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The Marin Family Chronicles--Volume 1-Book 3

The Raiders by Charles O. Goulet

Chapter one -- Recovery

    Pierre Marin surveyed his friend, Jacques Breton's warm cozy kitchen.  The savory odors of a sumptuous meal tingled his nostrils and made his mouth water.  His eyes came to rest on the enlarged form of his pregnant wife.  She looked healthy and animated as she bustled about helping Jacques's wife, Marguerite.  Pierre admired her vivacity and good humour.  After all that had happened to them in the past months, he wondered how she could maintain her high spirits.  Since the fire, he was depressed and ill-tempered, but Françoise did her best to encourage him and lift his morale.
    Jacques noticed his pensive mood and slapped him on the back.  "My friend, you're very quiet today.  It's a new year and one must look forward with hope."
    Pierre shook himself gently as if trying to dislodge a burden from his shoulders.  "You're right.  It's a new year with a new beginning.  I shouldn't dwell on the past.  I should look to the future."
    Albert Doucet, another  concessionaire at Port Royal, who was also a guest of the Bretons, laughed heartily.  "Yes, Pierre, today is a day to look ahead.  The future will be better.  Imagine, it's January 1, 1678.  We've been here for almost seven years.  I can still remember the first day we arrived."
    "So can I," interjected his wife, Adelaide, ruefully.
    Jacques muttered, "So do I."
    Pierre, too, recalled that morning.  It would always be imprinted on his mind.  The near drowning of Adelaide, her rescue, the landing, the fight with the sailor, his rescue by Jacques -- he remembered these events as vividly as if they had happened yesterday.  But much had happened since then.  They had all grown -- in age, and experience.
    Pierre looked at his two-year-old son, Pierre Edouard, who was playing gleefully with Jacques two daughters, Genevieve and Angelique.  Sorrow filled his breast as he thought of his dead firstborn, Louis Joseph, who would be the same age as Angelique, Jacques's second daughter.  Soon it would be a year since his tragic death at the hands of that drunken Indian.
    Françoise moved to his side and placed her right hand gently on his shoulder; she seemed to sense what he was thinking.  She leaned gently against his left shoulder, her swollen stomach nudged him, and he felt a sharp movement as the child within her kicked.  He glanced up at her and smiled wanly.
    Françoise whispered, "Soon you'll have another son."
    Her intuition surprised him, and his right hand clasped hers and squeezed it affectionately.  Oh, how he loved his wife.
    Marguerite lifted high a tray of small glasses filled with deep amber fluid and turned to Jacques.  "It's time to toast the new year, Jacques.  Please pass the wine."
    Silently, Jacques stepped forward, took the tray, and moved among his guests.  Each person, including the children, took a glass and held it expectantly.  After he had passed it, he took the final glass for himself and moved to the centre of the room.  The others grouped around him, waiting.
    "Friends, I'm not very good with words, but I would like to let you know how pleased I am that you came to join us on this first day of 1678."  He paused, groping for words. He looked down at the floor.  "I know that 1678 will be a better year than the past one -- especially for Pierre and Françoise.  I would like to tell you that everyone in the colony has promised to help you rebuild your house and your barns.  By spring, Jacques, I promise you that you'll never know that fire ever came near your place.  May the new year be the best year of our lives--prosperous, happy, and fulfilling."  He raised his glass and moved it around in a wide circle.  The others raised their glasses and proclaimed loudly, "To the new year."  All drank deeply.
    Pierre spoke.  "Jacques, I thank you and all the others in the colony who have been so generous to my family in our recent misfortune.  I only hope that this new year will be more kind to us than the past year."
    Albert Jr., Albert Doucet's seventeen-year-old son, raised his glass and asked, "May I propose a toast?"  All eyes turned toward him in surprise.  It was unusual for a young guest to propose as toast, but Jacques recovered quickly and laughed.  "Why, of course, my young friend."
    Albert Jr. was a replica of the senior.  He had the same coarse black hair, and even at seventeen years of age it was already receding.  He was, like his father, sturdy and thick through the chest with curly black hair on his massive arms and shoulders.  He exuded a physical strength that made most men respect him.  He raised his glass.  "A good year to all, and may the king send out more young women to the colony."
    Everyone laughed, even the children although they did not know why their elders thought the toast was so funny.
    The lack of nubile young women was a problem in the colony.  Since there was a surplus of young men, the competition for the young marriageable girls was fierce.  Most of them were married by their fifteenth year.  Albert Jr. was of age and had not yet found a suitable  young woman.
    Pierre laughed, then joked, "Albert, since there are no young French girls for you, you'll have to get a woman from the Indians.  There are many interesting women in the Indian camps."  Even as he spoke the words he felt as if he should bite off his tongue.  He glanced swiftly at Françoise and caught her eyes. The pain and hurt showed clearly; he was sorry that he had made such a foolish statement.  Guilt flooded over him as he remembered his liaison with Miskoo's young woman, Debitkat Iskisy.  He knew that Françoise also remembered.
    Albert Sr. laughed louder than the rest and responded, "My son, maybe we'll have to send you back to France to find a wife."
    Marguerite said, with a lilt in her voice, "We women will have to take a hand in this problem.  I'm sure that we can find a nice young girl in the colony for you, Albert.  There are girls at the Mines and Beaubassin...or Grandpré.  I'm sure that we can find someone.  But now it's time to eat."
    A murmur of approval passed through the happy group.

    Two days later, Pierre was surprised when, early in the morning, a dozen of his neighbours arrived at his small house and trading post ready to begin the clean-up and preparations necessary to start construction on his new buildings.  He was feeding the few animals given to him by his friends when he heard a shout from the pathway that led from the now frozen creek that ran through his property.
    He recognized the basso voice of Albert Doucet, so he shouted back, "Good morning, Albert.  What brings you out so early this fine winter day?"  Then he noticed the dozen or more men following behind Albert.  They shouted their greeting and Albert said, "Why, we're here to get those new buildings up.  You know I promised you that you'd have a new house and barns before spring break-up."
    Pierre looked from one man to another: Albert and his son; Guillaume Major, Laurent Roulais, and Etienne Jourdain, the three men who had lost much of their savings in his failed trading venture; two men who worked for Belleisle: Jean Couture and Louis Dumets; Marcel Lagace, a new arrival from France, and two other neighbours, Joseph and Nicolas Fauchard.  Jacques Breton brought up the rear.  He nodded a greeting, smiled, and said, "See, Pierre, I told you that you had many friends here.  We'll have a new house built soon."
    "Friends, I don't know what to say."
    "Say nothing, Pierre.  We've come to do some work, so we'll leave you with your chores, and we'll get started.  There's much to do."
    Without another word they turned as a group and head westward across the creek and up the hill to the site of the burned out buildings.  Pierre watched them tramped through the ankle deep snow to the iced-over creek and up the bank on the other side.  They carried tools of various sorts -- axes, hoes, prybars, saws, and shovels.&nnbsp; As they marched along they laughed and joked and made their intended task a recreation.  Pierre noticed that two of them carried an earthen jug and he was sure that it did not contain water.
    A half hour later Pierre joined them.  Although he had worked with most of them before, he was surprised at the efficient way they organized the work.  Already they attacked the jumble of half-burned timbers and logs that were all that was left of his house. Someone started a fire, and as each remnant was taken from the site it was placed on the fire.  Some of the men were clearing away the logs and other debris while others were removing the ashes from the site.
    For several moments, Pierre stood staring at the working men before Jacques noticed his presence.  "Grab a tool and gives us a hand," he shouted.  Two others joined Jacques, railing at him.
    Pierre joked, "Why, you fellows are doing such a good job that I didn't think that you needed any more help."  He picked up an axe that rested nearby and moved toward a pile of blackened debris at one corner of the house.
    Thursday of that week the walls of the new house were raised.  Each day more and more men from the colony joined the original group and work proceeded quickly. As soon as the house area was cleared, the men brought in loads of logs, lumber, shingles, and other materials on horse-drawn sleds.  While one group cleared the barn sites, another group laid the foundations for the new house.  A carpenter, Henri Fortier, took charge of the construction, and soon the new structure took shape.
    One sunny afternoon, Françoise and little Pierre, sauntered up the hill to view the activity.  As they joined Pierre, Françoise beamed, "If they keep working this fast, we'll be in the house before the child is born."
    Little Pierre, who was just starting to talk, looked at the working men and observed, "Men sing."
    Françoise and Pierre were silent for several minutes.  The men were singing as they worked.  Each man was singing his own song.  Sometimes two or three joined in, at other times some whistled, orders were given with laughter and jokes.  They were a happy group of workmen.
    Françoise commented, "It's nice to see people working together so joyfully."
    Jacques came over to join them.  "Soon the house will be finished.  By next week.  Will you wait that long, Françoise?"
    She laughed, "I wish I could decide that."
    Pierre patted her swollen stomach.  "It should be any day now," he said.  "Jacques, I don't know how I'll ever be able to thank you.  I'm sure that you had much to do with this."
    "No, Pierre, the man to thank is Albert Doucet.  He's the one who worked to get all these men together.  He still remembers how you saved his wife when we first arrived.  It's his way of saying 'Thank you'."
    "I can't believe that all these men would give so generously of their time.  Even the ones who lost money when the ship was captured."
    Albert Doucet came over.  "It's nice to see you, Françoise.  Do you think you'll have the new baby in the new house?"
    Françoise smiled.  "You'll have to hurry.  It's due any day now."
    "Well, if you hang on a week...we might make it."
    Pierre changed the subject.  "Albert, I don't know how to thank you for the job you've done.  Jacques tells me that this is your doing.  I thank you."
    Albert shifted uncomfortably.  He looked at the ground.  Then waved his hands uselessly.  "Ah, it's nothing.  It's these men who've done all the work.  It was easy, Pierre.  They're all very willing to help."
    "But where did all the material come from?  How'll I ever be able to pay for it?  Who do I pay?"
    Albert looked at Pierre intensely.  "Pierre, there is nothing to pay.  It's been given to you by the people.  It's there way of saying thank you for the many things that you've done for them.  It's for being a good neighbour. They remember the many times that you've helped them."
    "But when have I helped them?"
    Jacques joined in, "When you've traded honestly and fairly with them.  When you've helped them to fix a dike...or a fence...or chase a stray pig...or build a barn...or house...or...."
    "But that was never very often."
    "Whenever it was needed."  Albert added.  "That's why these men are here.  You're a good neighbour.  We can depend on you."
    Françoise felt her breast rise.  She was proud of Pierre although she sometimes resented it when he left her to help someone.  She looked about at the working men, and her eyes glistened as she appreciated their efforts.  Soon they would be back in a home resurrected from the ashes of the old.
    Little Pierre tugged at her hand impatiently.  "Mama, we go.  Me cold."
    She lifted her eyes to Albert and Jacques.  "Thank you."  Her voice trembled.  She turned with the child toward her old home.
    The feast of the Epiphany dawned clear and cold.  Pierre stirred the banked fire in the kitchen fireplace, added kindling and two split logs on the coals.  He knelt and blew gently on the small bed of coals, watching as a wisp of fine smoke drifted up the flue.  After doing this for a few minutes the kindling burst into flames and crackled comfortingly.  Pierre rubbed his hands before the growing flames and twisted the metal hanger with the water-filled kettle over the fire.
    He walked slowly back into the bedroom where Françoise nestled beneath the fluffy down counterpane that covered their bed.  As he entered the room, she twisted toward him, stretched her arms overhead, and groaned luxuriously.
    "Good morning, my dear.  How are you this morning?"  He sat on the edge of the bed and drew the light bed covering around her chin.  Then he leaned forward and kissed her tenderly on the nose.
    "I never felt better."  She put her arms around his neck and drew him down toward her.  "Hurry with your chores, and I'll get ready for church."
    Pierre drew back quickly.  "Do you think you should go to church today.  Your time's almost here."
    She laughed.  "Pierre, this isn't my first child.  I'll know when it's time."
    He kissed her quickly again, finished dressing, and left.
    She rose slowly, but dressed quickly.  The heat from the fireplace in the other room had not yet penetrated into the bedroom.  She glanced at the small bed along the wall; at that moment the boy stirred and murmured, "Mama."  She moved to him and wrapped her arms about him.  His arms encircled her neck and he clung to her, nestling against her warm breasts.
    "Darling, we must get dressed and ready for mass.  Today is the feast of the Three Kings.  This is the day when the three kings gave the baby Jesus gifts.  It's a beautiful day."
    The child clung to her, and she gently removed his arms from around her neck.  "Come, little Pierre, you must get dressed.  Papa'll soon be finished his chores and it'll be time to go to church."
    Mass was early so that those who wished to receive the Eucharist could do so.  Church law required that all those who wished to receive had to fast and abstain from food and water from midnight of the previous evening.  Only after mass could they eat or drink.  Since Françoise felt she must receive often, they usually left immediately for the church which was about a league east of their home.
    Pierre hitched the ox that was loaned to him by Jacques Breton to the heavy rough-hewn sled that he made.  The box was filled with hay and straw, and Françoise and little Pierre were wrapped in a heavy cow-skin robe.  The road along the north shore to the small chapel was rough and hummocky.  The sled pitched and rolled as it followed the contours of the snow covered trail.  Pierre walked ahead of the heavy-boned animal directing and urging it, sometimes striking it with a willow switch to increase its speed, but it ignored all of Pierre's efforts and proceeded at its own pace.  The trip took the better part of an hour, and the final bell summoning the worshippers to pray sounded as Pierre and his family arrived.
    The small area before the church was filled with sleds and toboggans of many shapes and sizes each drawn by an assortment of draft animals -- horses, oxen, and dogs.
    Pierre and Françoise nodded and greeted their neighbours as they made their way into the chapel.  The smell of burning candles and stale incense assailed Françoise's nostrils, her stomach rolled, nausea choked her, and she covered her mouth with her hand.  Pierre notice her pallor as they moved into  a pew at the back of the church.     He whispered, "Are you all right?"
    "I think so.  The smell made me sick, but it's going away now."
    The priest, Father Petit, was sent to Port Royal two years before when parishes were established by the bishop of New France, Bishop Laval.  Father Petit was the vicar general of Acadia --he represented the bishop in Acadia.  Father Petit was a graduate of the seminary at Quebec that the energetic bishop established when he was assigned to Canada.
    The priest intoned the Latin prayers with his back to the congregation, facing the altar with its adornment of linen cloths, six tall candles, a massive missal on a shining bronze stand, and a curtained tabernacle in the centre.  Since it was a great feast, there was a great deal of singing and much burning of incense which nauseated Françoise each time the acrid smell filled the small building.
    Father Petit started to sing the "Pater Noster"  when Françoise felt the first pain.  It was sharp and caught her breath.  She gasped, instinctively her right hand went to her breast, and she stumbled.  Her eyes closed, and she stiffened.  Pierre, who was holding the young boy in his arms, looked at her apprehensively.  She was pale and tiny beads of sweat glistened on her upper lip.
    "fiat voluntas tua," the priest invoked.
    Another spasm, more piercing than the first stabbed at her inwards.  She sat down quickly, feeling weak and dizzy.
    "sicut in caelo, et in terra."
    She clenched her fists and squeezed her eyes.  Tears moistened her eye lids.
    Pierre sat down, placing the child between them.  "Are you all right?"
    She was silent for several moments as the pain migrated through her body.  Then she spoke hoarsely, "It's time."
    Panic showed in his face.  What was he to do?
    "Is there time to go home?"  His voice trembled.
    "No," she grunted as another paroxysm of pain doubled her over.
    "Panem nostrum cotidianum..."
    "Pierre...we...must...leave..."
     Several women caused a commotion when they realized what was happening.  Adelaide Doucet stepped behind Françoise and held her shoulders.  Marguerite Breton moved beside Françoise and sat beside her.  She whispered, "How bad is it?"
    "Very...."  Françoise convulsed and a groan escaped her lips.
    Adelaide looked around at several nearby men.  "We must carry her out."  She pointed to four men, including her husband and son.  Quietly they came and followed her directions.  Gently they lifted the labouring woman and made their way down the aisle and out the door.  Adelaide and Marguerite grasped her by a hand on each side.  Françoise squeezed them tightly, her knuckles whitening.
    Pierre followed with the young child in his arms.
 "Sed libera nos...."

    Father Petit entered his stark, cramped bedroom with its single narrow bed, its small washstand, and small armoire.  He studied the pale form on his bed and smiled gently.  "It's not often that a priest's bedroom is a maternity room."
    Françoise grinned and replied, "Father, I thank you for the use of your home."
    The child in her arm mewed softly.  She looked solicitously at him.  He was a strong, sturdy child with a fair complexion and fuzzy blond hair.  Françoise felt a joy with this child that she had not with the other two.  Her heart swelled and her breath caught, so poignant was her feelings for the small bit of life that lay in the crook of her left arm.
    The priest smiled again.  "I have come to baptize him.  Did you know that the feast of the Three Kings is also the feast of baptism?  It is the perfect day to baptize him.  Pierre tells me that you've chosen Albert and Adelaide Doucet as godparents."  He looked toward Adelaide who stood to one side.  She smiled shyly.  He continued, "I've come prepared, and Albert and Pierre are waiting in the other room.  What will you name him?"
    Françoise eyes glistened as she looked at the tiny form beside her.  "We will call him Jean Francois."
    "That's a good name," the priest murmured.
    During the next two months Pierre and Françoise's fortunes increased:  their new home was finished and they moved in, the new child grew and developed serenely and prodigiously, the older boy learned to talk and to love his younger brother, and Pierre's business developed and expanded.  The winter was mild, thus allowing the work on his buildings to proceed rapidly.  His neighbours and friends were true to their promise.  By the beginning of March his home-site looked as if it had never been ravaged by a fire.
    The first Wednesday of March was a dull, overcast day but the temperature was mild.  Pierre finished his few chores in the new log barn that housed his few animals and was returning to the house for his breakfast when he heard a shout from the shore below the rise on which the house stood.  He moved to the front of the house to greet his visitor.  It was Albert Doucet.
    Albert waved a hand in greeting and spoke as he approached, "Have you heard?  The commandant is dying."
    Pierre heard that Lieutenant Joybert de Soulanges de Marson, the military commandant at Jemseg on the St. John River, was sick, but he did not think that it was mortal.
    "I heard that he was sick, but I didn't think that it was that serious.  If he dies, I don't think it'll change our lives much.  He's done nothing for Port Royal.  Why, the fort is a disgrace.  It'd never protect us from any attack.  Joybert has completely ignore us here.  He's too busy with his own interests on the St. John and Jemseg Rivers."
    Albert grinned.  "That's right, Pierre.  That's why I'm here.  If he dies a new commandant will be named.  I think we need someone who'll be more concerned about the future of Acadia.  Not someone appointed by the governor in New France, or even worse by the king in far off Paris."
    The two men walked slowly up the path to the house.
    "Albert, you're right.  If Joybert dies we should try to get one of our own people as the new commandant, and maybe the new governor.  Since Chambly left, we haven't been properly represented.  It's time we get a real governor rather than just a military commander who doesn't understand our needs.  We need someone who'll let us develop and grow, who'll let us develop our own trade, who'll let us fish and sell our surplus farm products to whoever needs it, who'll not dictate to us."
    They entered the new, bright kitchen where Françoise was busy feeding her two boys.  Little Pierre sat at the table feeding himself from a wooden bowl that Pierre had carved.  He waved a wooden spoon filled with a thick gruel dripping with honey.  He shouted, "Papa eat."
    "Yes," Pierre replied as he took a chair and offered one to his friend.
    Françoise sat near the glowing fireplace, her back to the men, the blanket-wrapped infant in her arms.  Sucking sounds emitted from the blanket, and Françoise turned her head toward the two men.  "The young one must eat first," she stated simply.
    The men nodded in acknowledgement.  Albert continued, "Pierre, I think we should tell Governor Frontenac that we want our own governor.  What do you think?"
    "I think that's a good idea.  But who do we have that would be a good governor.  I don't trust Belleisle anymore than Joybert.  The others are too concerned with their own interests.  We really don't have anyone capable of looking after our needs."
    "Pierre, I've been talking to the other colonists.  And most agree with me.  They think that you would be a good governor. They..."
    "Whoa, hold on Albert.  I'm not your man.  I've too many interests of my own to look after... my trade with Boston... with the Indians... my farm.  Even if I was interested, I don't have the time."
    "But you're the only one.  You're the only one who can read and write, you're the only one that has connections with the Bostonians, with the Indians, with the other colonists.  You're ..."
    "No, Albert, I don't understand how to deal with the king and his representatives.  I can't speak well.  That's what we need, someone who can convince others of our needs."
    "But you are more able than anyone else.  You speak the Indians' language, you know some English, and people listen to you when you talk.  They respect you."
    Françoise interjected, "Pierre, I think Albert's right.  You'd be a good man for the job.  You could do it.  You'd be good for Acadia and the Acadians.  You'd be fair and honest.  You understand what we want and need."
    Pierre had never seen Françoise so intense before.  "But ..."
    "You can help to make this land prosperous for everyone, particularly the habitants.  All the other governors and commandants have done the king's bidding and have ignored us, the colonists.  We're forgotten when there's trouble in France.  Why, New France gets much more attention than we do, and I think we're more important than they.  We stand between them and the English.  When there's war, we're the first attacked."
    Pierre laughed.  "We've never been attacked since we've arrived, my dear."
    "But Pentagouet and Jemseg have been captured.  We could be next."
    "You see, Pierre, Françoise has a point.  And I'm sure there'll be another war.  I've heard that King Louis is still looking for trouble.  Pierre, we'd like to submit your name to Frontenac as our next governor.  Let us."
    Pierre gazed into the face of his friend.  The intensity showing there moved him.  "Yes, I'll consider it."
    Albert slapped his knee.  "Good!"
    Summer came with pleasant sunny days.  Pierre and Françoise were very busy, attacking their work with a renewed enthusiasm.  Although Pierre spent most of his time working on his farm, he still maintained his trade with the Indians and Harvey, the Bostonian.  Miskoo and his band came with their winter furs, and they insisted that Pierre take them, and they would get their supplies when the ship from Boston arrived.  Their trust touched Pierre.
    The first week in July was bright with sunshine.  Wednesday morning, Pierre suggested to Françoise that they should take a little holiday and go for a picnic up the river.  Françoise agreed.  By midday they were slowly making their way upstream in the birchbark canoe that Pierre loved to use.  The children sat amidships amid the baskets and blankets while Françoise paddled at the bow and Pierre controlled the stern.
    As they came abreast of the Breton place, Françoise twisted and said, "Let's stop in and see if the Bretons would like to join us."
    Pierre was slow to answer.  "All right."  And he directed the canoe to the landing on the south shore of the river.
    Jacques, who had been watching the approach, called as he came down the path from his sturdy, well-built house, "What brings the Marins out in the middle of the week?"
    Françoise replied with a chuckle, "Laziness."
    "We're going on a picnic."  Pierre steered the canoe deftly into shore.  "Do you want to come along.  It's time for a rest."
    Jacques face brightened.  "That's not a bad idea."
    Half an hour later two canoes made their way slowly upstream headed for a quiet spot that they had used on several other occasions.
    Jacques shouted across the small distance between the two canoes.  "Have you heard anything about the appointment of a new commandant, Pierre?"
    "No, Jacques, as usual the authorities are slow to act.  But it doesn't matter.  We can get on very well without interference from the king and his officers."
    "That's true, but it would be nice to know where we stood.  I've heard that it's likely to be Michel le Neuf.  He's well known in New France and has the governor's ear.  It appears that he has been granted a seigniory at Beaubassin."
    "I've heard that too, Jacques.  And I'm sure that he'll be more interested in improving his fortunes rather than ours.  I've also heard that there's been trouble with the English and the Indians.  The Abenakis are not happy with the English and have attacked several settlements."
    "Yes, and the Iroquois have joined the English against the Abenaki and the French.  It seems that the Iroquois are not happy with the Canadians because they have offered the Abenaki refuge and protection.  There is a new Indian settlement at a place called Sillery not far from Quebec."
    Françoise frowned.  "What does that have to do with us?"
    Pierre dipped a paddle into the sparkling waters and replied slowly, "A great deal.  It keeps the relationship between us and the English tense.  As long as the Iroquois threaten New France and particularly Quebec and Montreal Frontenac will be more concerned with that than with us.  So if he chooses a commandant for Acadia, it will be someone who is of the military, and Acadia will be used as a pawn to protect the rest of New France.  Even if we don't want trouble with the English, we may have no choice in the matter."  He turned back to Jacques.  "What do you know about Michel le Neuf?"
    "Not much.  I heard that he's married to one of Nicolas Deny's daughters.  At least that gives him a connection to us."
    Pierre dug his paddle deep and the canoe lurched forward.  "I hope you're right, Jacques.  I hope you're right."
    Two days later Albert Doucet arrived at Pierre's home.  He looked unhappy and morose.
    "What's the matter?" Françoise asked.
    Albert mumbled incoherently and then blurted, "Frontenac has named the new commandant."
    "Ah, that's good," Pierre responded.
    "I don't think so.  Michel le Neuf has the posting.  He'll do nothing for us.  He'll be too busy looking after his own affairs."
    Pierre smiled.  "Well, at least, it's been settled.  Now we know where to take our complaints."  He felt relieved.  It might have been interesting to be the commandant of Acadia, but he was not sure that he liked the responsibility that went with it.
    Françoise looked at him quizzically.  "Aren't you disappointed?"
    "A bit.  But I'm also relieved.  It's over.  The waiting.  The uncertainty.  Now we know."
    "That's true, but I still think that you're the best man for the job."
    "Thanks for your confidence, Albert."

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