nature of these mysterious dealings. Well, because I am old and my time on this earth is coming to an end, I feel it is only fair that I share the truth with you both. Since the British began to rule Acadia or, as they call it, Nova Scotia, I have been relaying secret information to the French. That is true. When I visit the fort at Annapolis each year, I keep my eyes and ears open to any privileged information that might cross my path, and believe me, when you are in the company of soldiers who are under the influence of drink, much confidential information emerges. That which I hear, I write down in dispatches once I arrive at Melanson Village for the Harvest Festival. If I have noticed changes to the battlements at the fort, I draw those also. If British or New England ships arrive during my visit, I mention them and observe any cargo they bring ashore or put on board their vessels. Over the years I have had an accomplice in this enterprise, for I am only present at the fort of Annapolis for one week a year. This does not provide a great deal of information. Because your brother Charles works daily in the shipyards, Piau, he long ago agreed to be my second pair of eyes in the town. And, may I say, his enthusiasm for the task is prodigious, for he has a profound distaste for the British, primarily because he witnessed your father’s murder at a young age. This fuels the hatred building inside his soul.”
I had often speculated about the nature of the secretive dispatches, but the disclosure of Charles’s involvement in their creation shocked me. How could I not be aware of such subterfuge? As usual, this provoked an instant response from me.
“Why would you engage in such a spying operation, Uncle Pierre? What did you have to gain from such a dangerous enterprise? Why would you put my brother in such a position of jeopardy? For what reason, Uncle, tell me?”
Uncle did not appear to be surprised by my sudden outburst. Benjamin grasped my shoulder to contain my surging emotions but he remained calm.
I could feel this anger rising in me but I knew to keep it in check, for it would be unacceptable to show disrespect for a patriarch.
Uncle was quick to respond. “I am not surprised that you are angry, Piau. However, it is necessary to place these things I have related in a perspective you can understand. Acadia has existed for more than a hundred years. For only twenty of those years have the British ruled here. I have lived in this colony for almost seventy years. Where should my allegiance lie? Think carefully about this last question!”
I stood there speechless, seriously pondering the question put to me by Uncle. My understanding was insufficient for an intelligent response so I remained speechless.
“The fact that you are unable to answer my question is a tribute to your intelligence, Piau, for it is not an easy one to answer, not even for me. Therefore, I have chosen not to answer it myself. The only answer I will put forward is that I was motivated by a desire to engage in good commerce — call it trade, if you wish. Trade does not involve allegiance, only fair exchange. The French required confidential information about the British in Acadia, and I wanted those things I could not acquire any other way but through trade with the French. There you have it. The French books you have enjoyed at the Manor House for all these years were provided by this commerce.
“As for your brother, he is a man who needs an outlet for his anger. That is essential; otherwise he may act upon it unwisely.”
Benjamin interjected into the conversation as a means of defusing the emotions surrounding Uncle’s revelation.
“Thank you, Grandfather, for entrusting us with your secret. We may not completely comprehend this business you have had with the French, but we respect your judgment in these affairs and hope in time we are able to grasp what you have done.”
Uncle responded by kissing Benjamin on the forehead and patting me gently on the back.
“Thank you, Benjamin. You are very gracious to respond as you have. And Piau, may you continue to contemplate these things so you can truly understand the workings of the people around you. Bless you both.”
During my Grand Pré years I witnessed the wedding of my brother Charles to Marguerite Granger. He was nine years my senior, and because of this and my frequent absences from Port Royal, our relationship only grew as I advanced into adulthood. Since he had witnessed the death of our father and the brutality of the British in 1706, he was never inclined to embrace his English side, except when it was useful for him to do so. In fact, he had a benign contempt for my English education and he disapproved of my associations with the officers at Annapolis. This was so, even though his wife was the granddaughter of Lawrence Granger, a sailor from Plymouth, England.
Following the marriage of Charles and Marguerite, my mother decided that, as the firstborn, Charles was to inherit the family farm. My grandmother Marie lived alone in her homestead at Melanson Village, and since my brother Jean was still unmarried, as was my seventeen-year-old sister, Madeleine, we all moved in with my grandmother to start a new life. My mother was to live with her mother for the remainder of her life.
My grandmother was elated that we were coming to live with her. Our relationship blossomed because she had many life lessons to teach me and she had many stories to relate about my forefathers both in Acadia and France.
Often she spoke about her father, Abraham Dugas, who was a man of great importance when France governed Acadia in the century before. He was a gunsmith by trade, and she prided herself in commenting that his title while in France was Gunsmith to His Majesty the King. The Dugases were from Vaucluse in Haute Provence. Abraham’s parents moved to Toulouse just before he was born; there he was educated and trained as an armourer.
One day after our arrival at my grandmother’s house, she caught me in a pensive moment. “Piau, you know that your great-grandfather, Abraham Dugas, was an eminent man here in Acadia and in France. He was sent here by the king of France to Port Royal, and he held the position of lieutenant-general and armourer of Acadia.”
“I know all of this, Grandmama,” I said, feeling a little frustrated thinking that my grandmother would be repeating an oft-told tale to me.
“Of course you do, my dear,” she replied. “And you know that he met my mother here and married her not long after. And not long after that, I was born. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you today. What I wanted to share with you is one of the stories that my father shared with us when I was young.
“My father often spoke of his days in Toulouse and especially relished telling us stories of the family’s ancestral home, Fontaine de Vaucluse, in Provence. He told us how he and his family travelled over a great distance every summer to Vaucluse, which was at the foothills of the Alps, to escape the crippling heat of the city. He referred to it as a pilgrimage to his ancestral home.
“Now, Fontaine de Vaucluse is famous for these things: the presence of the famous Italian poet Petrarch centuries before, and its miraculous fountain in the hills above the town.”
Having caught my imagination, I inquired, “Grandmama, what was magical about this fountain? Did it shoot water into the air?”
“In answer to your question, no. What is special about this fountain is that no one knows its source and no waterfall provides its deep pool. The mystery lies in the fact that the pool high on the mountainside forever remains filled and yet perfectly still. From this still pool come a hundred waterfalls that flow down through the town into the Sorgue River and ultimately into the mighty Rhone. The waterfalls fall fiercely, never running out of water.”
I responded with disbelief. “But how is that possible? Every deep pool must be fed by a waterfall, and no spring could provide such great amounts of water.”
