23

After Confering 2 with Majr Murray it is agreed that the Villages in our different districts be destroyed immediately.

From the journal of Governor Charles Lawrence

Snowflakes sifted down onto the main deck and turned Sylvie’s sabots to skates. No longer were they in a convoy. Since the storm, the fleet had been scattered. Some ships were reported sunk. The grim faces of both sailors and soldiers haunted her. Not knowing where they were headed or if Père and other kin were alive or dead clawed at her along with the vermin eating at her scalp and skin.

As weight fell from her once generous frame and her parched throat grew more raw, memories of her family’s deep, cold well tormented her, as did the stubborn image of the Scot drawing water to wipe her shoes clean. Oh, if she could but go back in time . . . try to reverse the horrendous present.

Mère refused to leave the hold for her few minutes of fresh air, Marie-Madeleine in her arms. She stayed below in the filth and stench, watching over her fast-fading youngest daughter. They’d lost track of how much time they’d been at sea, nor was any hope given them of when they’d make landfall. Life seemed measured in bodies thrown overboard and rough weather.

“She has not long now,” Mère whispered one night, her voice breaking.

Sylvie set her jaw against the anguish of it all, fearing her teeth would crack. “You must sleep, Mère. God watches over her.” But even as she spoke the words, she failed to believe them.

By morning, Marie-Madeleine was gone, wrapped in a soiled sheet and pitched overboard. Sylvie sensed Mère would be next, dying more from grief than hunger and disease.

“My life is over,” Mère said. “Without your father and our home, what have I?”

“We have each other, Mère. We will try to return to Acadie and find Pascal and Lucien and Bleu—”

“Take my bundle—and your sister’s.” Mère was crying, but her lifelong practicality held sway. “You still have the gems, Père’s money.” She took a ragged breath as if the very life was leaving her. “I feel sick to my soul.”

That night they slept, but it was a sleep torn by exhaustion and fear. Sylvie awoke to the groan of timbers and that deep, unsettling motion that only a fierce gale wrought. When frigid seawater washed into the hold, drenching them and turning them to ice, it seemed they were gripped by a watery hand so violent she knew it was un ouragan. A hurricane.

Eyes shut tight, she prayed for an end to their misery as every soul below but the most sick wept and cried out. Sylvie swallowed past the bile in her throat to do the last thing she felt capable of. Barely heard above the storm, she sang.

“A la claire fontaine . . . M’en allant promener . . . J’ai trouve l’eau si belle.” At the clear spring . . . as I was strolling by . . . I found the water so nice.

She kept on till the last memory she had was of other voices joining in, strengthening her own.

Water. Water everywhere. Not fresh but salt. It tore off her apron and cap even as it washed down her throat. Her haversack was lashed to her back. Mère had seen to that in the darkness as her fumbling hands tied frantic knots. A wave knocked them down, and Sylvie struggled to stand, trying to hold on to Mère’s slippery hands. But there was too much water, too much wind—and then a sudden, swirling blow to her head.

“Ici!” The masculine voice held an authority that brought her out of the blackness. “Help this one!”

Firm handling jarred her further. She began choking on seawater as hands turned her over to clear her lungs. Someone spoke kindly to her in French as time ceased and she was pulled from her pain and confusion to safety.

Too weak to sit up, lungs burning, she lay in another boat’s bottom, aware of the sodden haversack poking at her bony back. Shadowy figures grew more distinct as dawn parted the darkness like a golden, sea-washed curtain.

Mère . . . Mère.

Sylvie’s eyes opened and tried to focus. Other figures in the boat—faces she had rarely seen because of the hold’s darkness—took shape. But not her mother’s. The sea, so violent hours before, seemed to have spent itself and now lay flat as glass, reflecting the rising sun. She craved warmth, the hearth’s fire of home, and her own closet bed.

English voices mingled with French as she was lifted and removed from the boat. Her head was cradled against a strong shoulder, so different from Père’s bearish embrace. A light passed before her eyes, and then she was taken up steps and heard the squeak of door hinges.

Soothing voices took hold. Sylvie’s sodden garments were removed by careful hands, causing her to reach in a panic for her haversack. There it was, so wet it sat in a puddle atop the plank floor. Firelight spread warmth over a small room that bore a bed and simple furnishings. An older woman and a girl moved the bed from the wall nearer the hearth, away from the chamber’s cold corners.

“I’ll bring up a tray of soup and bread straightaway,” the woman said in English. “She looks to be nigh starved and has clearly been through more than the storm. The captain is trying to determine from whence she and the other surviving passengers came.” She left, her step heavy on the stairs.

The girl took out a comb and began to untangle Sylvie’s hair. “You’re in need of a hot bath when you’re strong enough, though I do wonder if you ken a word I’m saying.”

Sylvie fought through the haze of exhaustion to answer. “I do.”

“Are you able to tell me what brought you to our shore, then?”

Sylvie’s eyes roamed the plain walls in confusion. “Where am I?”

“Indigo Island off the Virginia coast. Captain Lennox and his crew rescued you. I’m Annie, bound girl to Mistress Saltonstall here at the tavern. And you are . . . ?”

“Sylvie Galant of Acadie.” She swallowed with difficulty, causing the girl to turn to the near table for a cup of water.

“Please, miss, say nae more till you’ve refreshed yourself.”

Sylvie drank deeply, wondering if the island had a well or if she tasted rainwater.

The other woman reappeared, her manner brisk and practical. A tray was set down, the hot soup like the richest fare.

With Annie’s help, Sylvie sat up, wobbly as a newborn lamb. The realization brought a razor-sharp pang as she recalled their herd of sheep and Marie-Madeleine’s fanciful names for them. She reached for the spoon and swallowed some soup without sputtering, knowing she needed nourishment and strength for whatever was ahead.

“Only a few survived the shipwreck,” Annie said quietly, looking toward the window as sun lit the panes. “The captain saw the Dolphin founder and helped all he could. Thankfully, by the time he and his men reached you and the others, the seas had calmed.” She talked on as Sylvie ate slowly, answering her unspoken questions as if sensing all that lay beneath the surface. “They tried to rescue a child, but he drowned before they could. Some Frenchmen came in with you—and three women. For now all are here in Mistress Saltonstall’s tavern. She’s the woman who brought your tray.”

Soup finished, Sylvie started on the bread, tearing off pieces of it and trying not to stuff it in her mouth all at once, she was so ravenous. She looked at her sodden haversack, unsure of what it still held and if it needed drying out.

Annie offered to bring it to her. “I can open it and dry out your belongings near the fire if you like.”

Sylvie nodded, steeling herself against the rush of memories as Annie saw to the task. Careful hands pulled out the Lyonnais silk gown, bundled and tied with twine. Her one tie to Bleu. With a little murmur of appreciation, Annie draped it across a chair back, unfolding the petticoats to air out. Next came the pearls and garnets, none the worse for wear. The sewing kit and fur-wrapped scissors had survived. The bottom of the bag was weighted with Père’s gold pieces, gathered in a small leather pouch blackened by water. How he’d saved and guarded them, securing them in a small crock in their cellar near the cider. The safest place, he’d said.

When the Scot’s handkerchief appeared, Sylvie bit her lip. Why had she kept it?

With a look of sympathy, Annie set the empty haversack aside. “’Tis best you sleep for now. I’ll be near at hand should you need anything.”

The next day the few Acadians rescued from the Dolphin gathered in the tavern’s taproom downstairs. Though otherwise empty, it reminded Sylvie of the fête at Pont-a-Buot with the traitor Boudreau. Only there’d been no monkey in residence sitting atop a barrel near the flickering hearth. The creature cocked its head and yawned, baring its fangs. Sylvie almost smiled despite herself, but the tenor of the tavern was grim and her heart and body too battered for mirth.

Eyes down, she took a bench alongside refugees she did not know. Quiet introductions told her they were from Minas and Grand-Pré, a great distance from her family’s habitation. As these Acadians rejoiced over being together again, their reunion sharpened her own loneliness. One by one they told their stories to the sympathetic yet stoic Captain Lennox and a few of his crew.

Sylvie realized anew the horror they’d lived through when so many had perished. She sensed to her marrow that Mère was gone, drowned in the storm when the Dolphin’s masts had snapped like sticks and sent them straight into the teeth of the hurricane.

When they’d finished, Captain Lennox leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped together. There was a straightforward intensity to his gaze that won Sylvie’s confidence and at the same time reminded her of the Scot. “At present, we suspect other transport ships bearing Acadians are en route to our shores, likely part of the fleet that sailed south with you.”

Sylvie digested this, hope taking hold. Could Père or any of her other family be among them?

“Unfortunately, Virginia Colony’s governor claims he was not apprised of your coming and is unwilling for any Acadians to disembark.” The captain frowned, his French holding regret. “Once the ships are here, I’ll meet with the captains and determine who is aboard and make you known to them in hopes of reuniting you with your kin.”

A heavy silence ensued, rife with emotion.

“We thank you for all that you have done for us,” one of the men said. “We did not want to leave our homes and lands to come here. We do not mean to stay.”

“I understand.” Captain Lennox looked to the monkey, which let out a frightful, nerve-rattling screech. “For now, I’ll take you to the near port of York, where I’ll lodge you before I go to the capital and meet with Governor Dinwiddie about the matter and await the other ships.”