The Acadian: Jacques

Copyright © 2000 by Joseph A. Maillet.

ISBN #: Softcover 0-7388-3092-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

This novel is dedicated to the memory of Charles Maillet,who gave his life for his beloved Canada in 1756.

CHAPTER ONE

In the dimly lit hold of the ship, the air was stifling and the smell nauseating. The ship’s mainmast had broken in the violent storm. At the mercy of the elements, the ship The Experiment was being blown way off course. Food and water were almost exhausted.

He did not know where they were taking him as he lay on the hard floor amongst the other unwilling passengers. The only source of light was an oil lamp suspended from the overhead. The swaying lamp caught his eye . . . its motion mesmerizing. He stared at the lamp for the longest time. The rocking motion of the ship and the swinging lamp seemed to put his mind at ease. He hadn’t slept in days. As he drifted off, he remembered . . .

It was in the spring of 1705 in Paris, France . . .

Disease, wars, and famine had taken their toll on the population of Europe; hundreds were dying daily. His dearly beloved mother and father succumbed to the dreaded disease prevalent in France. His destitute aunt tried to care for him, but she just did not have the means. She had discussed the situation with her pastor, and he recommended the only thing left for her to do . . . place him in an orphanage. The priest would arrive around noontime on Monday to pick him up and transport him to St. Joseph’s Home for boys, in Paris, France.

As they waited the priest’s arrival, she packed his clothing in a cloth sack, and dressed him the best she could. With tears rolling down her cheek, she held him close to her and said, As soon as things get better, I will come for you.

Don’t worry Aunt Sarah. I’ll be all right, he replied. Somehow, he knew he would not be seeing her again for a long while.

Father Gould arrived on time, entered the house and offered his blessings.

Be a good boy, now, said Aunt Sarah. She gave Jacques a final hug and a kiss and walked with him to Father Gould’s carriage. The priest helped the boy onto the seat, climbed in and sat next to him. As they rode off, Jacques turned back, smiled, and waved to her. She gave a forced smile, waved and with tears in her eyes ran back into the house.

As they rode towards the big city, about six miles away, Father Gould felt he should make some small talk to get the boy’s mind off his worries. The only sound, till then, had been the horse’s hoofs on the cobble-stoned road.

It sure is hot, isn’t it, Jacques, said Father Gould. He ran his finger around his tight fitting collar.

Yes, Father, he replied. He was in no mood to chat.

The boy was dressed in an old tattered shirt, way to big for him, evidently once worn by his deceased uncle. His pantaloons were also too big, being held at the waist by an old piece of rope. The only items of clothing of his that were any good were the sabots he wore of his feet. His blond, tattered, hair kept getting into his eyes when the wind blew. He just sat there motionless, weeping silently.

As they passed an old ram shackled cottage, an elderly couple was tending to their sparse garden. The man removed his hat and bowed reverently at the priest. The woman said, Good afternoon, Father. Father Gould nodded, mumbled something, and kept going.

There goes another one, said the elderly man to his wife.

Poor lad, she replied.

Nearing the orphanage, Jacques saw the building for the first time. It was a huge building, with a very high fence enclosing the grounds.

Here we are, Jacques, said Father Gould, as he stopped at the main entrance.

He helped the boy disembark and led him to the front gate. He yanked on a lanyard dangling above the door, ringing the bell inside. In a few minutes, the door opened and a nun, completely dressed in black, peered out. She said, Good afternoon, Father, when she recognized the priest.

Good afternoon, Sister.

She bade them enter, closing and locking the door behind them. Jacques wondered why she was so meticulous in securing the heavy door. She led the way to the Mother Superior’s office.

As they entered the Mother Superior’s office, Jacques was amazed at the sight before him. There was the heaviest person he had ever seen. How, he wondered, could a person get so heavy when all around people were starving? Even Father Gould was very much underweight. The Mother Superior was also the ugliest woman he had ever seen. No wonder she became a nun, he thought to himself.

After the pleasantries, Father Gould told the Mother Superior that the poor lad had no place to go, his parents passed on and his aunt could not afford to care for him.

His name is Jacques. I’m afraid you will have to take another one, said Father Gould.

We will manage, Father.

Father Gould blessed the boy and admonished him to be a good boy. He then took his leave. As he stood there, alone, he had second thoughts about being in that place. He looked all about for an avenue of escape, but found none. He felt trapped. He thought about turning and running out, but he remembered the gate was locked.

What’s in that bag, barked the Mother Superior. The tone of her voice caught him off guard. For a moment he could not think, then he recomposed himself.

Just a few things, Mother. He had been taught to address the nuns as Mother.

Give that here, she said, as she grabbed the bag away from him. She looked inside hoping to find something of value. Finding nothing, she disgustedly tossed the bag aside. You won’t need that here.

Yes, Mother, he meekly replied.

Now . . . screamed the nun, spittle drooling from her large lips. I don’t want any trouble from you. Her face reddened. The look in her eyes was the most demonic gaze he had ever seen. He felt frightened, and felt a sudden urge to urinate.

I won’t be any trouble, Mother, he replied.

You had better not . . . or you’ll get this. She grabbed a large stick lying on the top of her desk and whacked it against the side of the desk. The noise was earsplitting as the sound reverberated in the room. He felt his bladder let go and the warm fluid flow down his leg dripping onto the floor. He began to sob, fearing for his life.

Stop that! she screamed. He tried to subdue his tears but they kept flowing.

Follow me, said the Mother Superior, as she led him, still sobbing, down the hall, al the while she clutched the fearful stick. In the hallway, two boys were scrubbing the floor. When one of the boys stopped to look at Jacques, the nun gave him a crack across the arm with the stick, almost knocking him over. He winced in pain, and quickly returned to his duties. Jacques could not believe what he was seeing. He wondered how a human being could treat a child like that. He wondered if he would ever get a taste of her wrath, and the sting of the stick.

The Mother Superior knocked at a door, opened it and shoved Jacques inside. Sitting at the desk, Mother Francis rose and bowed to the Mother Superior. He beheld another very large person, also extremely well fed.

Here is another border for us, bellowed the Mother Superior. Take him and clean him up.

Yes, Mother Superior.

Alone with Mother Francis, Jacques braced himself for another barrage.

How old are you, boy? asked Mother Francis, but not as loud as the head nun.

Ten, Mother, he meekly replied. He braced himself for another tirade.

Picking up her version of the large stick, she said, Follow me.

She led him to another room down the hall. Inside the room, she made him sit on a wooden stool. She retrieved a pair of scissors from an old dresser. The sight of the sharp instrument sent shivers down his back. He could not take his eyes off the nun, fearing she might do away with him right there on the spot. She grabbed a handful of his hair and proceeded to cut away, cutting as close to the skin as she could.

Take those rags off, she said, and put these on. She handed him a gray shirt and gray trousers to wear.

You smell like rotten fish, said Mother Francis, as she picked up his old clothes to discard. He had urinated in his old pantaloons and they still had an odor to them. You will fit right in with the rest of the trash here, she said.

He now looked just like the boys he had seen scrubbing the floor. He wondered if he would have to scrub floors also. She then led him to a dormitory on the first floor. Removing a key from her pocket, she unlocked the door and swung it open. The first thing that caught his attention was the foul odor inside. He was reluctant to step inside, but she provided the momentum by shoving him in. She locked the door behind her and led him to an empty cot. As she entered, all the boys stood at attention in front of their respective cots. There were twelve cots on either side of the room.

This is where you will be sleeping, said the nun, pointing to an empty cot. She held the stick out for all to see, instilling fear in all the boys, and left.

He stood by his assigned cot, not knowing what to do next. He looked all around trying to access the situation. All eyes were on him. The boy next to him said, What’s your name?

Jacques.

Name’s André, replied his new friend.

The boys gathered around the new comer for a better look. As he gazed at each boy, he was repulsed to see the sores on some of the boys. They were the filthiest looking people he had ever seen. André introduced all the other boys. Most of the boys had bad coughs, even bringing up putrid phlegm. Before him was the jetsam of society, unwanted and unloved.

«What kind of place is this?» asked Jacques

«This is the ass-hole of the world,» replied André.

How long have you been here, André?

Four years!

Jacques looked over his newly made friend. Scars were evident on his arms, seen through gaping holes in his shirt. He was afraid to ask what happened to him. The boy was tall, but not much heavier. He looked as if he had never been out in the sun. His skin was a sickly pale color. His hair was longer than all the other boys. He walked around barefoot, like most of the others. His feet looked as if he had played in coal dust. Looking into his eyes, Jacques could see that this boy had not lost his sense of pride.

You couldn’t have come to a worse place, said Charles.

Jacques was anxious to learn as much as he could about the place. He had a thousand questions. You’ll find out, seemed to be the pat answer to most of his interrogations. He noticed bruises and scars on almost all the boys. Later, when the other boys had returned to their respective cots, Jacques asks André why it was that a lot of the boys were so scarred.

«Did you see the bull’s stick when you checked in?» asked André.

You mean she beats the boys here?

She’s a sick bitch, and the other black crows are just as bad. Don’t get in their way, and don’t cause any trouble.

I want to get away from this place, said Jacques.

Good luck. If you get caught, and you will, they will put you in the hole and forget about you.

Jacques was speechless, as if the terrible things that had happened to him lately weren’t bad enough, what with his parents dying, now this.

Jacques looked around his new home trying to assimilate the outcome of his future. There were twenty-four wooden beds, with no mattresses, and straw filled sacks for pillows in this one room, twelve on one side, and twelve on the other, another twenty-four cots upstairs, and a few more in the attic. The basement held some, besides the locked cells. The only door opened to the boys was a back door that led to the courtyard behind the building. Situated in the center of the courtyard was a large outhouse. The distance from the outhouse to the wall made it impossible for the boys to climb and escape over the wall. The boys were not allowed to congregate outside for more than a few minutes unescorted. They were allowed out twice a day for a fifteen-minute recess under the watchful eyes of the bulls. A back fire escape enabled the boys upstairs to utilize the outhouse. The boys all had their hair clipped short and wore gray garments. Any boy seen walking the streets like this was instantly recognizable.

There must be some way out of here, implored Jacques to André.

There are ways, but you can’t escape the constables outside. See that boy over there, said André, as he pointed to one of the boys lying in his bunk. That’s Jean . . . a few weeks ago he crawled into the garbage wagon and buried himself. The driver never saw him, and when he drove the wagon out, Jean went with it to the outside. He didn’t get very far. The next day the constable saw him walking and stopped him. He smelled terrible, and his gray rags and short hair gave him away. He was taken back to the orphanage. The bulls took him to the cellar and tied him to a table. We could hear him screaming and begging them to stop. They whacked his legs so bad he couldn’t even walk. They dragged him back in here. His legs were a bloody mess. It made us sick. Then they told him that should stop him from leaving for a while. He can’t even make it to the dining room so they just let him lie there. They bring him some water and a stale piece of bread once a day. We try to sneak him some food, but if we get caught it’s the hole for us.

Towards evening of the first day, Jacques felt hunger pangs. He had not eaten all day. When do they feed us? he asked André.

"They will come for us later. You might as well get used to being hungry.»

About an hour later the door was opened and a bevy of heavyset nuns entered, led by Mother Francis. All were armed with huge sticks.

«Out!» screamed Mother Francis.

The boys quickly lined up and marched out to the dining room. Jacques fell in behind André. He would do exactly as André did. They shuffled out as if in a trance, the sting of the stick no longer affected them.

Jacques’ first meal that day consisted of turnip soup with stale crusty bread and a tin cup for water. He was amazed to see the other boys eating with gusto, but the sight and smell of the soup made him sick. Despite being hungry, he could not bring himself to eat it. He stuffed the stale bread under his baggy shirt. He asked a boy next to him, in a low whisper so the nuns would not hear him, if he wanted his meal, which the boy gladly accepted.

Back in the dorm, Jacques gave his bread to Jean who wolfed it down and thanked the new boy. The other boys were surprised to see the new arrival so defiant.

«I told you, Jacques, anybody caught sneaking food would end up in the hole,» said André.

But, that boy needs help! implored Jacques.

Look, in this place, its every man for himself.

I wouldn’t treat an animal like that.

From the first day that he arrived, Jacques searched for a way out. That was difficult, not because he could not scale the fence, and possibly steal some clothing from someone’s wash, but because of the consequences. Any boy attempting to escape caused undue hardship for the rest of the orphanage. If a boy was missing, the other boys went without food for three days. They only received a daily ration of water. Eventually he would be caught and returned. Once he was returned the whole orphanage took retribution on him for causing them pain. He was severely beaten by the older boys. He would never try that again.

That first night for Jacques was the hardest. He lay on the wooden boards trying his best to get comfortable, to no avail. The straw poked through the ragged pillow pinching and poking his head and neck. He was used to sleeping on his side, but that was not possible on the boards. He tried sleeping on his back. As he lay there he heard the sobs and cries of some of the younger boys. He felt sorry for them and wished there was something he could do for them.

The air inside the smelly room was foul from the closeness of the bodies that hadn’t been bathed in months. Some of the boys had dried feces clinging to the insides of their trousers from improper hygiene. Some of the boys brought up putrid sputum, which they dried with the sleeves of their shirts. Every other boy had a hacking cough that rang all night long.

As Jacques lay there, his thoughts were on his beloved parents that sacrificed so much for him that he might survive while they lingered in misery and sickness. If only he could join them. He vowed to himself that someday, he would get away from all this and find peace someplace on earth.

Every moment at the orphanage was hell for Jacques. It was the same kind of soup served daily, with moldy bread. It took a while before he found the courage to eat the lousy food. Now he knew why the nuns were so fat. They were eating the food destined for the boys. Even Father Gould was missing out on the food the church was providing to the orphanage.

There was no talking allowed in the dining room. The nuns were everywhere, all carrying sticks. They seemed to delight in beating the boys for the least provocation. Sickness was rampart in the orphanage. No doctor ever visited here. It was not uncommon to find a lad had died during the night, making way for another unfortunate to occupy that cot. The nuns would have some of the bigger boys carry the bodies to the delivery gate and leave them there, to be picked up later by the local authorities.

The boys lived in complete isolation, received little or no education, and had no information relative to the structure of society. They lacked appropriate social training to prepare for life as adults on their own.

At every meal, despite the warnings, Jacques squirreled away some food for Jean. He was admonished daily for what he was doing.

«Look,» he finally blurted out, when another lad told him to stop what he was doing, «I can’t just watch him go without food!»

«Boy, you have a lot of guts,» said Julien, one of the older boys. «I wouldn’t try it!»

Two weeks after Jacques arrival, Jean passed away in his sleep. As Jacques gazed at the lifeless body, he felt a sense of relief. At least little Jean’s worries were over.

As the days went by, Jacques and André became friendlier. André was impressed with Jacques outgoing personality and his ability to make friends despite his surroundings. He saw character and courage in him.

One day, in the month of August, the boys heard a raucous noise on the fire escape, leading to the upper sleeping area. The bulls were dragging a young boy down the stairs to the courtyard. Jacques ran to the back door to see what the commotion was all about. He saw the bulls drag a boy, no older than nine years old, outside to the courtyard. They forced him to stand on a barrel and removed his shirt. He was not allowed off the barrel till they were through with him. The hot August sun beat down mercilessly on him. Two hours later his skin was beet red, and he cried begging for water. After four hours, the little tyke became unconscious and fell off the barrel. His skin was blistered, and his lips cracked. Finally, the bulls allowed some of the bigger boys to pick him up and carry him upstairs. None of the boys were allowed out while the little boy was on the barrel.

Jacques could not understand how a human being could treat another human like that. The little boy’s crime was that he talked back to one of the bulls.

The wintertime was the worst. The boys were given very little clothing to ward off the cold. There was no heat. Jacques saw just how cruel the nuns could be one day when he was assigned to scrub the hallway. As he and other youngsters were busy, one of the boys accidentally spilled some filthy water on one of two nuns passing by. The boy had not seen them coming. The nuns grabbed the unfortunate and dragged him away. Resisting and crying, he was dragged down the stairs to the cells in the basement. He was left there for two days with no blankets. When he was released his whole body shook violently. Back in his cot, the other boys tried to cover him with whatever they could find. It seemed to have affected him mentally; he was never the same after that.

That was Jacques world for the next few years. The harsh punishment meted to some of the boys was unimaginable. After all this time, he now weighed less than the first day he arrived. Father Gould was a regular