A young, under-confident Acadian woman is forced to fight for her family and homeland after they are inhumanly deported by the English.
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Joséphine Duon has been dreaming about the perfect farm and family with her childh...
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~ June 17th, 1755 ~
Blood seeped from beneath my thumb nail as I pulled my hand from my mouth. The echoes of yesterday's conversations replying.
My head was down as we walked the road to Grand-Pré church. I watched a drop of blood follow the side of my thumb.
"Do you think you'll be able to help with the shearing even in your condition?" Charles said, pulling me out of my trance.
"I can't see why not," I said with a kind smile.
Though I had been finding even the chores around the home rather difficult with my belly and back pain.
"My younger cousins will be there to help," he said in reassurance. "They aren't strong enough to cultivate the fields yet."
"Parfait,"I exclaimed and gave Charles a rub on his mid-back. "You worry about the vegetables and nothing else."
Charles nodded in response.
I knew how important it was to have enough food for the winter season, which always came on quickly. Almost all families had experienced at least one hard winter, including mine. Though none were ever easy.
"You'll be able to make some more baby clothes with the wool," Charles said in suggestion.
I loved that he cared to say so.
Before I could reply, quick, heavy hooves were heard behind us. Charles pulled me aside the road just in time.
"Merde," he said a bit too aggressively for me.
Two soldiers dressed in red galloped past us and began to slow in front of Grand-Pré church. As if on cue, French whispers arose within the street.
"Les Anglais," I said in a barely audible tone.
Charles took my hand in his as we kept on walking that way. In fact, his legs moved at a quicker pace, and I was forced to a light jog.
"We must be there to hear what they have to say," he said in explanation.
Though I had first thought we had to run the other way, I agreed with a quick nod. The sense of uneasiness only increased when we stood a few meters from the unwanted visitors.
The older soldier, with a toothbrush moustache, watched me with a strange grin. His dark brown, almost black eyes seemed evil. He got off his horse, while the other took the reins. As he pulled out a scroll and hammer, a few Acadian men hollered profanities.
"Face de t'chu!"
"Frippe mes balles!"
"Mange d'la merde!"
It was a good thing they could not understand what they were saying. We might have been in more trouble than we already were.
The wicked soldier's arm purposely brushed against mine and he mumbled something in English that I couldn't understand.
