I was puzzled by the emphatic nature of Uncle’s comment.
“But Uncle, you are English. You are friends with the lieutenant-governor and all the officers at the garrison.”
“Piau, you must learn to see beyond appearances. It is true I was born in England — yes, I was educated there, I became a journeyman stonemason in Yorkshire, and my parents were English. However, I have lived in Acadia for over fifty years. I married your aunt, who is French, embraced the Roman Catholic faith as my own, and have more often than not been in the service of the French king. The blood that flows through my veins was at one time English but now it is Acadian. My English ways have stood us in good stead during these times of British rule, but there remains no more to it than that.”
Over time, I, too, was to cultivate these skills, which had taken Uncle Pierre fifty years to perfect.
On our arrival at the jetty in Grand Pré, there was a large vessel, flying the flag of the king of France, awaiting our arrival. When Uncle Pierre disembarked he encountered three officers dressed in French uniforms, spoke a few words to each, and slyly passed a roll of manuscripts to one of them. This was the first time I witnessed Uncle delivering dispatches to the French. This transaction completed, Uncle met my aunt and me on the dock and we continued to our carriage. Looking back, I saw the French ship lift anchor and drift into the bay, where it remained until the following morning. I was too young at the time to comprehend that Uncle Pierre was spying for the French. I was to witness similar events time after time over the years.
I clearly remember riding slowly through the village of Grand Pré for the first time and witnessing the respect and homage paid by its inhabitants to Uncle, the patriarch of their community. This regard was amplified by the sight of the seigneurial home at the western end of the village. It was grander than anything I had ever seen, a huge stone structure with two levels. Our homes in Port Royal were modest in comparison. On our arrival at the front gate a man greeted us.
“Bonjour, René, comment allez-vous?” shouted Uncle. “Dites bienvenue à mon petit-neveu, Pierre, dit Piau Belliveau. Il va rester avec nous pendant l’hiver.”
“Bienvenue à tous et à toi, Maître Piau.”
The young man who greeted us was René LeBlanc, Uncle Pierre’s son-in-law, the husband of his daughter Isabelle. Even as an eight-year-old, I was struck by René’s extraordinary presence, for he truly was a force of nature, one of those beings who exudes a boundless energy even on first meeting.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Piau. I have a son named Benjamin — perhaps he can be your companion during your stay. I am certain that both of you will get on famously.”
I was comforted by this news for I had feared I would be living exclusively in a world of adults. It was a prediction that turned out to be true — Benjamin and I became great friends and remained so for years.
The comfort of my uncle’s home wrapped its arms around me in a way no human had ever done. The grand armchairs by the fire were finely carved and covered in tapestry. They always welcomed me on cold winter days and nights. The main room of the house was miraculously laden with books of every kind and size. These would be my refuge for the next ten winters of my life. Hidden amongst the books was a large ancient volume. On first discovering it, I realized it was written in English, a language I had yet to master, and it was filled with sacred images of the life of Jesus and other unknown characters that had some connection with the divine. Uncle often noticed my fascination with these printed images and one day revealed the true nature of this special volume.
“I see, Piau, you have become enraptured with the holy book. It is the King James Version of the Bible. As you see, it tells of the life of Jesus and all those who went before. My parents brought this English Protestant Bible to Acadia when we arrived over fifty years ago.
“You notice in the centre of the book that my parents have signed their names and written the dates of their births, the day of their marriage, and my birthdate and that of your grandfather as well. See Father — Pierre Laverdure, born in La Rochelle, France, in 1606; and Mother — Priscilla Melanson, born in Bradford, in Yorkshire, England, in 1613. And there I am, Peter Laverdure, born in Bradford, England, in 1636, and your grandfather Charles Laverdure, born in Bradford in 1643.
“When my parents moved to Boston with my brother John in 1667 when the French regained their governance of Acadia, they left the family Bible with me. Over the years, I have returned to this book many times because it is the only thing that connects me to my parents and my distant past. This is not the Bible of the Roman Church but it still holds the secrets to our humanity and God’s divinity. I give you permission to read passages from the great book when your English improves.”
Chapter 2
Not only were my uncle and René welcoming when I first arrived, so, too, was my cousin Isabelle. She spilled a torrent of greetings when my uncle first introduced me to her and Benjamin.
“Could this be little Piau? How wonderful to finally meet you! I trust your mother is in good health. I have not seen her since the British took over the garrison at Port Royal, which I hear is now known as Annapolis. You certainly seem to take after her. And my father has boasted to me of your precocity. Here is your cousin Benjamin. He is just beginning his education, too. Together you will be learning the language of those who govern us.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Cousin Isabelle. My mother is in very good health, thank you, and she has told me all about you. And, yes, the town is now called Annapolis but we choose to call it Port Royal as we always have.”
I shook Benjamin’s hand.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Piau. I look forward to spending the winter in your company.”
Benjamin’s greeting was extremely formal in its delivery but unmistakably genuine.
“What did I tell you, young Piau,” interjected Uncle. “Like you, Benjamin is an extraordinary child, mature and intelligent beyond his years.”
Benjamin was also a handsome child. His eyes sparkled in a way I had never witnessed before. He seemed a most interesting person and I felt immediately that we would be bosom friends. The prospect of having a fellow student to share my learning filled me with a confidence I had not felt before. And, of course, I relished the prospect of having a playmate.
And so began our daily learning sessions. René and Uncle were responsible for my studies, and Isabelle oversaw Benjamin’s English and French lessons. While I practised my lessons, I listened to Uncle’s heated debates with René. They spoke of the constant indecision of whether to leave Acadia for Île Royale or Île Saint Jean, or to stay. The issue of whether or not to take the oath of allegiance to the British Crown seemed to riddle their discussions. I was made aware of the willingness of the Acadians to leave with their worldly goods and livestock and sail to the surrounding French colonies. But however much the British wanted us to leave, they feared us more in exile. The increased power of the French surrounding Nova Scotia should eight thousand of us enter the neighbouring French colonies was far too threatening. There was also the question of who would feed the one hundred and fifty British soldiers at Annapolis should we leave our farms. I heard that Lieutenant-Governors Nicholson, Vetch, and Caulfield all decided to prevent us from emigrating by denying us the sails necessary to wind our vessels.
Over time, Isabelle became a mother figure to me. She was everything one would hope for in a mother. She was beautiful, warm, comforting, and charismatic. She took me under her wing and was as kind to me as she was to her own son. She informed me of my family history, all the stories that were too painful for my own mother to relate. One day she sat on the floor before Uncle’s hearth and talked about my mother’s tragedy.
“Piau, your