But I was not to go this time; nor yet my cousin Marc, who, having at last received from Quebec authentic word of the health and safety of his Puritan, was looking out upon events with his old enviable calm.
On the day when a stir in the cottages betokened that embarkation was to begin, the south windows of the chapel were in demand. They afforded a clear view of the village and a partial view of the landing-place. Benches were piled before them, and we took turns by the half hour in looking out, those at the post of observation passing messages back to the eager rows behind. It was plain at once that the cottages at the west end of the village were to be cleared in a block. On a sudden there was a sharp outcry from the three Le Boutilliers, as they saw their homely house-gear being carried from their doorways and heaped upon a lumbering hay-wagon. They were of a nervous stock, and forthwith began a great lamentation, thinking that their wives and families were to be sent away without them. When the little procession started down the street toward the landing—the old grandmother and the two littlest children perched on the wagon-load, the wives and other children walking beside in attitudes that proclaimed their tears—the good fellows became so excited as to trouble our company.
“Chut, men!” cried Marc, in a tone of sharp command. “Are you become women all at once? There will be no separation of families this time, when there is but one ship and no room for mistakes. The guards yonder will be calling for you presently, never fear.”
This quieted them; for my cousin had a convincing way with him, and they accounted his wisdom something beyond natural.
Then there came by two more wagons, and another sorrowful procession, appearing from the direction of the Habitants; and the word “Le Marchands” went muttering through the prison. Le Marchand settlement was moving to the ship—and even now a cloud of black smoke, with red tongues visible on the morning air, showed us what would befall the houses of Grand Pré when the folk of Grand Pré should be gone.
The Le Marchand men made no sign, save to glower under their brows and grip the window sashes with tense fingers. They were of different stuff from the Le Boutilliers, these black Le Marchands. They set their teeth hard, and waited.
So it went on through the morning, one man after another seeing his family led away to the ship—his family and some scant portion of his goods; and thus we came to know what men among us were like to be called forth on this voyage.
Presently the big door was thrown open, and all faces flashed about to the new interest. Outside stood a double red line of English soldiers. An officer—the round-faced Colonel Winslow himself—stepped in, a scroll of paper curling in his hand. In a precise and something pompous voice he read aloud the names of those to go. The Le Marchands were first on the roll; then the Le Boutilliers, Ba’tiste Chouan, Jean and Tamin Masson, and a long list that promised to thin our crowded benches by one-third. But I was left among the unsummoned; and my cousin Marc, and long Philibert Trou, and the wily fox La Mouche; and I saw Marc’s lips compress with a significant satisfaction when he saw these two remaining. Vaguely I thought—“He has a plan!” But thereafter, in my gloom, I thought no more of it.
So these chosen ones marched off between their guards; and that afternoon the ship went out on the ebb tide with a wind that carried her, white-sailed, around the dark point of Blomidon. Grand Pré chapel prison settled apathetically back to a deeper calm.