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The Marin Family Chronicles--Volume 4-Book 2

The Dissidents by Charles O. Goulet

Chapter One -- Trouble

Frederick's Town, Friday, January 29, 1825

 Theodule stared blankly at his father's inert form that lay crumpled on the hardwood floor.  "Papa...what's the matter?"  The tight shrillness in his voice surprised him and acted as a stimulus to his paralysis.
 He dropped to his knees beside the still form; for several moments he stared at the ashen face and slack mouth.  Tentatively he reached to touch the limp hand; it felt lifeless and waxy.  He took a deep breath to still his fluttering heart.  Something was seriously wrong with his father.  He needed help--a doctor, a priest, someone!
 He jumped to his feet and started for the door.  Who would he get?  The doctor lived on the other side of town, but Father Allan lived near the church two short blocks away.  He would go for him.
 Although it was early evening, winter darkness blanketed the town.  Fortunately a clear sky and a crisp moon made visibility good.  As the sharp, frosty air struck him, he realized he had not put on a coat, but he did not turn back.  The cold seemed to clear his mind.  He decided to seek help from a neighbour; he ran to the small house next door where Georges Dansereau lived, another Acadian.
 He rushed to the door and pounded.  Moments passed; a light appeared through a crack in the door.  The door opened slightly.  "Who's there?  What is it?"
 Theodule recognized Georges's voice.  "It's me...Theodule.  I need...my father...needs help!"
 The door swung open.  "What is it...Theodule?"
 "Father..." the boy gasped. "He's...sick.  He needs a doctor."
 Georges's wife, plump, motherly Adelina, peeked around her husband.  "What's wrong?"
 "It's Joseph...something's happened," her husband volunteered.
 "Papa...just...just fell out of his chair...and I can't get him up."
 The woman took charge.  "Georges, you go for the doctor.  Theodule, you go for the priest.  I'll see what I can do for your father."
 Without a word action was taken.

Monday, January 31, 1825

 In three days Theodule Marin changed from a fourteen year old youth, to a fourteen year old young man.  His father's death made that change, even though for the past three days he lived in a daze.
 He was thankful that Father Allan and the Dansereaus were so helpful.  They made the arrangements for his father's funeral easy, and because he was so occupied, he had no time for grief.
 Now, as he entered the silent house the enormity of his loss struck him.  Since his mother's violent death nine years before, he and his father grew very close.  He shared his father's loss, but in time it deadened for him, yet it seemed to grow for his father.
 He stood in the doorway of the kitchen staring at the spot where his father died. And every moment of that evening came flooding back.  Was he responsible for his father's heart attack? Was their argument the real cause of his death?
 A jumble of emotion welled up within him: anger, grief, guilt, fear, and love.  How he loved his father; he who was both mother and father; he who taught him and nurtured him and formed him into the person he was.  For the past fourteen years he looked up to his father, admired him, saw him as a hero, and now he was gone...gone forever.  It seemed impossible.  He could not visualize life without his father.  He was too young when his mother died to realize the finality of death, but now he knew what it was.
 Fear gripped him; how would he live without his father, the person who provided for him and made sure that life was easy for him.  His father saw that he was fed and clothed and housed, and now he was no longer around to do that.  He would have to look after himself...in every way.  He had to be sure that he had food to eat, clothes to wear, and shelter from the seasons.  How would he do it?  Somehow he had to.
 Then the guilt came; had he caused his father's death  Was their last conversation a discussion or an argument?  He remembered everything, every word, every nuance, even how it started.  Yes, he wanted to return to St. John...to their old home, but his father was against the idea.  Since they were in the lumber business, and most important lumber brokers and merchants were in St. John, Theodule argued that they had a better advantage if they were nearer the markets.
 "Theo...you may be right...but we're doing well enough here.  A move would cost us a great deal of money."
 "But, Papa...we could make better deals if we were in closer contact with those who buy our timber...and..."
 "No, Theo, we won't move."  His father's voice sounded final.
 "But, Papa, I'm sure we would do better in St. John."
 "Theo...I don't want to discuss it further.  I don't plan to move to St. John."
 "Papa, Maman would..."
 His father's voice rose angrily, "Don't mention your mother...don't bring her into this."
 Theo knew that his mother still weighed heavily on his father's mind.
 "But, Papa...."
 "I said, don't..."
 At that moment his father clutched at his chest, half rose from his chair, and toppled heavily to the floor.  Those were the last words his father uttered.
 Now, Theodule tried to stem the tears that welled up in his eyes.  He place his clenched fists over them and pressed hard, but hot tears forced themselves through his clasped eye lids.  A sob convulsed from deep within him, and his shoulders quiver.  The tears rolled down his cheeks; he let them as he unclenched his fists and held his hands over his face.  He knew the tears were for his father, for the many times he wanted tell him how much he loved him and never did.  As he thought of those last moments, more tears flowed.  He never had a chance to say good-bye.  Everything happened so suddenly.  He knew he would remember those last moments to the end of his days.  They would always haunt him.
 He wiped the tears away with his fingers, straightened up, and became angry.  Why had his father died so suddenly, so suddenly that he could not have a few worthwhile words with him?  Why had he argued with his father, why?  They always shared everything, but he was not able to share his father's death.  He shook his head in bewilderment.  This he could not understand.  Maybe Father Allan was right.  The Lord moved in mysterious ways, ways which humans did not understand.  Yet he could not help but be angry.
 If his father only quit mourning for his mother, maybe he would still be alive.  Maybe that was what caused his death.  Theodule knew that there was not a day that his father had not blamed himself for his wife's death.  It was his fault that the crowd gathered before their home.  He was the one who wanted to get into politics, to become a member of the Assembly, so he could work for the betterment of the Acadians in New Brunswick, but others did not want that to happen.
 So his father always blamed himself for the rock that has struck his mother and killed her.  Perhaps that was the real reason that his father died so suddenly.
 Now he realized why his father did not want to return to St. John.  Now he knew the feelings of guilt and remorse that his father endured over the years. His father could not bare the memories of his wife's death, of his own feelings of guilt.  And now it made Theo feel guilty.  He forced his father to face that guilt and remorse and probably that brought on his heart attack.
 Theo slumped to a chair, leaned his head on the table, and let his body quiver with sobs.  Each sob made him feel a little better; the tension of the last three days oozed from his body as he closed his mind to all thought.  He shook as the sobs turned to tears and the shaking turned to a quiet soothing rhythm.  The tears slowed, the movements ceased, and a deep sense of well-being overwhelmed him as sleep restored him.
 

Marcel Marin's farm near St. Henri, Lower Canada, Thursday,
February 3, 1825

 Marcel lifted his head from the bowl of thin gruel to his wife, Marie.  She looked wan and pale.  Her bones stuck out from the thin woollen dress that hung limply from her shoulders, but it did not hide the growing bulge of her stomach. Her once black hair now tinged with grey, hung dull and lifeless.  At twenty seven years old and expecting their seven child, she looked older than her years.
 The past year was particularly difficult for her.  Although she worked side by side with him in the fields and garden, the crops were meagre; the cellar was almost bare, and the granaries almost empty.  If he did not find a way to get more food, soon his family would go hungry.  He had to do something--find a job somewhere.
 The youngest child, Godfroy, who turned a year old three days before, started to whine.  Marcel reached across the table to lifted the child from the crude bench on which he sat to place him on his knee. Then he handed the boy a crust of heavy dark bread that he took eagerly and stuffed into his mouth.
 Marcel looked around the table at each child in turn.  Marie-Adelaide, their first born, just nine years old the past December, was a mature, motherly young girl, a great help to her mother as she looked after the younger children and helped with most of the chores in the house.  At the moment, she was dishing out gruel to Olivier, the three year old, whom everyone said looked like his father.  Marcel was proud of the boy because he was his oldest son.  Marcel still remembered his sorrow and disappointment when their third child, Flavie, born in 1818, a weak, sickly baby boy, lived for little over a week.
 A year and half later Olive was born, a dark skinned, robust daughter now four years old.  He glanced across the table to her.  Her dark hair and wide-set brown eyes reminded him of his wife when he fell in love with her over ten years ago.
 A loud knock at the door startled him.  Who could be calling so early in the morning?
 "Marcel!...Marcel!  Are you up yet?"
 Marcel recognized the voice of his neighbour and brother-in-law, Raymond Talbot, who farmed the next strip of land south of his long narrow farm that ran back from the Etchemin River.
 "Enter.  Of course, I'm up.  What did you expect from a household such as ours."
 The massive plank door swung inward and a medium built figure wrapped in a bulky blanket coat and a long tuque perched on top of his head entered.  "It smells good."  He lifted his nose and sniffed.
 Marcel laughed dryly.  "The same old mush of boiled barley."
 "Well, at least you've got some," the other man said as he pulled the long tuque from his head.  His dark hair, tousled, fell to his shoulders.
 Marcel indicated a place on the bench at the end of the table.  "Won't you join us?"
 "I ate already.  But I heard last night that they're hiring lumberjacks in the camps north of Quebec."
 Marcel's head jerked up.  "Are you sure?"
 "Hey, good man, nothing sure these days.  Everything's scarce...food, work...money...everything."
 Marcel nodded his head in agreement.  "If I can't buy food soon, the table'll be empty.  The kids'll suffer.  Look at Marie.  She already looks as if she's starving."
 Marie turned from the heavy iron stove in the far corner of the room.  "I'll survive."  But her voice sounded weak and uncertain.
 "Maybe we should go and find out.  What do you think, Marcel?"
Raymond took the proffered seat.
 "We have to.  At least I have to.  What about you?"
 "Yeah...I was thinking we could go together."
 Marcel nodded in agreement.

North of Quebec, Monday, February 7, 1825

 The crude camp looked barren in the bright sunshine, although a wisp of smoke rose from a metal pipe that protruded from the pole-covered roof of what Marcel recognized as the cook house.
 He hollered, "Is anyone here?"  His voice echoed through the leafless woods.  He called again.  "Who's here?"
 The flimsy slab door opened and a rotund man with a dirty white apron wrapped around his middle stood holding a black pot.  His almost white hair looked more unkempt than the rest of him.
 Marcel guessed the man was about fifty years old and probably the camp cook.
 "Hallo.  My name's Marcel Marin.  I'm looking for the boss.  I suppose he's out in the woods somewhere."
 "My friend you supposed right.  And I suppose you're looking for a job."
 Marcel nodded his head.
 The older man shook his head.  "I don't like your chances, my friend."  His voice sounded as if this was not the first time he gave the message.  "But you'll find him down that road."  With his left hand he pointed off to his right to a trail through the snow.
 "Thanks, friend.  I'll see what he says."

Quebec, Lower Canada, Tuesday, February 8, 1825

 The warmth of the tavern and the flagon of ale made Marcel shake his head to clear it.  Since his return from the lumber camps after an unsuccessful attempt to get a job, he had come into the tavern to warm himself and have a drink to quench his thirst.
 He looked at the last coins that he held in a calloused hand; two shillings, all the money he possessed.  And he still hadn't found a job.  Raymond, his brother-in-law, had been more fortunate.  He met a friend who steered him to another lumber camp that needed a single workman.
 Marcel drooped his head onto his chest.  He was tired and discouraged.  He wasn't sure how many miles he had walked along the lumber trails from the woods; but he knew it was many, and he hadn't eaten all day as well.
 He closed his eyes to visualize a huge roast of beef with large white potatoes and turnips smothered in a rich brown gravy.  A steaming slice of white bread dripping with fresh butter completed the meal.  He drew in his breath as if savoring the smells and taste of the food.
 "Friend, may I join you?"
 Marcel straightened up in his chair and surveyed the man standing before him.  He was about Marcel's age, dressed in shabby but clean clothes; a heavy cloth mackinac, homespun pants, and beaded moccasins.  His dark hair was parted in the middle and drawn back from his face, tied in a sort of pony tail.  In the dim light his eyes appeared bright and animated.
 "My name's Antoine Perrault."  Without waiting for a reply he slipped into the chair across from Marcel.  "You look down on your luck, my friend.  Can I buy you a drink?"  Again without waiting for a reply he turned and waved to the tapman.  Then he tossed a coin on the table.  "What's your name?"
 Marcel shook his head to make sure he was not dreaming.  "I'm Marcel Marin, habitant from St. Henri...looking for work."
 "Ah, so I thought, my friend Marcel.  Well, I don't know if I can help you there...but I'll buy you a drink."

Wednesday, February 9, 1825

 The cold penetrated to his bones; that's what awakened him.  He tried to move, but he felt stiff and almost paralysed.  Slowly his senses awakened; he was so cold it almost hurt; his mouth was furry and thick; his nose tingled; his eyes watered as he tried to open them.
 He moved his arms slowly at first and then more briskly; he tried his legs; they functioned also; then he lifted his head.  A bomb exploded inside it, and a sharp pain stabbed it from one temple to the other.  Where was he?  He knew he was outside; he could feel a cold breeze whisper against his cheek.  What happened?  Why was he lying outside in the middle of winter?  Slowly the cobwebs broke in his brain, and he remembered.  He met a man in the tavern who bought him a drink, who promised him a job, but what happened then?
 He rolled to his hands and knees; he appeared to be in a dark alley, but where?  He groped for his head; he was wearing his woollen cap, but he had no mitts.  His hands were cold.  He struggled to his knees.  Where was his money, the little that he had.  Panic seized him.  Had he spent every sou?  He dug into his pockets; they were empty, empty of everything.  Two were turned inside out.  He was robbed.  But who robbed him? Did it matter?  All his money was gone.  Now he was worse off than when he came to Quebec to find work.  Now what would he do?

Frederick's Town, New Brunswick, Thursday, February 21, 1825

 Theodule stared at the middle-aged man with the large paunch.  He could not believe what he just heard.  "What is that again?" He knew his voice sounded as if he was about to break into tears.
 "I'm sorry, son...but you must leave this house within the week.  It doesn't belong to you any longer.  Your father's debtors have taken it."
 "What's left?"
 The bearded man shook his head.  "Nothing...your father owed too much money.  Everything is gone.  There's nothing left."
 "Nothing?"  Theo knew it didn't sound like him.
 "Nothing."

York, Upper Canada, Saturday, March 5, 1825

 "Hey, Frenchy, why don't you learn to be like the rest of us?"
Pierre Andre Marin, better know as 'Andy' stopped on the board sidewalk and turned toward the group of boys on the other side of the street.  He recognized Johnny MacIntyre, Billy Maclean, Eddy Williams and Toby Willis, his school mates.  All were about his age, but their fathers were officials for the government, and they did not have to help out with the many chores that had to be done in his father's store.
 "I don't have time to be useless," he retorted in a jeering manner.
 Toby Willis, the largest of the boys and usually the most vocal, stepped toward him.  "Well, Frenchy's in a nasty mood this morning."
 The other boys followed as Toby crossed the muddy street to intercept Andy.
 "Hey, Andy, my good friend, come with us.  We're going to the creek to see if the ice is out...then we might fish."  Billy Maclean, a short, stocky lad with curly dark hair and a mischievous smile, grinned.
   Andy could never be sure of Billy; he could never tell if he was serious or joking, or if he meant the barbs that he hurled at him regularly.
 "Sorry, guys, I can't.  I have to run an errand for my father."
 Johnny MacIntyre, a tall slender youth with reddish-brown hair, screwed up his face in mockery.  "Frenchy's always too busy to join us.  He either has to work or go to church."
 The boys broke into gales of laughter.  "Yeah, he's there more than the pope."  Eddy Williams, a pug-nosed, freckled-face, husky lad, joined in.
 Andy did not like the way the encounter was going.  He felt the heat rise to his face.  Sweat oozed over his body.  Every time they teased him about his religion the same reaction occurred.  He always tried to suppress his annoyance, but today it irritated him more than usual.
 "Leave my religion out of it,"  he gritted slowly, trying to keep his voice calm and controlled.
 "Well, well, Andy doesn't like us to talk about the pope...that...that scoundrel."
 "Don't call the Pope a scoundrel."  His voice had an edge that he did not want it to have.  He felt the tension building within him.  He did not want to vex his classmates, but he was tired of their incessant taunts and barbs about his French heritage and his religion.
 The boys encircled him.  Eddy Williams stepped up to him and stuck his face close to Andy's.  "What are you going to do about it, Papist."
 "Look, Eddy, I don't want to do anything about it...but I don't like it when you say things like that."
 "He doesn't like it when we say things like that,"  Johnny mimicked.  "Now isn't that something."
 The boys stepped closer, hemming Andy in.  They jostled closer.  Andy realized the situation was getting out of hand.  Their teasing was turning to anger, as he became more aggravated.  "Who's going to stop us, Frenchy.  Who's going to make us like the Pope...who?"  Eddy continued badgering.
 A voice penetrated the group.  "Good morning."
 Silence descended over them as all eyes turned to a young girl dressed in a light blue long-skirted dress and a matching narrow-brimmed bonnet.  All recognized the prettiest girl in town, Rebecca Collins, whom everyone called her 'Becky'.
 The boys stepped back.  "Good morning, Becky," they chorused.
 "Are you teasing Andy again?"  Her voice had a lilt to it that was pleasing and bewitching.
 "Nah,"  Johnny drawled.  "We were just funning."
 Becky turned toward Johnny, stabbed him in the chest with her forefinger.  "Johnny MacIntyre, I know your kind of funning.  You're mean and so is your funning.  You leave Andy alone."
 Andy felt his face turn red.  He did not need a girl to defend him; he could take care of himself.  "No, we were just having fun."  Then he added, "Thanks, Becky."
 Becky waved her right hand and continued down the sidewalk.  The boys watched as she walked away without a backward glance.  Andy wondered if the other boys felt the way he did; he wanted to be noticed by her, and he wanted to get to know her better, but he knew that was impossible.
 Eddy Williams turned back to Andy.  "So Frenchy...you need a woman to defend you."
 The other boys guffawed.
 "I don't!  I can take on you guys any day of the week!"  Andy's challenge surprised himself.
 No one spoke for several minutes.  "Andy, does that mean you want to fight us?"
 "Nah...but if you want to fight...I'm ready."
 "All together...or one at a time!"  Billy Maclean taunted.
 "Look...I don't want to fight with you guys...but if you force me...I won't run away."
 Eddy Williams stuck his fist under Andy's nose.  "See this! One more word out of the Pope...and he's finished!"
 Andy pushed the offending hand away.  "Come on, Eddy, quit it."
 "Frenchy...who do you think you're talking to?  Now say you're sorry."
 Andy stepped around the threatening figure and moved a step  down the sidewalk.  A hand on his shoulder swung him around.  "Don't walk away from me, you...you...frog!"
 As Andy turned to face his adversary, a fist struck him on the side of the head.  Momentarily his ears rang, and his senses blurred.  He pushed with both hands and he felt the body move backward.
 Other hands grabbed him, jostled him, pushed him, and pummelled him.  He struck out blindly with his fists.

 "Andy!  What on earth happened to you?"
 Andy knew he must be a sight.  He could feel the painful welt under his left eye.  His clothes were covered with mud; his coat was ripped below the right shoulder; his feet were wet as water squished from his heavy leather shoes, yet he felt good.  He had vindicated himself, something he wanted to do for a long time.
 His mother pushed him back toward the door.  "Get those filthy clothes off before you take another step...then tell me what happened."  Her voice was shrill, but he noted a sympathetic tone.  Did she suspect what happened?

 "Andy, what was the fight about?"  Andy's mother, Dorothy, asked as she passed a plate of pork chops to her husband, André.
 "Maman, I'm not sure...but they started teasing me again about being French...and Catholic.  I think that's what started it."
 "Those boys think that because their fathers are part of the government...they can do anything."  Dorothy sympathized.
 "I wish they'd just let me be.  They're always teasing...and taunting me."
 "Look, Andy, you can't stop them from being who they are.  You've got to learn to control yourself."
 Andy noticed the annoyance in his father's voice.  Why did he always defend them and blame him?

Fort Garry, Assiniboia, Saturday, April 9, 1825

 "Macpherson!...you had no call to say that!"  Colbert Marin stared indignantly at the tall gangly youth before him.
 "You know she's nothing by a whore...and you're her best customer."  The curly haired clerk of the Hudson's Bay Company grinned irritatingly as he turned his back to Colbert.
 Heat rose in Colbert's his face as the anger from the insult overcame him.  "Would you come outside and say that, Mister Macpherson?"  His voice dripped with scorn and disapprobation.
 "Marin, I don't want to fight with you...but you know as well as I do that Keenarbittay is nothing but a cheap whore.  Her father sells her to anyone who has the price of a flagon of rum."
 Colbert knew it was true, but he also knew that she had little choice in the matter; it was not her fault that her father used her to obtain liquor for his addiction.  "You have no right to say that.  You don't know that girl.  You don't know what you're talking about."
 The clerk snorted derisively.  "And you think you do?  Marin, don't be a fool.  Just because you hang around their camp and get your woman free, doesn't make you an expert."
 Colbert tried to contain his dislike for the young clerk, but his superior attitude to the Indians and the Metis and anyone he felt was beneath him angered Colbert.  He had to teach this young snob a lesson.
 He reached across the counter with his right hand, grabbed the clerk's shirt, and swung him around.  At the same time he brought the back of his left hand up and slapped the surprised Macpherson across the face.
 The clerk sputtered and cursed.  "Why, you halfbreed cur...I should kill you for that."
 Colbert grinned viciously.  "My friend, you're not man enough for that.  Come outside and show me what your made of.  Back up your words with action."
 The clerk came around the counter, his fist clenched, his eyes blazing. "Let's go!"
 The two men hurried through the trade room door out into the bright sunshine of the spring morning.  Several customers followed; two Metis, and three other Hudson Bay Company employees.  They muttered gleefully to each other.  A fight would break the monotony of the fort routine.
 The two men faced each other just outside the door.  They circled slowly, their fists raised, ready to find an advantage.  Colbert feinted with his right, and his opponent ducked; Colbert's left shot out in an uppercut catching the clerk over the left eye.  A stream of blood rolled from a cut in the eyebrow.  Macpherson wiped at it with his right hand, and Colbert caught him on the mouth with a looping punch.  Macpherson's head snapped back.
 Colbert saw that he had his opponent at a disadvantage and stepped closer.  His left fist burrowed into the clerk's torso, whose mouth opened in surprise and pain as air swooshed from it.
 The clerk leaned forward grasping at Colbert who stepped back and pumped his right hand into his falling foe's face.  He felt it hit solidly, and the clerk sprawled to the ground.
 Arms clasped Colbert from behind; he struggled to release his pinioned arms but could not.  He tried to swing around to find out who was holding him, but he could not.  He cursed.  Then he kicked backward hoping to make contact.  But he did not.
 Macpherson sprang to his feet and advanced toward him as he pushed backward to get away.
 "You son-of-a-bitch, I'll kill you!"
 Colbert raised his eyes to the bloody face before him.  The clerk's eyes blazed through the blood that streamed down the left side of his face from the cut over his eye and the blood streaming from his nose.  As he swung, Colbert tried to duck, but he could not.
 He saw the blow coming for his mouth and tried to move away.  The blow landed squarely and for a moment the world exploded in a flash of light.  He shook his head to clear it, but before he could, another blow caught him in the pit of the stomach, and he felt a wave of nausea explode deep within him.  He felt the vomit rise to his throat, sour and bitter.
 Another blow struck him on the side of the head, and blackness enveloped him.

 The cold water surprised and startled him.  He lay on his back staring into the blue sky.  His head ached and felt detached from his body.
 "Colbert, are you all right?"
 The voice sounded familiar, but he could not place it.  The whole world seemed disoriented and convoluted, as if in a bad dream.  Slowly his senses began to function.  He recognized his brother's voice.
 "Colbert, what happened?"
 Colbert groaned.
 "Dammit, Colbert...when are you going to quit getting into trouble."
 Colbert groaned again.  Why did Gerard always seem to be the one that came to his rescue?  Gerard, who hated to become involved in anything.  "Just leave me alone!"
 "You're a mess.  You need help!"
 Colbert groaned again.  He knew Gerard was right.

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