Promises to Keep Page 8

  “Amélie, I cannot predict the future, but as God is my witness, I promise I will do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

  Connor

  ELEVEN

  Connor sat in the doorway of the empty church, his thumb absently stroking nail holes from the boards the army had used to barricade the windows and doors. Those should have been enough, but they were not. Having blocked all escape routes, Winslow had then installed nervous soldiers around the perimeter of the crowded room, smothering any possible rebellion. The soldiers wouldn’t have been able to do much within the small confines of the church, but the goal of intimidation had been achieved.

  Connor understood the theory behind holding them captive. Without the men—usually the ones to stir up trouble—the women and children would be without anchors. They would be as quiet as church mice, frantic to see their men delivered safely home.

  It had taken a full day before the Acadians had been subdued into the uneasy state of recognizing they were trapped. There was nowhere to go, there was nothing they could do. Food had been sparse, though they had had water. Not enough to wash, of course, and as a result the air had clouded in a miasma of unwashed men and boys, hostility, and fear. Exactly the atmosphere Colonel Winslow had wanted.

  What the English wanted, what they always wanted, was for their enemies to be submissive. Once the vanquished bowed before their conqueror, the English would go that step further to prove they were the more powerful. In Scotland, they’d destroyed the ragtag Jacobite forces at Culloden, then carried on around the countryside, arresting, raping, burning, and killing without paying heed to any sort of law. His homeland had been torn apart until it didn’t retain anything of its past glory, and that was after the Scots had admitted defeat. It took a special sort of people to get pleasure from that. The English enjoyed it, obviously, since they were doing it here as well.

  The Acadian men were gone from the church now, herded to the ships. All had been bitter; most had seethed; others had seemed disoriented, unable to fully grasp what was happening. Few had been entirely broken. Charles Belliveau had not given in easily. Not at first. But as soon as young Mathieu had returned from his messenger errand, Fitch had grabbed him, threatened harm to the boy if his father did not comply. The wind in Belliveau’s proud sails dropped to nothing in that instant. He had assumed his seat without another word, gazed levelly at the other Acadian men, and they’d sat as well. His eyes returned to his son and stayed there, offering silent encouragement to the boy. After a while, Fitch’s interest had been piqued by something else, and he’d forgotten about his small captive. Seizing the opportunity, Connor had led Mathieu discreetly back to his father’s side.

  As Mathieu sidled back into place, Connor had felt Belliveau’s scrutiny. Amélie’s father would recall him from the unwelcome visits he and Fitch had made to their home, following Winslow’s orders to steal anything and everything from the local people. Perhaps he also remembered Connor’s attempts to be civil, to apologize for his commanding officer’s insolence.

  It had been impossible for Connor to look at Belliveau later on, when he had stepped up beside Winslow and taken his position as translator. His role that day, he knew, would forever brand him in their minds as the enemy. There was nothing he could do to change that.

  Since the captives had been crowded into the holds of the ships, temporarily put out of the army’s minds, the windows and doors of the church had been opened wide once again, the floor and benches wiped clean. Winslow’s desk and chair had been returned to the rectory, and the overall atmosphere became as close to regimented military as it could get. Life had moved on.

  Except Connor couldn’t think of much else besides the men in the ships. Ten years had passed since he had lain on the slippery boards of a ship’s floor, their cold clamminess bleeding through his skin and pooling in the marrow of his bones. Ten long, hard years.

  Time had not dimmed the memories of his own incarceration. Nor could he forget the little boy he had been, scared and haunted by the sense that he had been abandoned by the rest of the world. Like these innocent Acadians, hundreds of Scots had been packed together like kindling, stuffed into a creaking, swaying coffin, a dark world of confusion. Once they’d sailed from the only shore he had ever known, they had rolled over waves for weeks without respite, the ocean rising and falling beneath and around them with treacherous irregularity. Throughout the voyage he’d prayed for death yet clung to the brief promise of sunshine peeking through the hatch. He’d witnessed the damage that chains could make on men’s wrists and ankles, how those tight, inflexible manacles eventually hung loose over emaciated limbs. Gnawing, agonizing hunger had ravaged his young body as he awaited shrinking rations of maggot-riddled mush. And when men died and their bodies were tossed like offal into the sea, the survivors had greedily laid claim to the dead men’s meagre portions.

  He could still recall the moment when his will to live had begun to rot along with his insides.

  When the ship had finally anchored offshore and the captives staggered into the light, not one of them could claim to be the man he’d been before. Connor’s hunger barely registered anymore, it had become so profound. Over time the humiliation of slavery was softened by the assurance of fresh air to breathe and clean water to drink, and he found comfort in a bed of straw. For years, he had worked hard and earned his release—one which resulted in his being bound by a different set of chains.

  Being a soldier was Connor’s job. Being here at Grand Pré, doing what he was doing, reeked of irony. It hadn’t been the posting he’d had in mind when he’d decided to join His Majesty’s army. When he’d picked up his money and boarded the ship from Boston as a free—though enlisted—man, he’d imagined battles and adventure . . . and an actual enemy. Instead he was tearing families from their homes and each other.

  The troops had set sail for Canada in April and dropped anchor in late May. The trees and shrubs of the Annapolis Basin had been in full, glorious bud, and Connor had stood on deck with the others, cheering the welcome sight. As the tenders rowed into the harbour, millions of tiny, voracious insects, having been encouraged to hatch by the balmy air, descended upon them. They floated about like specks of dust, landing on the men’s cheeks, necks, brows, scalps, and wherever else they could find vulnerable skin. As the men set up camp, they slapped at clouds of black flies, a bittersweet reminder to Connor of the midges back in Scotland. When at last the tents were up and the exhausted men formed a line for food, they were informed they would not be receiving their rum allowance that day, prompting angry complaints.

  Three days later the disgruntled troops set off to Chignecto, destination Fort Beauséjour. Connor was among the first of the troops who crossed a hastily built bridge assembled near a collection of small buildings. As soon as they neared the other side, the quiet of the pathway erupted into chaos. Howls and shrieks filled the air, and as the terrified men wheeled in confusion, they were faced by French cannon and muskets. Panic made them clumsy, but they prepared their own four cannon and returned fire as best they could. Their adversary was visible through the smoke, some wearing the blue uniform of the French, some in leather clothing Connor had not seen before. Could these be the Indians of whom he’d heard people speak? It seemed so, for when one raced through the trees nearby, he caught a glimpse of ink black hair and a naked male chest. So it was true: the native people were united with the French.

  “Look there!” shouted the corporal beside him.

  He was pointing at the same man Connor had just seen. With a grin, the corporal lifted his musket to eye level and focused on the Indian. Connor looked away, unimpressed. A musket rarely hit anything it aimed for. Aim it at a wall and there was a chance it might strike something, but the only way to truly hit a target was with an arrow. Just as Connor turned, the corporal gave a sharp grunt, then crumpled to the ground. Connor dropped beside him, sickened by the rush of blood spurting from the man’s throat. An arrow pinned him to the cool green grass.


  “I’ll get help,” he told the gasping man, scanning the area for the medical officer.

  “Keep moving!” roared his sergeant.

  “But sir—”

  “He’s already gone. Keep marching, Corporal!”

  A well-aimed shot from one of the English cannon ignited a redoubt near the enemy’s front line, and flames soon shot out of other buildings as well. The undisciplined, inexperienced British forces pressed on, driving the defenders back, surprising Connor and many of the others with their own success. Their battle instruction had been limited, their actual exercises even more so, yet the French fled before them, surely hoping to find safety in numbers at the nearby fort. The Indians went as well.

  Bloodied but victorious, the troops settled into what remained of the small village, celebrating around campfires with a meagre meal and—finally—a taste of rum.

  Similar altercations followed as the English worked their way toward the fort, but now they were better prepared and less liable to fall prey to surprise attacks. Hostages were taken by both sides, a small number of men were hurt and even fewer killed, but for the most part the process was a determined forward march. When the British finally reached the fort, the command “Fire!” was given, and the result was astounding. Any surviving French turned and ran.

  That night the fort was renamed Fort Cumberland, and the English flag was hoisted. Connor wound his way through soldiers enjoying the fort’s rich store of brandy and wine, but he was not in the mood for celebration. It had not been a glorious battle, and the last few weeks had not been easy. Certainly this was a victory they’d earned, and as a member of the army Connor was entitled to revel in the win.

  But he could not. Once again, the English had taken someone else’s home. This time they had named it after the Duke of Cumberland, the man who had ordered English troops to slaughter Scotland.

  Two weeks later the British arrived in the beautiful land of Minas, which the local people called Grand Pré. Connor was mesmerized by the poetic, undulating land with its copper red sand and sheer rock cliffs. If the slowly climbing hills had been taller, they might have reminded him of the Lowlands back home, though it had been a long time since he’d seen them. This little village, with its humble houses and fat cows, its endless wild game and seafood, seemed idyllic. There was something about the way the sun poured onto the land here, feeding the shining leaves, bringing the wildness alive.

  When he first saw the Acadians’ unusual dike system, he didn’t understand what it was. All he knew was that their plentiful crops were a deeper green than he’d ever seen before. He watched the villagers work, mused over their strange choice of land, and wondered how they had harnessed the sea.

  One of the other men claimed to have seen this sort of system in France before, and he explained the process.

  “This marshland belonged to the sea for thousands of years,” he was told. “Every time the tides receded they left behind a thick deposit of salt which made the land useless for farming. These Acadians are like the French I saw. Perhaps they are even related.” He shrugged. “Anyhow, they did not see a desolate land. They saw possibility.”

  To prevent the sea from returning, the Acadians built massive dikes all along the edge of the land using sod from the original marsh. Since those particular grasses were used to being covered by salt water for hours at a time, they were able to withstand the sea when it battered the dikes. Within those dikes the Acadians built aboiteaux, which contained a wooden sluice. Inside the sluices were small wooden valves which were angled in such a way that they opened to allow any fresh rainwater to escape from the field, but they stood strong against the seawater. For a couple of years the Acadians had left the fields completely alone, letting natural rainwater wash through the marshland and escape through the aboiteaux at low tide, carrying the salt deposits with it. What was left behind was layers of silt and soil which created the most fertile land imaginable.

  It was an incredible undertaking and surely required constant upkeep, but the concept was amazing. Connor longed to visit the people of the land, to speak with them about the system, but Winslow’s order prohibited any soldier from leaving camp and heading down the street of the village without special permission.

  Summer here was so much hotter than he’d expected it would be. When the wind stopped and the cicadas screeched from their perches on towering oaks and maples, his heavy woollen uniform was torturous. More than a few soldiers took to removing coats and stockings when they weren’t required. Sleeping at night was a challenge. The stink of sweat and dirt mixed with the waves of heat in the stuffy tents made it nearly impossible to breathe. Connor prayed for rain—though when it eventually came, it hit with a vengeance.

  Then Winslow had made everything worse. Feeling the need not only to establish the English presence but to protect it, he ordered pickets to be set up. The barricade was to enclose not only the church but two other buildings as well, stretching out a distance. It was difficult work and hardly seemed necessary, considering the near helplessness of the villagers, and most of the soldiers grumbled their disapproval. Sergeant Fitch, however, revelled in the plan. He took a sort of perverse delight in yelling orders. Having armed his battalion with the axes they had taken from the Acadians as well as a number of bucksaws, he lined the men up and marched them into the forest. The air within the trees was somewhat cooler than in the direct sun, but the insects were no less ravenous. While some men cut trees, others prepared three-foot-deep holes for the pickets, alternating between pick axe and shovel, breaking their backs in a whole different way. At least Fitch allowed the men to leave their coats in their tents. After four days of chopping, sawing, and carrying the trunks to the holes, the barricade was completed. The area looked almost like a proper fort, but Winslow wasn’t satisfied. He sent them out again, this time to extend the fence around the church cemetery.

  Now the English had a fort; the battle could truly begin.

  It seemed impossible that something so ugly could happen in a place this beautiful.

  Connor suddenly needed air. He got to his feet, wanting to be far from the misused church, and sought a private, quiet place where he could think. The farther he went through the lush grass, his eyes on the world around him, the calmer he felt. From a nearby tree came the call of a songbird, cheery and bright and welcoming to all. A moment later the little thing flitted before Connor’s eyes and disappeared into the trees, but he still heard its song. And why wouldn’t it sing? There was nothing here that might steal the feathered fellow’s happiness or his melody. The land all around them was as close to perfection as he could imagine anything being.

  Amélie had called Grand Pré paradise, and Connor thought she was most likely right. No wonder the English wanted it.

  His feet led him to a familiar spot, and he smiled in memory. The last time he’d sat here, she had come along with her little basket. Her presence had been an unexpected gift, and ever since then he had hoped against reason to see her again, to hear her thoughts. The girl was courageous to a fault and fiercely beautiful whenever she disagreed with him. Not belligerent, though. Never ill-mannered. Before their conversation, he had considered the army’s position to be wrong on many levels, and now he was more opposed to it than ever. Since speaking with her, he’d daydreamed more than once about changing the minds of the men in charge, convincing them to let the Acadians remain in their homes. After all, they had caused no trouble; they had pledged not to fight for either side; they had even fed the army from their crops.

  More than anything, Connor wanted to be the one who made it possible for Amélie to stay in the home she so obviously loved. He agreed with almost every one of her arguments and reluctantly accepted that she was right that the two of them were on opposite sides—though he hated that fact. He would not agree, however, that they should be enemies.

  The air had come alive with trills and calls of other birds, and from somewhere far away came the continuous shush of the ocean. Wit
h a sort of guilty relief, he yanked off his boots, rolled his stockings down over his feet, and curled his toes into the tall grass. He held in a sigh of contentment, not wanting anyone to hear him and disturb his peace. He craved this kind of quiet.

  Now that Winslow’s army had no battles to wage, no target for their cannon, its general condition had declined. Morale was low all around. The men were whipped or otherwise punished almost daily for stealing, being drunk on guard, or some other idiocy. One fool accidentally shot another through the ankle, necessitating his friend’s having a leg cut off. A number of soldiers had succumbed to illness, and the lucky ones were sent home.

  He wondered what it was like here in winter. Would he still be here?

  A girl and a black and white dog appeared in the valley below the fort, walking from barn to field. Does Amélie know her? Even from this distance, Connor could see the dog’s tail wagging madly. It danced around the girl, who stooped under a fence with her basket, happily going about her daily life. How long before she could no longer do so? How long before she must bid farewell to her little dog?

  These people had lived here for generations—not as many as his own family had been in the Highlands, but enough. This was their home, and everything about this impending eviction felt morally wrong.

  A dark blade of grass waved to him from between his feet. He plucked it from the ground and slipped it between his teeth, letting it hang from his lips in an arch, like a bow. That made him think of the local Indians—the Mi’kmaq, they called them. Governor Cornwallis’s bounty for scalps had been abolished three years previously, but he’d noticed the natives wisely remained hidden for the most part.

  “Nice view, innit?”

  He knew the voice before he turned, and he managed a weak smile of welcome as Sergeant Fitch slunk out of the shadows of the trees. Thumbs in his waistband, he strode to where Connor had been relaxing and stood beside him. Fitch was the last person on earth Connor wanted to see. The tall, gaunt officer had developed into something far beyond a simple irritant. He was an obnoxious, patronizing louse who took great pleasure in the fact that his purchased commission had put him in charge of better men than he. He was also, as was made obvious by his rough speech, ill-educated. It was a mystery to Connor how he had been able to afford such a payment. It could not possibly have come from his own pocket.