“I will say only this. He was a privateer, and although he made plenty of money for his efforts, most of it was earned illegally. Every British pound he pocketed was soaked in blood. Where there was trouble, you could expect Basset to be there. For certain he is eternally damned!”
I never mentioned Basset again, but the contents of the letters and journals now made sense.
Complicity! Complicity! Complicity! That was what I thought as I read my grandfather’s journal entry dated May 20, 1690. He spoke of having been taken at daybreak to a British command ship by his son-in-law David Basset, having already seen seven English ships dropping anchor at Goat Island the night before. Basset apparently was in command of one of the New England vessels. He described a meeting he had with the commander, Sir William Phips, where he was questioned about the state of the fort at Port Royal and the number of soldiers and cannons present there. He admitted to delivering the requested information hoping that no resistance would come from the French garrison and that a peaceful surrender would be achieved, thus sparing the town and his own settlement pillaging and destruction.
He wrote that Phips had warned that he possessed seven hundred and fifty armed men at the ready to attack the fort and had urged him to deliver such warning to Governor Meneval at Port Royal. Grandfather said he had met with the French governor later that day and the governor had reluctantly agreed to surrender without a fight.
He described how agitated Meneval had been on hearing the British threat. The French governor lamented that of the seventy soldiers in his command, half were out game hunting and those left behind were without arms. He despaired that he was sitting in a fortress that was barely constructed. The old fort had been destroyed earlier in the year in order that a newer stronger one could be built. The governor had fumed at Grandfather out of sheer frustration. He had insisted that there be honourable terms of surrender.
His next journal entry was dated May 21, 1690. Grandfather wrote that he accompanied Father Petit to Sir William Phips’s ship to discuss the terms of surrender. The terms agreed upon were that the troops at Port Royal were to retain their arms and personals and be permitted to return to France. The church and its properties were to remain as they were and the priests were to continue to serve the Acadian community. The people living in and around the town were to be left in peace. Grandfather seemed overjoyed with the results of his efforts. “We are so blessed at the outcome!”
His entry on May 22, however, described the horrible reality of the previous day’s negotiations. News from the fort had been grim. Some Acadian residents of the town had fled to Melanson Village to escape the pillaging. They informed Grandfather that Phips had broken the terms of surrender, had imprisoned Governor Meneval and his soldiers in the church, levelled and burned the fort, removed the cannons, destroyed the cross, looted the church, killed the livestock, and emptied His Majesty’s storehouses. They had confiscated china, pewter, and even the priest’s vestments. They took everything they could find.
Grandfather’s written response to these events seemed to contain a small dose of bewilderment with a large dose of resignation. Can you imagine such quick resignation? Was he happy with the outcome? I could not detect any feelings of remorse from his journal. I stopped reading immediately. I was filled with such strong feelings of indignation. To think this man’s blood ran through mine and was mixed with the blood of my heroic father. I immediately felt I had been poisoned by the things I had read. And at that point I craved the sage advice of old Uncle Pierre, who regrettably was no longer with us. I realize now that he would have simply said his brother was a misguided man.
Chapter 7
The spring at Annapolis released the natural urges of the young and awakened romantic feelings in all of us. I was no different. After the planting was completed, free time along the river brought us into contact with the young Acadian girls. It was essential for me to have Benjamin along. His beauty and charisma meant that wherever Benjamin walked so also did a parade of young ladies of varying ages. He also had an ease about him that I lacked. I considered myself quite presentable but I felt greater comfort in the company of men. The one thing I was not tutored in was wooing the opposite sex.
My mother kept reminding me I was twenty-one and single, but I thought, well, my brother Jean was still unmarried although he was four years my senior. However, because he was the senior male in a household of two widows, he was exempt from the pressure that my mother was putting on me. He operated the farm and fulfilled the duties of the man of the house for Mother and Grandmama. I was expected to find a suitable wife from outside Melanson Village — finding a spouse in my community was impossible since everyone was related where I had uncles, aunts, and cousins by the dozens. Arrangements had to be made to unite several communities so the young people could socialize and eventually pair up for marriage.
An opportunity arose in June. Grandmama was soon to celebrate the eightieth anniversary of her birth, and given her status as matriarch of not only Melanson Village but all the Acadian communities along the Annapolis River, a huge celebration was planned to coincide with the summer solstice. It was to be held at our settlement. The day of the event, fishing boats and schooners transported hundreds of families along the river to our village opposite Goat Island. They arrived early in the day and set up tents to accommodate those who would stay overnight. Many came from as far as Gaudet Village, twenty miles up the river, and Belle Isle, Paradise, and, of course, neighbouring Annapolis Royal.
It was a perfect day for the festivities. A hovering cloud of pink apple blossoms formed a brilliant backdrop above the village; a warm northwest breeze sent an intoxicating aroma from the orchards on the hill, wrapping everyone in a cloud of delirious floral scents. The cloudless sky was a deep blue, and the sun shone well into the evening, welcoming the summer solstice.
Grandmama appeared younger than her eighty years, with her youthful spirit defying her aging body. She paraded proudly through Melanson Village, the settlement she had helped found, stopping to chat with each of her descendants and friends, never forgetting a single name, always spreading her pearls of wisdom as if she had an endless storehouse of experience to convey. Sometimes she feigned a scolding manner, if only to make the children laugh.
The day was filled with fine food placed on tables in everyone’s front garden. Games were played in the streets, and the music that accompanied the singing and the dancing seemed to emanate from every corner of the village. On such a day, everyone was united and filled to the brim with the warmth of the Acadian community.
The evening was ignited by a huge bonfire at the water’s edge, and the young and the old danced about the fire to the music of violins, spoons, triangles, and jaw harps. As midnight approached, it was my turn to pay tribute. I chose to sing the song I had learned on Grandmama’s knee when I was a small child. A silence came over the crowd as I began to sing the first notes of “À la claire fontaine,” a song about that magical place in Provence and lost love.
À la claire fontaine, m’en allant promener
J’ai trouvé l’eau si belle, que je m’y suis baigné.
Il y a longtemps que je t’aime,
Jamais je ne t’oublierai.
That evening my voice soared hauntingly over the night visitors, surprisingly casting a spell on all those present, especially the guest of honour. By the light of the fire, I could see the tears in my grandmother’s eyes, noticing she was not the only one. It was the first time I had felt the power of my singing voice. And it was the first time I noticed Jeanne, staring mysteriously into the bonfire as I sang. She appeared to be in a world of her own, quite separate from the hundreds of people humming to the sound of
