, before he lay down and swooned asleep.

Because Paul Broussard had little opportunity to spend social time off the farm, he offered to help Laurette’s family clean up. Laurette’s parents, bone tired, gratefully thanked him. Paul’s strong arms and back would be a great help. Odile, who minutes ago had complained of fatigue, sprang alive. She decided Paul was staying to be with her. Like Alesse, a thrilling energy animated her. Smiling, she even tried to help Paul move a heavy table.

The moon was high in the sky when the wedding party scene was put away, and Paul bid everyone au revoir. Not sleepy, he decided to join the chivaree. Even though Alesse would not be there, in his mind her black curls, great brown eyes and, especially, the feel of her graceful, slender figure remained vivid.

On Sunday morning, despite some heavy heads from the wedding feasting and chivaree carousing, the Sainte Famille parishioners sat in their pews. Several times, Big Berthe had to nudge Big Pierre in the ribs to raise his drooping head, and when the altar boy rang the bell at the consecration of the host, several wedding celebrants jerked awake.

The choir, which at its best sounded like piping frogs, sang even more raggedly than usual. Jean Jalbert, the fiddler, Alesse, Papa and everyone else with a musical ear cringed. Abbé Chauvreulx concentrated on the Latin to ignore the cacophony, and during his sermon, only those few parishioners who had enjoyed a full night’s rest appreciated his reflections on holy matrimony.

After Mass, Papa commented to the smiling Abbé, "Good to be reminded that marriage is a sacrament. Dieu blessed me with Marie."

Maman chimed in, Émile has meant everything to my life.

I’m happy you enjoyed my sermon. Not blind, Abbé Chauvreulx had been very aware of his flocks’ drooping eyes during his sermon. Thank Dieu for parishioners like the Daigles, parents and daughter, who made the loneliness of his white martyrdom here in Acadia bearable.

Odile had not paid much attention during Mass. From time to time, she had glanced across the church at Paul, but she never caught his attention. After Mass, she rushed over to him. Paul, last night you were a life-saver for me and my family. If you hadn’t come to our rescue, I think we’d still be cleaning up this morning.

Oh, I was happy to lend a hand, and I had such a good time at the wedding… but, excuse me, I need to catch Alesse before she leaves. He gave Odile a bright smile.

Odile put on a smile, but her happiness had curdled. Her eyes followed Paul’s tall figure as he hurried over to Alesse. She watched Alesse look surprised, then smile up at him. Romantic dreams dashed, Odile turned away in a sour mood.

Alesse, I was wondering if I could walk you home?

Yes, of course, I’ll tell Maman and Papa I’m going ahead with you. When she returned to Paul, she brought an invitation to Sunday dinner, always the biggest and best meal of the week.

Alesse and Paul started off down the red-earthed lane, each trying not to show how newly nervous they were with a childhood friend. To relieve the first awkward pause, Paul began an easy topic. What are you studying in class now? The Abbé still lends me books and spares me some time on Sunday afternoons. Still, it’s difficult for me to find time on the farm, especially in the summer. It’s sometimes weeks before I return to my studies.

I could help you, but you may be ahead of our class. We’re translating the Psalms now. I’ll show you where we are when we reach my house.

They were making slow progress towards the farm. Alesse stopped several times to pick daisies, dainty buttercups, and wild pink roses to make a bouquet for the table.

Gazing over at her, Paul said, You’re like your bouquet, bright and pretty. As she had only ever received personal compliments from Papa, Paul’s words threw Alesse into confusion, and she felt a hot blush. She buried her nose into her bouquet, and fortunately, just then her family’s wagon caught up with them.

At home, Alesse set the table on which she arranged the wild flower bouquet, fetched greens from the garden, and helped Maman cook the food. There wasn’t time to work on the Latin—besides she was quite dithered about having her first male guest—not sure if she should act serious, especially with her parents around, or chatty and light.

Ti’Pitou, charmed at the novelty of a young man to entice into play, dragged Paul off to Minou’s new batch of barn kittens. Look, they’re like little, closed-eyed rats.

Pretty quickly, though, they’ll fluff out into good rat hunters.

Alesse entered the barn. Dinner’s almost ready. You’ll just have time to wash up.

At the sight of her, with cheeks flushed from cooking and large eyes widening in the filtered light of the barn, Paul caught his breath and whispered to himself, I adore Alesse Daigle. He recognized a feeling he had never felt before. As he followed Alesse back to the farmhouse, his heart expanded in his chest.

After Papa’s grace, they sat down to a Sunday dinner that began with sorrel soup, went on to roast shad, baby carrots, salad and Maman’s hearty bread, and finished with a delicious blueberry pie, Papa’s favorite.

After dinner, Maman asked Alesse and Paul to climb up the orchard hill to pick some ripe peaches for supper.