CHAPTER VIII.
THE OLD FRENCH WAR AND THE ACADIAN EXILES
IN the early twilight of Thanksgiving Eve came Laurence, and Clara, and
Charley, and little Alice, hand in hand, and stood in a semicircle round
Grandfather's chair. They had been joyous throughout that day of
festivity, mingling together in all kinds of play, so that the house had
echoed with their airy mirth.
Grandfather, too, had been happy though not mirthful. He felt that this
was to be set down as one of the good Thanksgivings of his life. In
truth, all his former Thanksgivings had borne their part in the present
one; for his years of infancy, and youth, and manhood, with their
blessings and their griefs, had flitted before him while he sat silently
in the great chair. Vanished scenes had been pictured in the air. The
forms of departed friends had visited him. Voices to be heard no more on
earth had sent an echo from the infinite and the eternal. These shadows,
if such they were, seemed almost as real to him as what was actually
present,--as the merry shouts and laughter of the children,--as their
figures, dancing like sunshine before his eyes.
He felt that the past was not taken from him. The happiness of former
days was a possession forever. And there was something in the mingled
sorrow of his lifetime that became akin to happiness, after being long
treasured in the depths of his heart. There it underwent a change, and
grew more precious than pure gold.
And now came the children, somewhat aweary with their wild play, and
sought the quiet enjoyment of Grandfather's talk. The good old gentleman
rubbed his eyes and smiled round upon them all. He was glad, as most
aged people are, to find that he was yet of consequence, and could give
pleasure to the world. After being so merry all day long, did these
children desire to hear his sober talk? Oh, then, old Grandfather had
yet a place to fill among living men,- or at least among boys and girls!
"Begin quick, Grandfather," cried little Alice; "for pussy wants to hear
you."
And truly our yellow friend, the cat, lay upon the hearth-rug, basking
in the warmth of the fire, pricking up her ears, and turning her head
from the children to Grandfather, and from Grandfather to the children
as if she felt herself very sympathetic with them all. A loud purr, like
the singing of a tea-kettle or the hum of a spinning-wheel, testified
that she was as comfortable and happy as a cat could be. For puss had
feasted; and therefore, like Grandfather and the children, had kept a
good Thanksgiving.
"Does pussy want to hear me?" said Grandfathers smiling. "Well, we must
please pussy, if we can."
And so he took up the history of the chair from the epoch of the peace
of 1748. By one of the provisions of the treaty, Louisburg, which the
New-Englanders had been at so much pains to take, was restored to the
King of France.
The French were afraid that, unless their colonies should be better
defended than heretofore, another war might deprive them of the whole.
Almost as soon as peace was declared, therefore, they began to build
strong fortifications in the interior of North America. It was strange
to behold these warlike castles on the banks of solitary lakes and far
in the midst of woods. The Indian, paddling his birch canoe on Lake
Champlain, looked up at the high ramparts of Ticonderoga, stone piled on
stone, bristling with cannon, and the white flag of France floating
above. There were similar fortifications on Lake Ontario, and near the
great Falls of Niagara, and at the sources of the Ohio River. And all
around these forts and castles lay the eternal forest, and the roll of
the drum died away in those deep solitudes.
The truth was, that the French intended to build forts all the way from
Canada to Louisiana. They would then have had a wall of military
strength at the back of the English settlements so as completely to hem
them in. The King of England considered the building of these forts as a
sufficient cause of war, which was accordingly commenced in 1754.
"Governor Shirley," said Grandfather, "had returned to Boston in 1753.
While in Paris he had married a second wife, a young French girl, and
now brought her to the Province House. But when war was breaking out it
was impossible for such a bustling man to stay quietly at home, sitting
in our old chair, with his wife and children, round about him. He
therefore obtained a command in the English forces."
"And what did Sir William Pepperell do?" asked Charley.
"He stayed at home," said Grandfather, "and was general of the militia.
The veteran regiments of the English army which were now sent across the
Atlantic would have scorned to fight under the orders of an old American
merchant. And now began what aged people call the old French War. It
would be going too far astray from the history of our chair to tell you
one half of the battles that were fought. I cannot even allow myself to
describe the bloody defeat of General Braddock, near the sources of the
Ohio River, in 1755. But I must not omit to mention that, when the Eng-
lish general was mortally wounded and his army routed, the remains of it
were preserved by the skill and valor of George Washington."
At the mention of this illustrious name the children started as if a
sudden sunlight had gleamed upon the history of their country, now that
the great deliverer had arisen above the horizon.
Among all the events of the old French War, Grandfather thought that
there was none more interesting than the removal of the inhabitants of
Acadia. From the first settlement of this ancient province of the
French, in 1604, until the present time, its people could scarcely ever
know what kingdom held dominion over them. They were a peaceful race,
taking no delight in warfare, and caring nothing for military renown.
And yet, in every war, their region was infested with iron-hearted
soldiers, both French and English, who fought one another for the
privilege of ill-treating these poor, harmless Acadians. Sometimes the
treaty of peace made them subjects of one king, sometimes of another.
At the peace of 1748 Acadia had been ceded to England. But the French
still claimed a large portion of it, and built forts for its defence. In
1755 these forts were taken, and the whole of Acadia was conquered by
three thousand men from Massachusetts, under the command of General
Winslow. The inhabitants were accused of supplying the French with
provisions, and of doing other things that violated their neutrality.
"These accusations were probably true," observed Grandfather; "for the
Acadians were descended from the French, and had the same friendly
feelings towards them that the people of Massachusetts had for the
English. But their punishment was severe. The English determined to tear
these poor people from their native homes and scatter them abroad."
The Acadians were about seven thousand in number. A considerable part of
them were made prisoners, and transported to the English colonies. All
their dwellings and churches were burned, their cattle were killed, and
the whole country was laid waste, so that none of them might find
shelter or food in their old homes after the departure of the English.
One thousand of the prisoners were sent to Massachusetts; and
Grandfather allowed his fancy to follow them thither, and tried to give
his auditors an idea of their situation.
We shall call this passage the story of
THE ACADIAN EXILES.
A sad day it was for the poor Acadians when the armed soldiers drove
them, at the point of the bayonet, down to the sea-shore. Very sad were
they, likewise, while tossing upon the ocean in the crowded transport
vessels. But methinks it must have been sadder still when they were
landed on the Long Wharf in Boston, and left to themselves on a foreign
strand.
Then, probably, they huddled together and looked into one another's
faces for the comfort which was not there. Hitherto they had been
confined on board of separate vessels, so that they could not tell
whether their relatives and friends were prisoners along with them. But
now, at least, they could tell that many had been left behind or
transported to other regions.
Now a desolate wife might be heard calling for her husband. He, alas!
had gone, she knew not whither; or perhaps had fled into the woods of
Acadia, and had now returned to weep over the ashes of their dwelling.
An aged widow was crying out in a querulous, lamentable tone for her
son, whose affectionate toil had supported her for many a. year. He was
not in the crowd of exiles; and what could this aged widow do but sink
down and die? Young men and maidens, whose hearts had been torn asunder
by separation, had hoped, during the voyage, to meet their beloved ones
at its close. Now they began to feel that they were separated forever.
And perhaps a lonesome little girl, a golden-haired child of five years
old, the very picture of our little Alice, was weeping and wailing for
her mother, and found not a soul to give her a kind
word.
Oh, how many broken bonds of affection were here! Country lost,--friends
lost,--their rural wealth of cottage, field, and herds all lost
together! Every tie between these poor exiles and the world seemed to be
cut off at once. They must have regretted that they had not died before
their exile; for even the English would not have been so pitiless as to
deny them graves in their native soil. The dead were happy; for they
were not exiles!
While they thus stood upon the wharf, the curiosity and inquisitiveness
of the New England people would naturally lead them into the midst of
the poor Acadians. Prying busybodies thrust their heads into the circle
wherever two or three of the exiles were conversing together. How
puzzled did they look at the outlandish sound of the French tongue!
There were seen the New England women, too. They had just come out of
their warm, safe homes, where everything was regular and comfortable,
and where their husbands and children would be with them at nightfall.
Surely they could pity the wretched wives and mothers of Acadia! Or aid
the sign of the cross which the Acadians continually made upon their
breasts, and which was abhorred by the descendants of the Puritans,--did
that sign exclude all pity?
Among the spectators, too, was the noisy brood of Boston school-boys,
who came running, with laughter and shouts, to gaze at this crowd of
oddly dressed foreigners. At first they danced and capered around them,
full of merriment and mischief. But the despair of the Acadians soon had
its effect upon these thoughtless lads, and melted them into tearful
sympathy.
At a little distance from the throng might be seen the wealthy and
pompous merchants whose warehouses stood on Long Wharf. It was difficult
to touch these rich men's hearts; for they had all the comforts of the
world at their command; and when they walked abroad their feelings were
seldom moved, except by the roughness of the pavement irritating their
gouty toes. Leaning upon their gold-headed canes, they watched the scene
with an aspect of composure. But let us hype they distributed some of
their superfluous coin among these hapless exiles to purchase food and a
night's lodging.
After standing a long time at the end of the wharf, gazing seaward, as
if to catch a glimpse of their lost Acadia, the strangers began to stray
into the town.
They went, we will suppose, in parties and groups, here a hundred, there
a score, there ten, there three or four, who possessed some bond of
unity among themselves. Here and there was one who, utterly desolate,
stole away by himself, seeking no companionship.
Whither did they go? I imagine them wandering about the streets, telling
the townspeople, in outlandish, unintelligible words, that no earthly
affliction ever equalled what had befallen them. Man's brotherhood with
man was sufficient to make the New-Englanders understand this language.
The strangers wanted food. Some of them sought hospitality at the doors
of the stately mansions which then stood in the vicinity of Hanover
Street and the North Square. Others were applicants at the humble wooden
tenements, where dwelt the petty shopkeepers and mechanics. Pray Heaven
that no family in Boston turned one of these poor exiles from their
door! It would be a reproach upon New England,--a crime worthy of heavy
retribution,--if the aged women and children, or even the strong men,
were allowed to feel the pinch of hunger.
Perhaps some of the Acadians, in their aimless wanderings through the
town, found themselves near a large brick edifice, which was fenced in
from the street by an iron railing, wrought with fantastic figures. They
saw a flight of red freestone steps ascending to a portal, above which
was a balcony and balustrade. Misery and desolation give men the right
of free passage everywhere. Let us suppose, then, that they mounted the
flight of steps and passed into the Province House. Making their way
into one of the apartments, they beheld a richly-clad gentleman, seated
in a stately chair, with gilding upon the carved work of its back, and a
gilded lion's head at the summit. This was Governor Shirley, meditating
upon matters of war and state, in Grandfather's chair!
If such an incident did happen, Shirley, reflecting what a ruin of
peaceful and humble hopes had been
wrought by the cold policy of the statesman and the iron band of the
warrior, might have drawn a deep moral from it. It should have taught
him that the poor man's hearth is sacred, and that armies and nations
have no right to violate it. It should have made him feel that England's
triumph and increased dominion could not compensate to mankind nor atone
to Heaven for the ashes of a single Acadian cottage. But it is not thus
that statesmen and warriors moralize.
"Grandfather," cried Laurence, with emotion trembling in his voice, "did
iron-hearted War itself ever do so hard and cruel a thing as this
before?"
"You have read in history, Laurence, of whole regions wantonly laid
waste," said Grandfather. "In the removal of the Acadians, the troops
were guilty of no cruelty or outrage, except what was inseparable from
the measure."
Little Alice, whose eyes had all along been brimming full of tears, now
burst forth a-sobbing; for Grandfather had touched her sympathies more
than he intended.
"To think of a whole people homeless in the world!' said Clara, with
moistened eyes. "There never was anything so sad!"
"It was their own fault!" cried Charley, energetically. "Why did not
they fight for the country where they were born? Then, if the worst had
happened to them, they could only have been killed and buried there.
They would not have been exiles then."
"Certainly their lot was as hard as death," said Grandfather. "All that
could be done for them in the English provinces was, to send them to the
almshouses, or bind them out to taskmasters. And this was the fate of
persons who had possessed a comfortable property in their native
country. Some of them found means to embark for France; but though it
was the land of their forefathers, it must have been a foreign land to
them. Those who remained behind always cherished a belief that the King
of France would never make peace with England till his poor Acadians
were restored to their country and their homes."
"And did he?" inquired Clara.
"Alas! my dear Clara," said Grandfather, "it is improbable that the
slightest whisper of the woes of Acadia ever reached the ears of Louis
XV. The exiles grew old in the British provinces, and never saw Acadia
again. Their descendants remain among us to this day. They have
forgotten the language of their ancestors, and probably retain no
tradition of their misfortunes. But, methinks, if I were an American
poet, I would choose Acadia for the subject of my song."
Since Grandfather first spoke these words, the most famous of American
poets has drawn sweet tears from all of us by his beautiful poem
Evangeline.
And now, having thrown a gentle gloom around the Thanksgiving fireside
by a story that made the children feel the blessing of a secure and
peaceful hearth, Grandfather put off the other events of the old French
War till the next evening.
