Rose A Charlitte Part 23

"Is that where the husband of Madame de Foret got his name?" interrupted Vesper, indicating his landlady by a gesture.

"Yes," said the old man, "it is a name of long ago,--besides Charlitte was Bonaventure, an' dese five men suffered horrible, mos' horrible, for winter came on, an' dey was all de time hungry w'en dey wasn't eatin', an' dey had to roam by night like dogs, to pick up w'at dey could. But dey live till de spring, an' dey wander like de wile beasties roun' de fores' of Beausejour, an' dey was well watched by de English. If dey had been shot, dis man would not be talkin' to you, for Bonaventure was my ancessor on my modder's side. On a day w'en dey come to Tintamarre--you know de great ma'sh of Tintamarre?"

"No; I never heard of it."

"Well, it big ma'sh in Westmoreland County. One day dey come dere, an'

dey perceive not far from dem a _goelette_,--a schooner. De sea was low, an' all de men in de schooner atten' de return of de tide, for dey was high an' dry. Dose five Acadiens look at dat schooner, den dey w'isper,--den dey wander, as perchance, near dat schooner. De cap'en look at dem like a happy wile beas', 'cause he was sent from Port Royal to catch the runawoods. He call out, he invite dose Acadiens, he say, 'Come on, we make you no harm,' an' dey go, meek like sheep; soon de sea mount, de cap'en shout, 'Raise de anchor,' but Pierre said, 'We mus' go ash.o.r.e.' 'Trow dose Romans in _la cale_,' say dat bad man. _La cale c'est_--"

"In the hold," supplied the two other eager old men, in a breath.

"Yes, in de hole,--but tink you dey went? No; Charlitte he was big, he had de force of five men, he look at Pierre. Pierre he shout, '_Fesse_, Charlitte,' and Charlitte he s.n.a.t.c.h a bar from de deck, he bang it on de head of de Englishman an' ma.s.sacre him. 'Debarra.s.s us of anoder,' cried Pierre. Charlitte he raise his bar again,--an' still anoder, an' tree Englishmen lay on de deck. Only de cap'en remain, an' a sailor very big,--mos' as big as Charlitte. De cap'en was consternate, yet he made a sign of de han'. De sailor jump on Pierre an' try to pitch him in de hole. Tink you Charlitte let him go? No; he runs, he chucks dat sailor in de sea. Den de cap'en falls on his knees. 'Spare me de life an' I will spare you de lives.' 'Spare us de lives!' said Pierre, 'did you spare de lives of dose unhappy ones of Port Royal whom you sen' to exile? No; an' you would carry us to Halifax to de cruel English. Dat is how you spare. Where are our mudders an' fadders, our brudders an'

sisters? You carry dem to a way-off sh.o.r.e w'ere dey cry mos' all de time. We shall see dem never. Recommen' your soul to G.o.d.' Den after a little he say very low, 'Charlitte _fesse_,' again. An' Charlitte he _fesse_, an' dey brush de han' over de eyes an' lower dat cap'en in de sea.

"Den Pierre, who was fine sailor, run de schooner up to Pet.i.tcodiac.

Later on, de son of Bonaventure come to dis Bay, an' his daughter was my mudder."

When the old man finished speaking, a shudder ran over the little group, and Vesper gazed thoughtfully at the lively scene beyond them. This was a dearly bought picnic. These quiet old men, gentle Mrs. Rose, the prattling children, the vivacious young men and women, were all descendants of ancestors who had with tears and blood sought a resting-place for their children. He longed to hear more of their exploits, and he was just about to prefer a request when little Narcisse, who had been listening with parted lips, leaned forward and patted the old man's boot. "Tell Narcisse yet another story with trees in it."

The fat old man nodded his head. "I know anodder of a Belliveau, dis one Charles. He was a carpenter an' he made s.h.i.+ps from trees. At de great derangement de English hole him prisoner at Port Royal. One of de s.h.i.+ps to take away de Acadiens had broke her mas' in a tempes'. Charles he make anodder, and w'en he finish dat mas' he ask his pay. One refuse him dat. Den de mas' will fall,' he say. 'I done someting to it.' De cap'en hurry to give him de price, an' Charlie he say, 'It all right.' W'en dey embark de prisoners dey put Charles on dat schooner. Dey soon leave de war-s.h.i.+p dat go wid dem, but de cap'en of de war-s.h.i.+p he say to de cap'en of de schooner, 'Take care, my fren', you got some good sailors 'mong dose Acadiens.' De cap'en of de schooner laugh. He was like dose trees, Narcisse, dat is rooted so strong dey tink dat no ting can never upset dem. He still let dose Acadiens come on deck,--six, seven at a times, cause de hole pretty foul, an' dey might die. One day, w'en de order was given, 'Go down, you Acadiens, an' come up seven odder,' de firs' lot dey open de hatch, den spring on de bridge. Dey garrotte de cap'en and crew, an' Charles go to turn de schooner. De cap'en call, 'Dat gran' mas' is weak,--you go for to break it.' 'Liar,' shouted Charles, 'dis is I dat make it.' Dose Acadiens mount de River St.

John,--I don' know what dey did wid dose English. I hope dey kill 'em,"

he added, mildly.

"Pere Baudouin," said Rose, bending forward, "this is an Englishman from Boston."

"I know," said the old man; "he is good English, dose were bad."

Vesper smiled, and asked him whether he had ever heard of the Fiery Frenchman of Grand Pre.

The old man considered carefully and consulted with his cousins. Neither of them had ever heard of such a person. There were so many Acadiens, they said, in an explanatory way, so many different bands, so many scattering groups journeying homeward. But they would inquire.

"Here comes Father La Croix," said Rose, softly; "will you not ask him to help you?"

"You are very kind to be so much interested in this search of mine,"

said Vesper, in a low voice.

Rose's lip trembled, and avoiding his glance, she kept her eyes fixed steadily on the ex-colonel and present priest, who was expressing a courteous hope that Vesper had obtained the information he wished.

"Not yet," said Vesper, "though I am greatly indebted to these gentlemen," and he turned to thank the old men.

"I know of your mission," said Father La Croix, "and if you will favor me with some details, perhaps I can help you."

Vesper walked to and fro on the gra.s.s with him for some minutes, and then watched him threading his way in and out among the groups of his paris.h.i.+oners and their guests until at last he mounted the band-stand, and extended his hand over the crowd.

He did not utter a word, yet there was almost instantaneous silence. The merry-go-round stopped, the dancers paused, and a hush fell on all present.

"My dear people," he said, "it rejoices me to see so many of you here to-day, and to know that you are enjoying yourselves. Let us be thankful to G.o.d for the fine weather. I am here to request you to do me a favor.

You all have old people in your homes,--you hear them talking of the great expulsion. I wish you to ask these old ones whether they remember a certain Etex LeNoir, called the Fiery Frenchman of Grand Pre. He, too, was carried away, but never reached his destination, having died on the s.h.i.+p _Confidence_, but his wife and child probably arrived in Philadelphia. Find out, if you can, the fate of this widow and her child,--whether they died in a foreign land, or whether she succeeded in coming back to Acadie,--and bring the information to me."

He descended the steps, and Vesper hastened to thank him warmly for his interest.

"It may result in nothing," said the priest, "yet there is an immense amount of information stored up among the Acadiens on this Bay; I do not at all despair of finding this family," and he took a kindly leave of Vesper, after directing him where to find his mother.

"But this is terrible," said Rose, trying to restrain the ardent Narcisse, who was dragging her towards his beloved Englishman. "My child, thy mother will be forced to whip thee."

Vesper at that moment turned around, and his keen glance sought her out.

"Why do you struggle with him?" he asked, coming to meet them.

"But I cannot have him tease you."

"He does not tease me," and in quiet sympathy Vesper endeavored to restore peace to her troubled mind. She, most beautiful flower of all this show, and most deserving of joy and comfort, had been unhappy and ill at ease ever since they entered the gates. The lingering, furtive glances of several young Acadiens were unheeded by her. Her only thought was to reach her home and be away from this bustle and excitement, and it was his mother who had wrought this change in her; and in sharp regret, Vesper surveyed the little lady, who, apparently in the most amiable of moods, was sitting chatting to an Acadien matron to whom Father La Croix had introduced her.

A slight scuffle in a clump of green bushes beside them distracted his attention from her. A pleading exclamation from a manly voice was followed by an eloquent silence, a brisk sound like a slap, or a box on the ears, and a laugh from a girl, with a threatening, "_Tu me paicras ca_" (Thou shalt pay me for that).

Vesper laughed too. There was something so irresistibly comical in the man's second exclamation of dismayed surprise.

"It is Perside," said Rose, wearily. "How can she be so gay, in so public a place?"

"Serves the blacksmith right, for trying to kiss her," said Vesper.

"Perside," said Rose, rebukingly, and thrusting her head through the verdant screen, "come and be presented to Mrs. Nimmo."

Perside came forward. She was a laughing, piquant beauty, smaller and more self-conscious than Rose. With admirable composure she dismissed her blacksmith-_fiance_, and followed her sister.

Mrs. Nimmo had been receiving a flattering amount of attention, and was holding quite a small court of Acadien women about her. Among them was Rose's stepmother. Vesper had not met her before, and he gazed at her calm, statuesque, almost severe profile, under the dark handkerchief.

Her hands, worn by honest toil, and folded in her lap, were unmistakable signs of a long and hard struggle with poverty. Yet her smile was gentleness and sweetness itself, when she returned Vesper's salutation.

A poor farm, many cares, many children,--he knew her history, for Rose had told him of her mother's death during Perside's infancy, and the great kindness of the young woman who had married their father and had brought up not only his children, but also the motherless Agapit.

With a filial courtesy that won the admiration of the Acadiens, among whom respect for parents is earnestly inculcated, Vesper asked his mother if she wished him to take her home.

"If you are quite ready to leave," she replied, getting up and drawing her wrap about her.

The Acadien women uttered their regrets that madame should leave so soon. But would she not come to visit them in their own homes?

"You are very kind," she said, graciously, "but we leave soon,--possibly in two days," and her inquiring eyes rested on her son, who gravely inclined his head in a.s.sent.

There was a chorus of farewells and requests that madame would, at some future time, visit the Bay, and Mrs. Nimmo, bowing her acknowledgments, and singling out Perside for a specially approving glance, took her son's arm and was about to move away when he said, "If you do not object, we will take the child with us. He is tired, and is wearing out his mother."

Mrs. Nimmo could afford to be magnanimous, as they were so soon to go away, and might possibly shake off all connection with this place.

Therefore she favored the pale and suffering Rose with a compa.s.sionate glance, and extended an inviting hand to the impetuous boy, who, however, disdained it and ran to Vesper.

"But why are they going?" cried Agapit, hurrying up to Rose, as she stood gazing after the retreating Nimmos. "Did you tell them of the fireworks, and the concert, and the French play; also that there would be a moon to return by?"

"Madame was weary."

"Come thou then with me. I enjoy myself so much. My s.h.i.+rt is wet on my back from the dancing. It is hot like a hay field--what, thou wilt not?

Rose, why art thou so dull to-day?"

She tried to compose herself, to banish the heartrending look of sorrow from her face, but she was not skilled in the art of concealing her emotions, and the effort was a vain one.