They [the Acadians] are found retreated to small portions of land, although their concessions are large.
Governor Joseph de Brouillan
Together they turned toward the only home Sylvie had ever known as the storm strengthened, whipping her skirts and shawl about like the fort’s flags. Heads bent and arm in arm, they made their way down the bluff to the lowlands. There, a commodious house sat back from the bay, nestled in trees, its gable roof tiled, its twin chimneys puffing thick smoke.
Laughter bubbled from inside, sneaking past stone walls a foot thick as Sylvie and her brother passed outbuildings and mounted stone steps to the wide front door. Stamping their feet at the entrance brought the door open, and Marie-Madeleine stood facing them, her rapturous expression amusing.
“Bleu!” she bellowed, throwing herself into his embrace.
“Is this my wild apple?” He pulled his face into an exaggerated scowl as if doubting it, making her giggle into the folds of his fur coat.
Sylvie moved past them, into the center of the house redolent of sautéing cabbage and onions and baking bread. Mère scurried past her, intent on Bleu, while Sylvie went to warm herself at the large slate and fieldstone hearth, removing her damp scarf and gloves. Rows of wooden shoes—sabots—in various sizes were lined up near the dog irons, and she exchanged her shoepacks for these, her stockings still dry.
Giving the kettle a stir, she checked the bake oven next and found the wheaten loaves nearly done as more greetings were exchanged at the door. With twilight overtaking the last of day, Père and her brothers would soon appear, raw-cheeked and ravenous. As she thought it, she heard their familiar stomping outside.
Soon they’d all gathered around the long table that dominated the large chamber serving as kitchen, dining room, and sitting room. Chests of all shapes and sizes stood against white, plastered walls, and decorative shelves displayed possessions both pretty and practical. A maple syrup sugar mold. Clay pipes. A mint-green cup and bowl. Marie-Madeleine’s latest drawing of her dolls. Even Sylvie’s silver-plated embroidery snips dedicated to her sewing.
She glanced at the finished stack of men’s shirts by her sewing chair near a south-facing window. Mornings were devoted to these while afternoons allowed her to help Mère about the house. The cold brought a reprieve of sorts. The stone cellar was half full at midwinter and fragrant with wintering apples. Countless tasks kept them well occupied while they dreamed of spring.
But spring was the farthest thing from Sylvie’s mind as they sat down together as a whole family again, her heart so full her mind was empty. There was little talk, only the contented clink of cutlery and murmurs of appreciation as dishes were passed and savored.
Once Mère and Marie-Madeleine cleared the table after supper, Sylvie peeled apples for breakfast and listened to the men. With Bleu home, the usual quiet pipe-smoking about the hearth gave way to more spirited conversation and long-awaited news of the outside world.
“As for elsewhere, French traders have been granted licenses to move inland and trade furs in Rupert’s Land,” Bleu was saying between draws on his pipe. “There is little war talk there. All is commerce from sunup to sundown.”
“I wish I could say the same here.” Père leaned back, his own pipe smoking furiously. “With new British forts—and English soldiers—trying to gain ground and encroach upon us, we hear little but war, war, war.”
“Still, the French have won a string of victories, no?” Lucien leaned back in his chair and looked satisfied. “And they recently built Forts Duquesne, Machault, Presque Isle, and Le Boeuf.”
“I am impressed you can name them, but . . .” Pascal frowned as he whittled with a small, sharp knife, fragrant shavings at his feet. “For all we know, they have since fallen to the enemy. News is slow to reach us in Acadie.”
“True.” Bleu got up to dig through his haversack. His gray wool justaucorps hung above it on a peg by the door, his beaver hat with it. Sylvie watched as he untied the bag’s leather straps, heightening her anticipation. The promised goods, cached, could be gotten on the morrow if the snow was not too deep. “I have brought the latest reports from the enemy den, Halifax. Israel Putnam and his militiamen encountered me and my compatriots near there. We kindly relieved them of their papers rather than their scalps.”
“Putnam is not my concern.” Père looked at Bleu, eyes sharp, pipe aloft. “What of William Blackburn and his Rangers?”
The sudden hush in the room boded ill.
“Blackburn is said to have spent considerable time cooling his heels at Fort Saint-Frédéric after seeking refuge with the French in a blizzard.” Bleu spread copies of the Halifax Gazette on the hearth’s flagstones. “Once he was released in a prisoner exchange, he was granted a new commission, approving the expansion of his unit and tasking it with protecting British interests in Nova Scotia.”
“Grave news, indeed.” Père picked up one of the English papers, news of the coming war with France in boldface. “So he is at large again somewhere on the frontier?”
“Who can say?” Bleu shrugged. “He is unpredictable. Not even his superiors know what he is doing much of the time. He is always on the prowl, striking when least expected and refusing to wear the British uniform.”
“I suppose he has now returned to New England to recruit more men after the Battle on Snowshoes,” Père said.
Sylvie looked up from her apple peeling. “What kind of fool wages war on snowshoes?”
“None but Blackburn could have achieved it,” Bleu said with a wry smile, sitting back down. “It seems he found himself cornered near Lake George on a scouting expedition and walked into an ambush.”
“It is the stuff of legends,” Pascal murmured. “Pont-a-Buot Tavern talks of nothing else.”
Another hush ensued as her brothers nodded—all but Bleu. The tightening of his jaw told her he was no bystander.
Père continued in low tones. “As I recall hearing, Blackburn led his companies on snowshoes, some three hundred Rangers—”
“Less than two hundred,” Bleu amended quickly, “while Fort Carillon’s commander sent out a combined French and Indian force of more than seven hundred men.”
“Oh?” Père studied him, understanding dawning. “If you were there, then you tell the tale.”
Bleu hesitated, his gaze on the fire as it sent a spark past the dog irons and burned a tiny hole in the newsprint. “Outnumbered, Blackburn walked into an ambush and fought valiantly with his Rangers till dark. Much of their powder was wet and the muskets misfired. Still, there were many dead on both sides, and he lost the most men. An Iroquois warrior boasted he had killed him, but then we learned of his escape.”
Caught up in the tale, Sylvie leaned forward. “Escape?”
Bleu nodded. “A wounded Blackburn climbed up the west slope of the nearest summit in the dark. He knew it well, make no mistake, but most men would have perished. French militia and Abenaki pursued him as far as they could. It was I who found Blackburn’s buckskin coat with his commission in his pocket.”
Lucien let out a puff of triumph. “An undeniable defeat.”
“Defeat?” Dark amusement rode Bleu’s features. “I would not call sliding down a near vertical mountain a thousand feet to a frozen Lake George without so much as a coat to cushion his descent a defeat.”
Sylvie could not keep quiet. “And he lived?”
“He not only lived, he then put on his snowshoes backwards to appear that he had gone another direction, thoroughly confusing his pursuers.”
Père shook his head. “Mon Dieu, deliver us.”
“What happened to his coat?” Sylvie asked to their answering laughter. She was forever mindful of garments, in this case even the enemy’s.
Bleu shrugged. “It was last in Father Le Loutre’s possession, a trophy of war.”
Lucien perused one of the papers, brows knit. “It says here there is a bounty on Blackburn’s head, the highest ever made by French officials.”
Sylvie shivered despite the warmth of the room. She’d heard too much of these Rangers and their leader. William Blackburn sounded much like Bleu, fearless and inspiring fear, not even the wilderness his master.
“What of you, Pascal?” Bleu’s eyes bore a harsh glint. “Is it true Fort Beauséjour’s commandant is pressuring you to join the militia?”
“True enough. But how can we possibly do so when we Acadians declare ourselves neutral?”
“I am confident the English will fall before the French,” Père said. “And there will be no need for Pascal to take sides nor be called away from his work here at home.”
Lucien turned toward him. “But what if there is to be a war, as many predict?”
Sylvie wanted to cover Marie-Madeleine’s ears. Mère shot a warning look at the men as she distracted her youngest daughter with a question. “Now, shall we serve molasses bread or apples?”
“Molasses bread,” Marie-Madeleine answered, licking her lips as she fetched the coveted jug.
The men’s voices rumbled on until Bleu stood and returned to his bulging haversack. “Though I have been away, I am not deaf or blind to your lack,” he said. He began with Mère, handing her several packets.
She took them, eyes widening in appreciation. “Dried mushrooms and artichokes? From France?”
At his nod, Sylvie’s anticipation heightened. Marie-Madeleine abandoned the molasses bread for a bountiful supply of blue silk ribbons.
“The color of your eyes,” Bleu said.
“And yours,” she returned with a laugh. “Does that mean you will wear them too?”
With a growl, he drew out a larger, thicker bundle, his attention swiveling to Sylvie. “While you sew your fingers to the bone for Fort Beauséjour’s officers, do not think I want you clad in rags.”
Suddenly aware of her humble garments, she took the offering, wondering what lay beneath the sealskin covering. All eyes were upon her as she opened his gift. A collective gasp went up from her mother and sister.
“Lyonnais silk,” Bleu said as proudly as if he himself were the maker.
“But—” Sylvie exclaimed, eyes and hands caressing the sumptuous, pale yellow fabric with its vivid patterned fruits and flowers. “I’ve not seen officers’ wives in so fine a cloth!”
“Princess Sylvie,” Père said with a wink. “I have always thought you were meant for finer things.”
Flushing at the familiar if misplaced sobriquet, Sylvie raised grateful eyes to Bleu.
“For your wedding gown, mayhap,” he said. “A garment to be handed down to a daughter and a granddaughter . . .”
“Oui, oui,” Pascal teased as Lucien got up to add another log to the fire. “If Fort Beauséjour’s good doctor has anything to say about it.”
Titters went round the circle as the blood rushed to Sylvie’s cheeks. “Shush. How can I possibly be a fit doctor’s wife? I quail at the sight of blood.”
“See?” Père winked again. “She is a princess.”
“Speaking of Dr. Boudreau . . .” Lucien said, sitting back down again. “When will you have the spectacles he recommends for your work?”
Folding up the silk, Sylvie did not answer, wondering whether to style the gown robe à la française, while Dr. Boudreau poked at the edges of her consciousness.
“Sylvie has garments to deliver when there is a reprieve in the weather,” Mère remarked briskly. “She can see the doctor then.”
Bleu continued withdrawing items from his pack. “If tomorrow allows, I shall go to the fort and escort you.”
Sylvie merely nodded as Marie-Madeleine served molasses bread. She’d tied a blue ribbon in her dark hair, which Bleu pulled at mischievously as he continued his gift giving. Père exclaimed aloud over a new hunting knife, while Lucien and Pascal made much of their new flints and axe-heads. Mère seemed delighted with the promise of not one Hudson’s Bay Company blanket but two, both with indigo stripes, still cached in the woods.
Sylvie looked to the silk that shone gold in the firelight, its embroidery a sewing feat. With so much of winter before them, it was the perfect time to fashion a new gown.