26
The greater the obstacle, the more glory in overcoming it.
Molière
Captain Lennox returned as he had promised. Sylvie saw him standing amid the men’s encampment, making her wonder if he wanted no listening ears from the almshouse. But he’d not come alone, and the man beside him claimed all her attention. Perhaps it was the contrast they made—the captain in his black tricorn and simple garments beside the shorter, stockier man dressed so divinely in a fine broadcloth suit with expertly tailored embellishments, brilliant paste-buckle shoes on his feet. His cocked hat even bore a white feather.
She walked faster, not wanting to miss a word, before coming to a halt behind the wide stance of Sebastien Broussard. Twenty-eight Acadians had gathered, so small a number when the deportation had been so many.
“It grieves me to not bring better news,” the captain was saying, a document in hand. “But I’ll deal with you honestly or not at all. You’ve had your fill of lies and deception, I’ll warrant.”
A great many nods ensued as the Acadians pressed closer.
“I have here a letter from Governor Dinwiddie to you that states, ‘Virginia now has 1,140 Neutrals from Nova Scotia, which gives great uneasiness to our people. We have received them and now maintain them by my order and the governor’s council, but whether the assembly will be prevailed upon to make some provision for them is very uncertain, and I complain of Governor Lawrence’s not giving us some previous notice of their coming that we might be prepared to receive them.’”
“How many ships are now at anchor from Acadie, Captain?” Nicolas Surette asked.
The captain folded the paper and pocketed it. “The Sarah and Molly from Grand-Pré. Four vessels from the Canard and Habitant River regions—Endeavor, Industry, Mary, and Prosperous. The latest to arrive is Ranger from the Minas Basin.”
How well he knew their business. Sylvie believed that if pressed, he could recall all their names too. Her admiration bloomed, crowding out her heartache if only for a moment.
“One of these vessels has been ordered to Richmond at the falls of the James River,” Captain Lennox said. “Why, we do not yet know.”
The finely dressed gentleman introduced himself as Lord Drysdale and said in steady, sympathetic tones, “Since we can do nothing for those aboard these accursed vessels as of yet, we intend to help you who’ve gathered here in the meantime. I speak for several Virginians who advocate on your behalf. Our time is short, so listen well.” His gaze beneath his cocked hat was intent. “We want to prove that you are not a burden to this colony but an industrious people of excellent reputation. We invite you to leave the almshouse and join the working force of Williamsburg and York. We will try to match those willing to work to your skills.”
Stay on? Her vision reached far higher. She wanted to return home. Wanted Governor Lawrence’s actions condemned and considered an outrage so they could resume their lives and live in peace. The smoke and ruins she had seen when they sailed away from Acadie did not deter her. They would begin anew.
A chair and lap desk were brought from the almshouse while the willing Acadians formed a line. A few hung back, saying they would instead seek out their friends and relatives in the places Acadians were allowed to dock and disembark.
As much as she disliked the almshouse, what sort of employment could be had? She could not live long upon Père’s coins, and the almshouse was only a temporary respite.
Though Acadians were considered enemies of the Crown and forbidden to work, somehow this powerfully placed man had gotten past that. And she sensed some merchants and businessmen would risk employing them if only to curry favor with Lord Drysdale.
Sebastien went ahead of her, giving her courage. She listened as his resonant voice answered their well-placed questions.
“Your full name, sir?” Captain Lennox asked in French.
“Sebastien Broussard of Grand-Pré.”
“Former occupation?”
“Farmer. Dike builder.”
“Married?”
“A marriage contract. My would-be bride was put on the Duke William. I know not where she is.”
Sylvie heard the grievous lament in his voice. Had he not heard the Duke William was believed to have sunk soon after sailing? She hoped it was an unfounded rumor, though she had read its confirmation in the newspaper.
“Age?” the captain queried, the scratch of his quill trailing ink upon the paper.
Older than she. Sylvie crossed her arms against the cold. Snowflakes began to drift down, tossed about by a fretful wind, as Lord Drysdale asked Sebastien a few more careful questions in French.
Last in line came Sylvie. She looked from Lord Drysdale to Captain Lennox, still debating her course while the others were warming themselves around a bonfire, discussing what they’d just done.
“My name is Sylvie Galant,” she began. Once her family’s name was respected, even renowned. “I am unwed . . . six and twenty . . . a seamstress.”
The captain and Lord Drysdale regarded her kindly. Would she be willing and able to work at something other than sewing? And would she kindly part with her wooden shoes?
Warmth engulfed her. Her sabots were all she had left of her Acadian garments, other than her Lyonnais silk gown. But here they were hopelessly out of place, sure to invite ridicule.
“We’ll have you fitted for shoes and any other garments needed prior to your service,” Lord Drysdale reassured her. “Merci, Mademoiselle Galant.”
With the questions at an end, Sylvie turned away and walked toward the almshouse. She was in no mood to gather about the bonfire with the others, only rue what she’d just done.
Sylvie cried herself to sleep. It was something Marie-Madeleine had sometimes done over some trifling matter. Only in hindsight, nothing about it seemed trifling. Sylvie had thought herself too old for such things, but the unbearable pain in her chest must have relief, and missing her sister made the tears come faster and harder. Who would have ever thought Marie-Madeleine would meet a watery grave? And Mère? Then there was Père and Lucien and Pascal. Bleu. Not knowing their fate haunted her.
Their faces crowded into her consciousness as she’d last seen them. Marie-Madeleine shrunken and feverish. Mère frantically tying on the haversack during the hurricane. Père’s profound disbelief at being duped into going to the fort and imprisoned there. Lucien and Pascal’s bewildered sorrow at having to leave them and go with the Mi’kmaq. Bleu’s fury and disgust over the Ranger William Blackburn. Grandmère being trundled away in the cart to another ship.
But that was all in the past, and the present loomed, demanding answers. Where would she be in service? To a mantua-maker? A milliner? Though French fashion was considered the gold standard, that did not apply to French Acadians. She sensed she would not be used in that way.
What, then?
She did not have long to wait. Three days later, as winter’s cold choked the courtyard’s last blooming rose, Captain Lennox and Lord Drysdale returned with the promised garments and further news.