Home at Last

Nova Scotia, Canada, Summer 1755
The pounding on the door grew louder and louder. Men shouted and kicked the door. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but they sounded like the sailors who often came to Grand Pré in their trading ships. My eight-year-old brother, Michel, and I jumped out of our bed in the dark loft and peered down the steps. Four soldiers in English uniforms rushed into the house with their guns drawn when Papa opened the door.
I couldn’t breathe. I was afraid they would hear my heart pounding. Michel shivered as he pressed his body against mine. I held him close while the soldiers dashed around the room, knocking furniture over, looking under mattresses, and throwing clothes around. They found Papa’s two muskets, then raced to the barn behind the house.
“Since you refuse to fight with us, you won’t be able to fight against us,” yelled the last soldier to leave the house, mixing enough French words with his English for us to understand him.
My poor maman’s neat house was a mess, and we all shook with fright. My four-year-old brother, Jacques, and my little sisters, Brigette and Anne, held tightly to Maman who stood near the fireplace. Our clean clothes were scattered everywhere. Mattresses leaned against the beds. Wherever we walked, our shoes crunched on broken dishes, and we tracked flour across the floor. Papa ran outside, but came back in a hurry carrying another gun.
“The soldiers ran toward Grand-père’s (Grandfather’s) house when they left our barn,” said Papa. “Luckily, they didn’t find this musket. I hid it under a floorboard in the barn so I can get to it quickly when I’m working in the fields, to protect our animals from foxes and coyotes. I planned to give this one to you, Pierre, because you’ve been working harder and helping more in the fields lately. But I’ll have to keep it until I can get another one for myself.”
Instead of going to work in the fields right after breakfast the next morning, we met our neighbors in front of the village church. People stood in small groups, talking in whispers. They kept looking around as if they were afraid of someone or something.
The men were dressed in linen shirts, knee-length pants, long socks, and straw hats. The women wore blouses and long skirts in shades of tan and brown. Bonnets covered their dark hair. The children were dressed like their parents. Everyone wore moccasins or wooden shoes.
A tall man, M. (Mr.) Landry, stood on the church steps. Everyone gathered close to listen to him. “The soldiers raided all of our houses during the night and took our guns,” he shouted. “A few weeks ago they took our boats. What are we going to do about it?”
“Move away like many of our neighbors did a few years ago. They’re now living peacefully in lands controlled by the French,” our neighbor M. Thibodeau answered.
“But this is our land. Our people have lived here for 150 years,” said Papa. “We worked hard to build our homes and farms.”
“We’ll meet again to decide what we will do,” said M. Landry. “Go home now, think about it, and pray.”
After supper the next evening, we walked through our apple orchard to Grand-père’s house. Just as we arrived, an English soldier in white breeches, bright red coat, and three-cornered hat brought a letter from Lieutenant-Governor Charles Lawrence. “My orders are to go to every house in Grand Pré to read this letter. You’d better listen if you know what’s good for you.” He read in French, “Acadians who still have guns will be punished. All guns are to be brought to the village and turned over to the English soldiers.”
Papa went home to get the musket that was supposed to be mine. He had taught me how to shoot two years earlier, when I was nine, but he often told me I would have to be more responsible before I could have my own gun. He always said, “Pierre, you spend too much time daydreaming and not enough time working.”
When he came back with the gun, Papa said, “I’m sorry, Pierre. I’m afraid of what they will do to our family if I don’t give them this gun, too.”
My heart sank, but I couldn’t argue. One look at his face and I knew he was as upset as I was. I choked back my tears. Since he thought I was old enough to have my own gun, I couldn’t let him see me cry. “Don’t worry, Papa. They’ll give them back soon.”
“I hope you’re right, Pierre.”
Our neighbors turned in many more guns in the next few days.
The men in our village met to choose several people to write a letter to Lieutenant-Governor Lawrence. “Please give our guns back,” they wrote. “We need them for protection from wild animals. We don’t use our guns to shoot people.”
Fifteen men traveled to Halifax, the capital of Nova Scotia, to meet with the lieutenant-governor. For the next few weeks, everyone in Grand Pré waited for the men to return so we could hear the lieutenant-governor’s answer.
Whenever we finished working in the fields, my cousin Jean and I spent our free time talking about the adventures we hoped to have in a few years. We sat in the orchard under our favorite apple tree where we could look way out over the fields sloping down to Minas Basin. In the summer we ate pears and in the fall we crunched on juicy apples as we daydreamed.
We spent many happy hours talking about sailing to faraway lands on a great sailing ship. Ships came to Grand Pré from Louisbourg and the English colonies in America. We liked to watch the sailors unload and load their goods for trading. The sailors who spoke French talked to us as they worked.
“When we sail from Louisbourg to the English colonies,” said one sailor, “we see nothing but sky and water for days at a time.”