Marie Levron was born about 1686 in or near Port Royal, Nova Scotia, to Francois “dit Nantois” Levron and Catherine Savoie. Levron is sometimes spelled Leveron, Leuron and other ways as well.

In 1686, we first find Marie Levron listed as age 1 in the census, along with her parents and three older siblings: Jacques age 9, Magdelaine, age 5, and Anne, age 2.

This probably means that Marie was actually born in 1686, given that her sibling is age 2, and children were generally born 18 months to two years apart. Later censuses also suggest that her birth was in 1686 as well.

In 1690, New England militia brutally attacked Port Royal, overtook the fort, plundered and burned the town, desecrated the church, and killed their livestock. Marie would have been too young to fully realize what was going on, but might have been terrorized by the attack itself. Assuredly, she would have been affected by the magnitude of the destruction. Given the level of trauma involved, this attack might have formed Marie’s earliest memories. Their home was probably burned, given their proximity to the fort.

Not only would her family have been immediately and directly affected, but this event was a turning point in English and Acadian relations. Any trust and goodwill between the two had been permanently destroyed.

In the 1693 census, Marie Levron was age 7 and was living at home with the same family members plus three new siblings: Elizabeth, age 3, Joseph, age 2, and Jean Baptiste, age 1. The gap between Marie and Elizabeth suggests she had an additional sibling born about 1688 who died between birth and the 1693 census.

This sibling may have died at birth when Marie was too young to realize what was taking place. Or, the child may have died just before the census when Marie was 7 and she had known them for years. It’s certainly possible that the child perished in the 1690 depredations when the English burned so many homes.

In 1698, Marie Leveron was age 12, living with her family, who had grown with the addition of two siblings – Jeanne, age 4, and Pierre, age 2. Her sister, Magdeleine, age 16, had recently married Clement Vincent and was living next door.

In 1700, Marie Leuron (Levron) was 14 and living with her family, but two of her siblings are missing. Jeanne and Pierre are not listed. Normally, this would mean that they had died, but that’s not true in this case.

Jeanne would have been 6 in 1700. She married in 1714, so she clearly had not died.

Pierre would have been 4. He is not found again until his death in 1725, when he died in the home of Pierre Godet as a domestic.

Where were these two children in 1700, and why was Pierre later working as a domestic?

Additionally, Marie’s sister, Magdeleine, also recorded as Madelaine, who was married in the 1698 census, is recorded as once again living with her parents. Her husband is not found. This leads me to question the accuracy of the census, because her husband, Clement Vincent, didn’t die, and they went on to have a dozen children. The eldest was born about 1701. Perhaps Magdeleine was visiting her parents when the census-taker recorded the family members.

In 1701, Marie Levrin, age 15, was listed as a servant in the home of Emanuel Hebert and his wife Andree Brun. Marie was younger than four of their five children at home, and one year older than their son, Alexandre, so she wasn’t living there to help with young children.

In 1698, Emanual Hebert was listed as the neighbor of Francois Levron, Clement Vincent and Rene Forest.

Servants were very unusual in Acadia, with only five listed individually. The total shows 17 servants in Port Royal, but we are left in the dark about the identity of the rest of those servants.

Marie’s parents and family are missing from the census.

It’s possible that they had departed for either Les Mines or Beaubassin and been missed in the census, or they were literally in transit. The family would have known the Emanual Hebert family well, so perhaps, for some unknown reason, Marie stayed behind, living with the Hebert’s as a servant.

If they went someplace, they were back by 1703.

In 1703, Marie was probably counted with her family in the census in Port Royal, although her parents had six daughters and four sons at the time, and the census only reflects four girls and two boys.

On November 20, 1703, Marie married Jean Garceau, a soldier at Fort Anne, and he was not listed in the census, so the census was likely taken before the wedding.

On the 20th of November in the year one thousand seven hundred and three, I, a parish priest performing the curial functions in this parish, after the publication of the three banns on three consecutive Sundays, without any impediment having been found, united in matrimony, by words in the presence of our Holy Mother Church, Jean Garsseault, called Tranchemontagne, soldier of this garrison in the company of Duvernay, son of Pierre Garsseaux and Jaquette Soulard of the parish of St. René in the diocese of Poitiers, and Marie Levron, daughter of François Levron and Catherine Savoye, of this parish. And they declared that they could not sign, but made their mark, along with those witnesses whose names I have signed below on the same day and year as above.

Marie was married by the Priest, Felix Pain, with the commander of Fort Anne serving as a witness.

The nuptials would have been performed either in the chapel at the Fort if it had been rebuilt by that time, in the rectory, or the commander’s residence in either the fort or on Hogg Island. The fort layout a few years later, in 1710, above, is from the Fort Anne Museum, at Fort Anne in Annapolis Royal.

As newlyweds, Jean and Marie would have wanted to establish a homestead, a place to live and raise their children for the rest of their lives. A little farm they could cultivate. They might well have built a small home on her father’s land.

Marie’s first baby, Pierre Garceau, was born on October 22, 1704, 11 months after they were married. His parents are listed as Jean Garssau dit Tranche Montagne and Marie Levron. Pierre Consolin, bombardier, and Anne Levron (mistranscribed as Curone), Marie’s older sister, were Godparents.

Since the 1690 attack, Fort Anne had fallen into disrepair to the point of being unable to defend itself, or anything else, for that matter. In 1702, a new, highly qualified engineer, Pierre-Paul de Labat had arrived, and by 1704, the dilapidated fort was under construction.

Concurrently, the English were chronically breathing down the neck of Acadia, so they desperately needed the protection of the new fort.

Financial and political issues with France delayed the rehabilitation of the fort which meant that Port Royal and the homesteads along the Riviere Dauphin, including where Marie and her small family lived, were exposed.

Both the soldiers and townspeople were struggling to complete the fort – but the soil and stone for the new earthworks and many ramparts all had to be hand-carried.

France, however, had essentially disappeared from the equation. No supplies arrived, and neither did money nor reinforcements.

(c) National Maritime Museum; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

Needing protection, Port Royal had little choice but to partner with privateers, a nicer name for pirates – well, at least the pirates that were on your side. Not only did they protect Port Royal, they sought and took English ships as prizes, and deposited captured English sailors at Port Royal where they could be used in future negotiations.

1707 – A Baby and a War

It’s puzzling that Marie Levron and Jean Garceau are not found in the 1707 census, but then again, neither are Marie’s parents. Jean was still a soldier, so they would have had to live near the fort.

Marie welcomed her second child, Daniel Garceau, on April 8, 1707. Interestingly, Monsieur de Subercase, Governor of the Province, and Dame Marie Mius, wife of Monsieur Duvivier, a French officer under Subercase, were Godparents. Jean Garceau was a soldier under Subercases’s command.

The two and a half year gap between Pierre and Daniel suggests that a child died in 1706, but there is no church record of such. Of course, the records may not be complete, or the child may have been born prematurely and never baptized.

A month after Daniel’s birth, the English launched an attack on Port Royal. Marie must have been utterly terrified.

To the best of our knowledge, Marie and Jean were living directly across the river from Port Royal.

All men were on a hair-trigger notice. Based on the reports provided by the English hostages, Port Royal was anticipating an attack. It was only a matter of when. Sure enough, in May of 1707, it arrived.

Messengers were sent to notify and gather the male residents living nearby in order to oppose the advance of the enemy on both sides of the river.

The British had landed near Goat Island, and more than 320 men were advancing through the woods on both banks. Port Royal was under attack.

The battle was brutal. Thankfully, Governor Subercase, who was quite competent, was in charge and led both the soldiers and Acadian men in battle.

The Acadian forces met the English face to face and engaged in hand-to-hand combat.

The English could not take the fort as they had anticipated, so they resorted to guerrilla warfare in the woods and along the river. They burned buildings and homes, laying waste to all of Port Royal.

Placard photos taken in the Museum at Fort Anne.

The English retreated, then returned again in August, but were once again repelled 11 days later.

However, the worst was yet to come – and everyone was on pins and needles.

The English Return

Subercase knew that time was limited, so he scrounged for as many additional hands as could be found to assist with the fort completion.

The privateers captured 35 more English ships and brought 470 additional English captives to Port Royal. The fort was not prepared for this many captives, and Spotted Fever, now called typhus, ravaged the hostages and the community. Typhus is caused by poor sanitation in extremely crowded conditions and is spread by fleas and body lice. More than 50 died.

Word came that a “great force” was being gathered at Boston. In preparation, Subercase added 150 Indians and 75 militia from Grand Pre. They expected an attack in 1708, and when that didn’t happen, in 1709.

The only thing that saved Port Royal in 1709 was that the English fleet had been redirected for service in the Spanish War. However, Port Royal didn’t know that.

Marie must have been a nervous wreck. She had two very small children. I think she lost a child in the spring of 1709, but we’ll never know.

1710 – Another Baby and the English Arrive

Around June 1709, Marie became pregnant for their third child.

Joseph Garceau, was born on March 20, 1710 and baptized three days later. Joseph Levron, his uncle, and Marie de Breuil stood as Godparents.

Fortunately, the fort had been mostly completed, and while Port Royal certainly could have used reinforcements from France, at least they weren’t entirely helpless now. The fort was ready – or at least as ready as it could be.

There were new barracks and a new powder magazine.

Additionally, trees and brush had been cleared from the waterfront so that the English couldn’t use it for cover.

When Marie’s baby was just six months old, and a month before her oldest child’s 6^th birthday, the first few ships of the English fleet sailed up the river and into view. Not a few English ships like had happened in 1707, but the entire English fleet consisting of more than 35 ships and 3400 soldiers would arrive within a few days – almost three times the entire population of all of Acadia. Port Royal only had about 450 residents and of that, only 100 or so were men.

The English came prepared this time, with a full siege battle plan.

Complete with a labeled map.

To make matters worse for the Acadians, the abandonment of Port Royal and the rest of Acadia by France had created morale issues among the soldiers, which, in turn, led to a high desertion rate. Many of the deserters had joined the English forces and provided them with valuable intelligence.

No pay and reduced rations will do that to you. A few soldiers, like Jean, had married local women, but most had not and wanted nothing more than to escape – one way or another.

Marie’s husband, Jean, had to leave his wife and their children, wherever they lived, or wherever he secreted them to keep them safe. He donned his uniform as a soldier, facing incredible and unwinnable odds as the English attacked.

He had to know he was facing death. Marie knew that too, no matter what he said. I can only imagine their tearful goodbye as he departed their home to defend Port Royal from within Fort Anne in the face of legions of English soldiers. He must have felt like a sitting duck!

What is it like to stare death in the face?

What is it like to leave your wife and small children to their fate at the hands of enemy soldiers?

We don’t know exactly what happened. If Jean wasn’t in the fort as the English warships sailed up the river, he would have hurriedly taken his assigned defensive station within the fort before the gates were closed.

Maybe he hurried his wife and children into the fort with him.

Fortunately, the fort’s master engineer,  Pierre-Paul DeLabat drew a 1710 map.

He labeled the Nantois, or Levron, homestead, on the river across from Hogg Island.

This location of the Levron home might explain why Marie fell in love with a soldier who was stationed right across the river.

On the 1707/1708 map drawn by Delabat, the Nantois home is shown directly across the river from Hogg Island, just slightly upriver from the fort.

If Jean was in the fort, he didn’t have the opportunity to tell his wife goodbye. I don’t know exactly where Marie’s family was, although Labat was quite specific. The Levron family may have already moved elsewhere, anticipating the onslaught. That home had assuredly been burned out in 1707 and had to rebuild.

I hope Marie was able to make her way home to her parents who lived on the north side of the River, and perhaps to her mother’s parents several miles further east.

On September 24^th, at about 2:15 in the afternoon, the first ships were sighted by sentries near Goat Island.

As more and more ships arrived from the west, a warning would have rapidly traveled along the river valley to alert the residents.

At least 35 ships anchored in front of the fort, blocking the harbour. A sea of sails swayed back and forth, striking terror in the Acadian residents and the few French soldiers, alike.

How could 300 men, which included a few visitors, possibly fend off 3400 English soldiers?

More and more ships sailed into the harbour – none of them French.

Acadia would not surrender without a fight.

By October 5^th, all of the English fleet had arrived, but the Acadians had no way to know there weren’t more.

If Marie was at her parent’s home, the river in front of their homestead would have been full of English ships. Marie and others probably continued to anxiously watch the horizon to the west for yet more English warships to appear.

I’m sure they appeared endless.

Acadian women and children had been gathered in the fort and secreted in the dank, dark, subterranean “black hole” for safety.

We don’t know if Marie was among them.

Once the only door to the Black Hole is shut, there is no light and no circulation. I’d truly have to fear imminently for my life to willingly be locked in here.

Marie may have sheltered in the black hole.

Or perhaps she had made her way upstream and was hiding there with family members, or in the mountains that line the river valley on the north side of the River, behind the Levron homestead.

On October 6^th, the English came ashore, landing troops both north and south of the Fort, and Port Royal.

The Acadians tried to fire upon the English ships, but their cannons couldn’t reach that distance across the river. The Acadians were both outnumbered and outgunned.

Aside from her own safety, Marie would have been worried sick about her husband. Was he safe? Was he injured? Was he dead? Where was he?

Could she see anything?

Fort Anne and Port Royal, including the area across the river, were completely surrounded. The Acadians resorted to guerrilla-style warfare, dressing not in military uniforms, but in skins and clothing like the Mi’kmaq, shooting at the English red-coats from the woods and what few structures remained.

The English burned everything they could. Homes, farms, fields, barn. Burned it all! Again!

After four days of resistance, Governor Subercase knew they were all about to be slaughtered. If you live, you can fight another day. From within the fort, which may have been where Marie was sheltering, Subercase sent a French officer with a white parley flag to the English camp.

Negotiations ensued for two days as the English continued to advance upon the fort. When they reached a distance of 300 feet, people within the fort could hear the voices of the English soldiers. Now within very close range, the English opened fire upon the fort and lobbed grenades inside the walls.

A hellish firestorm of a battle ensued. History speaks to the thunderous discharge of cannons and artillery raining down on the brave men holding the fort against insurmountable odds.

The women and families secreted in the pitch black Black Hole would have huddled together and prayed without cease. They would have felt every single explosion – not knowing if it was the literal end.

The English prisoners, also held in the fort, were probably equally as terrified, given that they might well be killed by either side – either intentionally or accidentally. They were probably praying too.

Then, silence.

Deafening silence.

The English fire ceased. The Acadians stood in the eerie silence, confused and wondering what was happening.

Had their prayers been answered?

Had, by some miracle, the French fleet arrived in the harbour?

Had they, by the Grace of God, been saved?

Time stood still as the Acadians waited. Anticipation had never seemed so long.

What were the people in the black hole thinking?

Were they anticipating the best, or the worst?

Maybe both?

Were they whispering, or silent?

What was happening?

And why?

By the end of the day on October 12^th, negotiations were complete.

The Acadians would not be massacred. Their families would not be harmed.

The English prisoners would be released, and British boats were sent upriver to retrieve Acadian women and children who were hidden there – and to spread the word.

The entire episode lasted for 19 excruciatingly long days. On October 16^th, the key to the fort was handed from the French officers to the English, and the French soldiers and Acadian men marched out of the fort through the gate with their dignity and little else.

Surrender terms included provisions to protect the Acadians. “Inhabitants within the gun range of the fort,” which was three miles, could remain in undisturbed possession of their land for up to two years if they wished, provided they were willing to swear an oath to the British Crown. Then they were required to leave.

Those at a greater distance than three miles were tolerated or allowed to remain on sufferance.

French soldiers were returned to France on British warships.

The local priest only recorded one death during the battle, a child who died on October 14^th during the siege. I have a hard time believing only one person died. Two soldier-age men died not long thereafter, so they could have been injured during the battle.

Jean Garceau was a soldier. He had married an Acadian woman. Where was he?

Where Was Marie’s Husband?

When the fort fell, the priest, Father Durand, tried to reunite the Acadian settlers upriver, beyond the three-mile demarcation line. He attempted to protect the residents from the terms of capitulation that required that despised oath of allegiance to the English crown, an agreement that clearly would only have been made under duress.

The English were quite unhappy with Father Durand and considered him seditious. They took him prisoner in January of 1711 and sent him, as a captive, to Boston, with a few other unnamed Acadians.

Father Durand was ultimately released and returned to Acadia later in the year.

The last date before his capture that Father Durand performed any of his clerical duties was January 17, 1711. Father Durand once again appears in the parish registers on December 20^th where he begins catching up on baptisms and other official duties that had been neglected in his absence, given that he was the only priest in Port Royal.

After recording more pressing items, Father Durand made a blanket entry for several people who had died while he was in Boston – including Jean Garceau, although he is erroneously recorded as Joseph. There was no Joseph Garceau, except for Jean and Marie’s young son, who we know did not die, and there was also no date on the group entry. What it does say is that these people died during Father Durand’s absence while he was in Boston.

Now, Marie, at age 24, was a widow with three small children. How was she going to survive?

Marie Remarries

The day after Christmas, December 26^th, Father Durand married Marie Levron, widow of Jean Garceau, with Alexander Richard.

On the twenty-sixth day of December in the year 1711, I, the undersigned, acting in the role of parish priest, after three banns were published during parish masses, did join in marriage by mutual consent Alexandre Richard, son of the late Michel Richard and Jeanne Babin, and Marie Levron, daughter of François Levron and Catherine Savoye, widow of Jean Garceau, all of this parish. They declared that they did not know how to sign. In witness of which, I have signed on the above-mentioned day and year.

While that may not be her name and signature, it is Marie’s X, so she made that actual mark. The second mark is Alexandre’s.

The witnesses are Rene de Forest, and Rene Babinaut (sp?) along with Father Justinian Durand, officiating priest.

Rene may be an important clue, because he is a neighbor of Emanuel Hebert with whom Marie had lived as a servant. She would have known the family well. It’s also worth noting that Alexander Richard’s family lived in the area too.

Unfortunately, the Nova Scotia Archives doesn’t translate or index witnesses.

While we don’t know exactly when Jean died, Marie’s marriage just six days after the priest returned strongly suggests that Jean had been deceased for some time.

If Jean Garceau died shortly after Father Durand was captured in January of 1711, Marie would have been a widow for nearly a year.

When Marie remarried, she had three Garceau children. Pierre had just turned 7, Daniel, who was four-and-a- half, and Joseph, the baby, who was 21 months old. The baby would not have remembered Jean Garceau, and Daniel probably didn’t either.

Life With Alexander Richard

Marie’s second husband, Alexander Richard dit Boutin is somewhat confusing. His father had a son by the same name with both of his wives. While that sounds odd, especially if the first son lived, this is not the first time I’ve seen this phenomenon in Acadian families.

The Alexander Richard that Marie Levron married is the younger man, born around 1686 to Michel Richard and Jeanne Babin.

Alexander’s mother, a widow, had married Laurent Doucet, who lived at BelleIsle near the Savoie family.

The older Alexander Richard had died in 1709, so even without the detail in the parish record, we know unquestionably that Marie married the younger man.

Marie’s fourth child, and first child with Alexandre, Pierre Toussaint Richard, arrived on October 1, 1712, and was baptized the following day with Pierre Laure and Jeanne Doucet as Godparents.

Marie’s parents were getting older, and her father, Francois Levron, noted as ”about seventy years old,” was buried on June 23, 1714, according to the parish registers.

Marie, her mother, siblings and their families would have gathered that summer day to lay him to rest in the cemetery inside Fort Anne, probably where her husband, Jean Garceau rested as well. At peace, but with the protective barracks in the background.

The Acadian graves remain, but all are now unmarked. Whatever markers remained in 1755 were subsequently destroyed by the English.

Marie’s mother was noted in the 1714 census as “Widow Nantois, 2 sons and 1 daughter, living in the midst of the Girouard clan – so it’s entirely possible that they had moved upriver after they were burned out in 1707 and 1710. She actually had three unmarried sons, so one of them was missing from the census.

In the 1714 census, Alexander Richard is living with his wife and four sons beside Mathiew Doucet, very near the Julien Lore dit LaMontagne – not far east of Granville Ferry on the north side of the river – near the Leveron land. Of course, three of Alexander Richard’s four sons were his step-sons, but he raised the Garceau boys as his own. In fact, Marie’s youngest Garceau son, Joseph, often used the surname Richard, and sometimes Pierre used Alexandre’s dit name, Boutin.

Another two-and-a-half-year gap between children causes me to wonder if Marie lost a child in 1714.

Claude Richard was born on June 27, 1715, with Pierre Blanchard and Anne Robichaux, daughter of Alexandre Robichaux, as Godparents.

Three years between children nearly assures that a child was born and perished.

Marie Josephe Richard was born on June 17, 1718, and baptized the following day with Yves Maucaire and Marie LeBlanc as Godparents.

Marguerite Richard was born on May 1, 1720, and baptized two days later, with Alexandre Brossard and Marguerite Bourg, wife of Pierre Brossard, as Godparents.

Another three years between children. If Marie was actually losing every other child, she must have been filled with dread and anxiety with every pregnancy, especially every other pregnancy.

Isabelle Richard was born on May 14, 1723, and baptized two days later with René Doucet and Isabelle Levron as Godparents.

Isabelle Levron is Marie’s sister, who is also recorded in some records as Elizabeth.

On January 20, 1725, Marie’s 30-year-old brother, Pierre Levron died. Their father is noted as deceased, but their mother appears to still be living.

With nearly four years between Isabelle and Joseph, I’d wager at least one child was buried during this time. Sadly, without modern medical care, families anticipated losing half of their children. What a sad state of “normal.”

Marie’s youngest child, Joseph Richard was born on February 19, 1727, and baptized the following day with ”Pierre Garceau, son of the late Jean Garceau, and Marie Lor, daughter of the late Julien Lore,” standing as Godparents. Pierre was Joseph Richard’s half-brother.

If you’re scratching your head, thinking to yourself that Marie had a child named Joseph in 1710 with Jean Garceau, and now another Joseph in 1727 with Alexandre Richard – you’d be right. And yes, they were both alive in 1727.

Apparently Alexander having a same-name half-sibling didn’t deter him from doing the same with his own offspring.

Not Peaceful

Just for the record, in case we’re inclined to think that life was peaceful in Acadia after 1710 – it wasn’t.

Conflict with the English continued. First, the Acadians were required to leave in two years. Then, when they planned to depart, the English forbid it because they had come to realize that they had no prayer of feeding their own soldiers without the Acadians raising food for them.

Yet, the English continued to require a loyalty oath, and the Acadians just as adamantly continued to refuse for a variety of reasons. In 1720, some slight of hand resolved the oath issue for for the next 35 years. The Oath the Acadians signed was two pages – but only the first page was sent back to England. So, in essence, both parties got the conditions they required.

It wasn’t until 1720 that Acadians didn’t constantly live under threat of one kind or another. Until 1755, of course.

Marie’s Premature Death

Sadly, there is no happy ending to Marie’s story. No rocking great-grandchildren by the hearth or summers playing in the warm sunshine.

On August 1, 1727, Marie died just four and a half months after she gave birth to Joseph. The parish register tells us that Marie, the wife of Alexandre Richard, died on August 1^st and was buried the following day. Her husband and Louis Tibault, her nephew, were witnesses.

Unfortunately, Marie’s parents were not listed, which would have given us a clue about whether her mother was still living. We know her father died in 1714.

The family was most probably associated with the St. Laurent Church at BelleIsle, because Marie’s sister, Madelaine/Magdelaine Levron was married there in 1722, and it was much closer than Port Royal.

Marie was either buried beside the church there, or in the cemetery at Port Royal.

On that hot summer day, Marie’s nine children would have said goodbye to their mother in the little chapel and buried her in the churchyard outside, now lost to time in the woods on the right side of the river.

When Marie died, none of her children had yet married, and many were young.

• Pierre was 23
• Daniel was 20
• Joseph was 17
• Pierre Toussaint was almost 15
• Claude was almost 12, assuming he was alive
• Marie Josephe had just turned 9
• Marguerite was 7
• Isabelle was 4
• Joseph was only four and a half months old

What was baby Joseph to do without a mother? Someone had to feed him. Perhaps one of Marie’s sisters stepped in. Elizabeth/Isabelle had a baby in September of 1726, and Madeleine had a baby in October of 1726, which meant that both women would have been nursing babies when Joseph was in need. And, after all, they were her sisters and Joseph’s aunts.

Marie had probably already buried 4 or 5 children, mostly babies, along with her father and her first husband. Hopefully, she was buried near her children, all of whom passed too soon.

I can’t help but wonder if Marie’s death was an after-effect of or connected to Joseph’s birth.

Marie was only 40.

Who Raised Marie’s Children?

Who raised Marie’s children? Did her mother or perhaps a sister step in? If Marie knew how ill she was, or suspected that she was dying, that would have been the question foremost on her mind.

The purpose of Godparents is to raise the child in the event that the parents perish and cannot raise the child. In this case, only one parent died. Normally, what happens in cases like this is that the living parent quickly remarries to another individual who has lost their spouse. Clearly, in a small community, everyone already knew everyone else.

There’s absolutely no evidence that Alexandre ever remarried, and his occurred after the 1755 deportation – so he was single for a very long time.

Perhaps the marriages and other records of Marie’s children provide some clues.

• Pierre Garceau, also sometimes known as Pierre Boutin, married Agnes Doucet in 1728 and lived in Port Royal. Alexander Richard did not sign for him. They had eight children. Pierre disappears from records after he witnesses his daughter’s marriage in Annapolis Royal in 1750. His wife, Agnes Doucet, died in Connecticut in 1789, so if Pierre lived long enough to be deported, that’s likely where he ended up. He would have been 51 years old in 1755.
• Daniel Garceau married Anne Doucet about 1730 and lived near Annapolis Royal. No parish marriage record. They had 11 children. After the 1755 deportation, Daniel ended up in New York before making his way to Quebec.
• Joseph Garceau married Marie Philippe Lambert about 1732 and lived in Beaubassin. No parish marriage record found. They had seven children. During the Grand Derangement, aka, forced expulsion of the Acadians, Joseph was reportedly separated from his family and deported to Georgia, while his wife, Marie Lambert, and children sought refuge at Isle St. Jean before making their way to Quebec where the family was reunited.
• Pierre Touissant Richard married Marie Josephe Boudreau about 1732 and lived in Pisiguit. No marriage parish record found. They had six children. Pierre died at Port-la-Joye and was buried in 1751 on Isle St. John, today’s Prince Edward Island. His wife and children were deported to France in 1758 aboard the Duke William, landing in St. Malo, where one son died two days later, his wife died three days later and another son, 4 weeks later. Two additional children recovered, one living the rest of their life in France, and one eventually making it to Louisiana. One son’s wife and child made it to France, but his fate is unknown. The fate of the sixth child is unknown.
• Claude Richard’s fate is unknown, but he could have died young – perhaps before Marie’s untimely passing.
• Marie Josephe Richard married Paul Doiron in Annapolis Royal in 1738, with her father, Alexandre Richard, signing the parish register for her, so we know they were both still in or near Annapolis Royal in 1738. They had 11 children. Marie Josephe gave birth to a child in Pisiquit by 1747 and was on Ile St. Jean by 1752. By 1760, she was living in Saint-Etienne-de-Beaumont, just across the river from Quebec City in Canada, where she died in 1796. Five of her children succumbed to the smallpox epidemic that ravaged Quebec, and Quebec City in particular, in the winter of 1757-1758. Those children died on November 8, 1757, December 20^th, January 7^th , 8^th and 14^th, 1758, and were buried in the same cemetery as her sister, Marguerite’s children.
• Marguerite Richard married in 1745 in Port Royal to Jean Breau “of the Canard River,” which empties into the Minas Basin across from Grand Pre. Alexandre Richard did sign as a witness. We don’t know exactly where Marguerite’s six children were born, but given that there are no Annapolis Royal baptism records for them, we have to assume it was near where her husband was farming. They were in Notre-Dame-de-Quebec by mid-1757, which means they were not deported from Annapolis Royal. Given their early settlement in Quebec, they would have been deported from further north in Nova Scotia, sought refuge in one of the encampments, and had possibly escaped their English guards at Mirimichi. Tragically, all but one of Marguerite’s family members succumbed to the smallpox epidemic of 1757-1758. Her husband, Jean Breau (Brault), died on July 4, 1757, the same day as Francoise, her six-month-old baby. Marguerite assuredly was horribly grief-stricken. She soon became ill herself, with a houseful of sick children. Marguerite died on December 7^th, her 12-year-old son Jean died the following day, three-year-old Marie Josephe died on December 13^th, four-year-old Francois died on December 18^th, and 10-year-old Alexis died on January 12, 1758. They were buried in the cemetery at Notre-Dame-de-Quebec in Quebec City. Only one of Marguerite’s children, Elizabeth, survived to adulthood and died in 1792 at about age 41 in Quebec, after burying two husbands. What a horrific tragedy.
• Isabelle Richard married Francois Raimon in 1753 in Port Royal. Alexandre Richard did not sign for her. We know nothing more about Isabelle other than she reportedly was listed on the 1760 Essex County, Massachusetts Acadian census, and was noted as having been deported to Connecticut in 1755. No children are listed. The next person on the census list is her father, Alexandre Richard dit Boutin.
• Joseph Richard died in 1747 in Annapolis Royal. Alexandre was not a witness.

This tells us that Alexandre Richard did not move someplace else and remarry – and he stayed very involved with his children. He was obviously expelled with Isabelle and her husband and may have been living in the same household.

Marie’s husband, Alexandre Richard, three children and 18 grandchildren living in Annapolis Royal, formerly Port Royal until the English took it, were ensnared in the horrific expulsion of the Acadians. Additionally, four other children were forcibly expelled from elsewhere in Nova Scotia, and many died.

In 1755, by the time Marie’s husband and children who remained in Annapolis Royal were forced to march down the snow-covered Queen’s Wharf, board overcrowded death ships, leaving everything behind, Marie had been in her grave for 28 years.

If Marie’s final resting place was in the Garrison Graveyard, Alexandre and her children would have paused one last time to say goodbye, even if it was from the distance of the wharf.

We can only imagine the hell that followed.

On the 1760 list of Acadians in Essex County, Massachusetts, Alexandre Richard is listed, as is his daughter Isabelle Richard, who was married to Francois Raymond. Alexandre is listed as 70, infirm, and sent to Bradford.

So, it would appear that Alexandre Richard did not remarry, and one way or another, managed to find a way to raise his six children, and three step-children. Perhaps the older children raised the younger children, and everyone worked the farm together.

Alexandre was a good father to all 9 of Marie’s children, and apparently, loved Marie beyond the grave, given that he never remarried, remaining single for the next 33+ years.

Tragedy

Tragically, Marie’s life was cut short, as was that of many family members. Maybe it was a blessing that she did not have to endure 1755 and what followed, with her family separated in as many directions as there were living children.

Marie never got to attend her children’s weddings or cherish the smiles and giggles of grandchildren. She never received the honor of serving as a Godmother to her grandchildren, or seeing them baptized.

Marie buried her first husband, Jean Garceau, who may have died as a result of the 1710 fall of Acadia to the British.

Marie was fortunate enough to marry Alexandre Richard, who raised her three Garceau children in addition to their own. Marie’s youngest Garceau child was a baby and was close enough to Alexandre to take his surname as an adult. So did her eldest from time to time.

Some of Marie’s children remained in Port Royal after marriage, but several others struck out for points North where more land on the Bay of Fundy was available for salt-marsh reclamation and farming.

Marie had at least 48 grandchildren, and probably several more. Records are spotty, and in the colonies, nonexistent.

Of those known grandchildren, 18 lived in Port Royal, so, had Marie lived, she would have known them and been able to see them regularly, probably on a daily basis. She would have been a seamless part of thier lives. I can see her playing hide-and-seek in the sunlight and shadows with them – except she never got to. Perhaps she visited them in other ways.

Marie’s mother, Catherine Savoie, born about 1659, may have outlived her daughter. Unfortunately, there is no existing death record for Catherine, so we don’t know when she died. Based on her son Pierre’s death record in 1725, where his father is noted as deceased, but Catherine is not, she may well have lived several years beyond Marie. She would have been about 68 when Marie died.

While Marie’s grandchildren didn’t have the opportunity to interact with her, they may have known and been close to Catherine – at least for a few years.

As difficult and tragic as Marie’s life was, she raised children who were survivors. Had it not been for those who persevered, with a dash of luck, of course, and probably several rounds of prayers, especially in the Black Hole – I would not be here today.

Our ancestors may have been scattered to the wind, but the Acadians were seeds and took root the world over. Today, WikiTree reports that Marie has (at least) 1984 descendants, and I’m sure there are more whose identities remain unknown.

_____________________________________________________________

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You might have noticed that I haven’t published a 52 Ancestors article recently.

You might also have noticed that I’ve been swamped with conference season this fall, and while that’s part of it, there’s more to this story.

A lot more.

I’m sure you’re aware that I’m the family storyteller and legend-keeper – yet I don’t know how to tell you this.

I’ll just warn you up front that not all of this makes sense – at least not logical sense as we know it on this side of the veil.

Grab a cup of coffee or tea as I screw my courage up to begin.

You see, my ancestors called me.

Not only that, they had been calling me for a very long time.

The Calling

I surely wish I knew how to explain this – that I possessed adequate words.

The ancestors have been calling me for a long time. A cacophony of voices, each seeking to be heard. Much like the din of voices in a noisy restaurant. You can’t hear any one person, and you surely know there are voices, but you have no idea that any of them are speaking to you.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but my draw to genealogy and family history was their voices beckoning – except too jumbled for me to hear. Yet, I heeded the call, masked as curiosity. Mother apparently heard it, too. Sometimes, she would come up with tidbits, pieces of information that she “just knew” but had no idea how she knew. And you know something, she was always right.

Every. Single. Time.

Even though many of them wouldn’t be proven or confirmed for years or even decades later.

I didn’t think too much about it back then. But trust me, I’ve thought a LOT about it recently.

Sometimes, my insistent ancestors lasso other people into this drama, too. Sometimes, as unsuspecting accomplices, encouraging me. Sometimes, as people who have access to records that the ancestors need me to have as pieces of their story. Sometimes, as a passerby with just the right scrap of information – or the right direction. People literally stopped me on the street. Or perhaps, ancestors shapeshifted and took the shape of someone who had disappeared into thin air when I turned back around to ask them for clarification. Perhaps.

So much of this journey has just been surreal.

Talk about unnerving.

At those moments, all you can do is swallow and walk forward into whatever awaits – just hoping and praying you’re in the right place, and safe.

Yes, safe. When you see where I was “shepherded to” as I share this journey over the next few months, one ancestor at a time, you’ll understand.

Ancestral Fate

Sometimes, after you’ve followed an inexplicable path, you find yourself standing exactly at the juncture of fate.

Fate that changed lives. Your ancestors’ lives. Not simply one of them, but all of them living at that time in that place. In an instant, it shifted the trajectory of the lives of countless generations of descendants. Changed the very essence of my life. Had that historic, fateful juncture not occurred, I wouldn’t be here and certainly wouldn’t have been standing there.

Through the thinness of the veil, I could hear their voices, their cries, sometimes bloodcurdling screams. Palpably feel their fear as it rose in their throats and then, standing in their footprints, rose in mine.

Yes, they called me. Summoned me.

I had absolutely no idea the journey I was about to undertake.

I have only ever been on one other journey in my life that shifted time and stirred my soul with wave after wave of overwhelming emotions. An earlier journey I have never written about and shared with few.

This time, this journey, I’m sharing. With you.

I am forever changed.

Nova Scotia

Nova Scotia wasn’t Nova Scotia when this odyssey began for my ancestors. My Mi’kmaq ancestors referred to the lands where they lived as Mi’kma’ki, pronounced something Migmawgee. They were stewards of this land for more than 10,000 years, leaving their petroglyph art and secred legends.

Vikings visited before European fishermen and explorers began to arrive offshore in the 1500s. In the early 1600s, the French were establishing mutually beneficial trade relationships with the Mi’kmaq people.

The Mi’kmaq were entirely unaware of what would befall them. Diseases against which they had no immunity would devastate their population, and eventually, hordes of colonizers would all but displace them from their ancestral lands. Like the French who became Acadians, the Mi’kmaq, too, would become victims of European wars.

However, in the early 1600s, most of that was still in the future.

By the 1630s, the southern coastline of Nova Scotia, then known as Acadia, served as a fishing grounds punctuated with a few French trading forts. The French warred and argued among themselves, as people are wont to do, but for the most part, the Mi’kmaq people were impervious to the quarreling of their trading partners.

In time, European men, mostly French, sought to take wives among the Native women, and deeper alliances were formed – those of blood.

By 1632, encouraged and financed by a minor French nobleman, a few French families had settled at La Have. I will take you there on my journey, but not today. By 1636, the center or capital of Acadia was moved to Port Royal as additional French settlers and families arrived. Port Royal consisted of just a few houses and a fort.

It’s there, in historic Port Royal, later renamed Annapolis Royal in 1710 after being taken over by the English, that Acadia as we know it unfolded.

It’s there, in historic Port Royal, and for a dozen miles upstream, that I waded through marshes, climbed dykes and fortified ramparts, and communed with my ancestors. I was escorted into the marshes by newly-made friends, some of whom turned out to be cousins. I was drawn and guided to the remains of the foundations of my ancestors’ homesteads, their orchards, fields, and the wells that sustained them.

I trekked in the company of a friend from years back who I met when he was searching for his biological parents. We wound up being cousins through several Acadian lines and had a tearful, joyful reunion in our joint homeland.

We stood where our ancestors stood. Walked where they walked, and sobbed where they sobbed. I felt both their fear and unbridled joy.

I realized that my DNA permeates every inch of this land. This is the land of my ancestors.

What I didn’t understand was that they had been calling me for decades. This wasn’t my first trip to Nova Scotia – but it was the first time that I understood.

Chester, Nova Scotia

In the late 1990s, before the days of cell phones with cameras, I accidentally spent time in Chester, Nova Scotia, attending the Embroiderers’ School of Advanced Study.

By accidentally, I mean that I traveled to Chester, Nova Scotia, a small town not far from Halifax, with a few fiber artists for the purpose of art quilting and inspiration.

The inspiration I hoped for and expected was for a quilt and to sharpen my artistic skills. What happened was something else entirely.

I had absolutely NO IDEA at that time that not only was this chapter 1, but it was the first page of the first chapter. This book is not yet complete.

I thought it was just an artist’s retreat.

I received inspiration all right, but not exactly as I expected.

I Am a River

The resulting quilt that I finished months later was titled “I Am a River.”

Yes, indeed, I am that river with all its twists, turns, and rocky protrusions. Fluid, changing, morphing.

My life had changed courses dramatically through events quite outside my control. Death and destruction of lives. Rebirth and recovery. That’s what I thought I was working through.

The instructor realized that something else was going on. Something besides quilting and fabric selection. Something besides good food and companionship.

Perhaps life is art, or art is life. Perhaps our art is influenced by forces far deeper than we know.

While the instructor lectured about color selection and other artsy things, I was increasingly fascinated by something, or some things, outside the window. My mind wandered aimlessly elsewhere.

We gathered for our classes on the second floor of a beautiful historic building, lined with rock walls and old wooden fences.

I was fascinated and enthralled.

I realized that I loved the sea. The maritime landscape beckoned to me as if it was a living thing.

Boats were moored at the docks and anchored in the harbour, bobbing up and down rhythmically on gentle waves. Beautiful leaves and foliage graced rock walls. And the water, the mesmerizing sea, drew me in.

Drew me out.

Drew me away.

The instructor did something very unusual.

She dug her sketchbook out of a bag, along with a box of watercolor crayons, offering them to me. I felt very self-conscious and somewhat embarrassed. I was “that” ill-behaved student. I explained to her that I wasn’t a painter, not a watercolorist – in fact, I had never used that medium before. I didn’t even know watercolor crayons existed.

She was encouraging and told me it didn’t matter. She said to take my camera, her sketchbook, and a box of crayons that turned to watercolor when you rubbed water over them after you colored and just go out and walk. Follow my heart. The sketchbook was my diary, and I was to simply go enjoy myself.

She didn’t have to tell me twice.

I walked and walked. For days and miles, mostly along the water. Oh, I went back and sewed a bit and ate with the group most of the time. However, my classmates seemed to be much more interested in my adventures than I was in theirs. I felt rather naughty, given that I wasn’t really doing what I was “supposed” to be doing. At least I didn’t think so back then.

Now, I realize I was doing EXACTLY what I was sent there to do.

And what an adventure I had!

I even met the local police when I got stuck wiggling under a thorny bush beside a tree that I had crawled under, before realizing it sported fine-as-frog-hair needle-sharp thorns.

I was taking pictures of the stunningly beautiful sunset and foliage over the bay, but all the officers could see was a pair of legs sticking out from under a bush. Backing out was painful, and funny. After they got me unstuck, we all had a good laugh, and they showed me an easier photo location. My fellow artists saw me in the squad car, and by the time I returned, they had already created a MUCH better story. We laughed and laughed!

Everyone was incredibly nice and had suggestions and stories about picturesque locations and what to order in the various restaurants, all waterfront. By the end of the week, everyone in town knew me.

Yes, these pictures are awful because I scanned them more than two decades later. But they are also precious in so many ways.

They foreshadowed the path my life would take. I was metaphorically as well as actually at a fork in the road, a road that would one day bring me back home. To Acadia.

I had no idea that this sun-kissed and wind-swept place was already deeply etched in my psyche and carved into my heart.

I had no idea I was following my soul and that what I “heard” out there was the collective voices of my ancestors calling. Beckoning me.

I had no idea that one day, I would return.

Yes, they were speaking to me, even back then.

I was entirely unaware that I had any connection to Nova Scotia or even Canada or New England. That brick wall wouldn’t fall for at least another 10 or 15 years, and even then, in the strangest of ways.

Acadian Connection

Mother’s grandfather, Curtis Benjamin Lore was Acadian on his father’s side. Of course, Mother didn’t know that, and neither did her mother or her aunts. No one knew that family secret.

I discovered why just a few years ago, long after Mom had joined our ancestors. Our Acadian family was filled with layers of drama.

In fact, Curtis Lore’s father, Anthony, or Antoine Lore as he was baptized in the Catholic church in Quebec, left all churches altogether. Not only that, but he also left Canada for Vermont where he married before moving on to Pennsylvania with his bride. He might or might not have been a river pirate.

Mystery swirls around Anthony’s life and the circumstances of his untimely death and no one but no one talked about that. His wife, Rachel Hill, died shortly thereafter, leaving impoverished orphans trying to make their way in the world. Curtis Lore, their son left it all behind. A chance overheard conversation led me to a cousin in Pennsylvania who helped unearth that part of the story, one boulder at a time.

It took years and a completely unrelated “chance encounter” in North Carolina that led me to Blairfindie in Quebec, and, eventually, Antoine’s 1806 baptism.

Years later, another “chance encounter” with just the right person provided confirmation that the man in Vermont was the child born to Honore Lore and Marie Lafaille.

If you’re thinking this is the strangest thing ever, with all of these “coincidences,” welcome to my world.

I eventually was able to track those ancestors in Quebec, and somehow, against all odds, connected the dots and bridged the seemingly insurmountable gap between the late 1700s in Quebec, back through New England, and then to Annapolis Royal in Nova Scotia in 1755 where the truly unfathomable and unspeakable had happened.

How did I ever manage to navigate those fraught waters? Eventually, DNA helped a lot in the bigger picture, but connecting the dots with individual people was extremely challenging, especially given the lack of records or even a location in New England.

There were so many synchronistic “coincidences.” After an uncanny number of coincidences, I came to question if they really were coincidences.

There were surprises, too.

Native Ancestors

After DNA testing began, I was completely shocked to learn that my mother and I both carried Native American DNA. How was that even remotely possible? It was surely an error. Yes, it had to be. Everyone in her family except for that one grandfather, who I didn’t yet know was Acadian, was either German or Dutch.

But, as it turned out, it wasn’t a mistake.

Then, I assumed our Native DNA came from Pennsylvania where Curtis Lore lived, once we figured that out – but, again, I was wrong. It didn’t. It came through the Acadian lines in early Nova Scotia – a word I didn’t even know yet at the time I discovered Mother’s Native American genetic heritage.

I needed to associate a person with the genetic evidence, but that seemed impossible, given that I couldn’t even figure out Curtis’s parents’ names initially.

Years later, I was able to positively identify one of Mother’s Native American ancestors by combining autosomal DNA testing and ethnicity segments with mitochondrial DNA results of matrilineal descendants of my Mi’kmaq ancestor whose name we don’t know.

We do know she married Philipp Mius and had daughter Francoise about 1684. My Mi’kmaq ancestor didn’t join Philipp in the French Acadian villages. He joined her in the Native villages, up and down the southwest coast of Nova Scotia, including the islands off Chester, Lunenburg, then known as Merliguesch, and Halifax. None of those locations had English names at that time.

Yes, my ancestors lived on and frequented the exact islands I photographed in the 1990s before a future series of coincidences revealed those ancestors and their history.

What are the chances?

Those ancestors were loudly insistent.

Metamorphosis

By the time 2023 rolled around, my life had metamorphosed and changed completely from that of the 1990s. Morphed much like caterpillar emerging as a butterfly from a cocoon and drying its wings.

Discoveries about my Acadian ancestors were flowing like a waterfall, one after the other. Many were shocking, incredibly sad, and horrifying. At the same time, they spoke of incredible courage, bravery, and fortitude.

At first, I was thrilled to break down those brick walls one after the other – but ultimately – I realized that my role was to research, reveal, and document their struggles, loves, and lives as they lived them.

One day, it dawned on me – at least a few of them survived genocide. I never realized the 1755 deportation, or Le Grand Dérangement, the great upheaval, as they called it, was cultural genocide – a crime against humanity. Many people simply disappeared into the abyss of the unknown.

You can’t tell the good without the bad. You can’t document the wins without the losses. Someone needs to tell their individual stories, and I’m doing exactly that.

This had probably been my calling all along.

Generational Trauma

I never understood what generational trauma was or what it meant before I met my Acadian ancestors.

I understand generational poverty all-too-well, and that children suffer from the unfortunate cultural circumstances of the families into which they are born. Circumstances they often cannot escape.

What I never really considered was that generational trauma can span centuries, cultures and many, many generations. Leaving your homeland isn’t enough to escape. I have to wonder how much of this cumulative trauma has been seared into our genetics – epigenetics – genetic memory – whatever.

Does it also lead us home?

Homecoming

Can you experience a homecoming to a homeland you’ve never been to before? Can it feel so incredibly familiar that it moves you to tears? Just simply “being” there? Touching the soil? Feasting your eyes?

Yes, I had been to Chester as an appetizer decades ago, but I had never been anywhere else in Acadia, which spans all of Nova Scotia.

Can generational memories somehow lead and bring you to places you aren’t even consciously aware of? Those places that were the pivot points where your ancestors’ lives were uprooted and changed forever? Is there some unseen force guiding or sometimes pushing us?

Do descendants carry the markers in some way of cultural genocide?

Is there a path back for us? Are the events and memories seared into our ancestors’ souls passed down to us in some way?

How can one possibly be so connected to a place you’ve never been before?

I don’t have answers.

Three Weeks in August

I spent three weeks in August 2024 on the ground in Nova Scotia, tracing my ancestors’ collective footsteps, beginning along the LaHave River, visiting locations I knew that my ancestors had visited and lived.

They sent messages and guided me, including through one man I had just met a few minutes earlier. He took me aside and very uncomfortably said to me, “Don’t think I’m crazy. I can’t believe I’m saying this to you – but your ancestors know you’re here. They are here with you.”

Imagine my shocked look as my mouth fell open. But he wasn’t finished.

“Also, your mother. Is your mother with you?”

What a question.

Yes, mother was with me in multiple ways. Her body had departed this realm in 2006, but this was “her trip” and was she ever with me.

I was also wearing Mom’s ring, the one given to her as a teen by her grandmother, the wife of her Acadian grandfather. She wore it every day of her life, and I wore it on this adventure, taking pictures of “her” in her ancestor’s locations.

Each successive place we visited offered additional adventures of its own. I’ll be taking you along with me as I finish processing not only the photos and research, but the incredible avalanche of emotions.

Let me share just one extremely poignant moment.

The Expulsion

In 1755, following over a century of escalating tensions between the Acadians, who had peacefully lived and farmed in Nova Scotia, and the British, who sought to control the region, the British ultimately succeeded in forcibly deporting and expelling the Acadian population.

Acadian families were rounded up and kidnapped, their farms burned in front of their eyes, their livestock shot, and their dykes that kept the sea at bay from their fields were destroyed. The British wanted absolutely no question in the minds of the Acadians that there was nothing to return for. They had no homes left. No fields. No family. Nothing.

The British fleet anchored in the harbour beside Port Royal which had been renamed Annapolis Royal when the British defeated the French in 1710. The Acadians had previously experienced sporadic attacks by the British where they burned and pillaged, but then went away again.

That’s what the Acadians expected this time, too, but it’s not what happened. The Acadians thought they were safe because the British needed the Acadian farmers to feed the British soldiers, but they were wrong.

The harbour beside Fort Anne in Port Royal was safe and protected from the Atlantic, but ships could not pull directly up to the town itself because the river was tidal and too shallow near the shores.

That was another form of protection from attack.

In 1755, the British decided to end the conflict with the Acadians once and for all by rounding them up and deporting them. Their lands would then be distributed to the much more easily controlled non-Catholic colonists from New England.

The British ships came to anchor in the bay. The Acadians prepared for soldiers to attack and force them to sign a loyalty oath to the British Monarchy.

Instead, the British came ashore and held the men at the fort while rounding up the women and children.

I knew that every one of my ancestors had stood on this hallowed ground at the fort in Port Royal during their lifetimes. Some defended the fort. Some traded there. Some died there. Everyone worshipped there, as the original church was located beside the cemetery.

The original land before the fort was extended and fortified between 1705 and 1710 had belonged to Abraham Dugas. the armorer, who married Marguerite Doucet, Simon Pelletret who married Perrine Bourg, Jacque Bonnevie, military corporal and blacksmith who married Francoise Mius, Guillaume Trahan whose wife is unknown, and possibly Martin Aucoin.

My ancestors had been born, were baptized and married, lived, and were buried on the land under my feet. This fort, cemetery, and Catholic church that had once stood here was the one location that every single Acadian ancestor has unquestionably been – not once but regularly. The hub of their lives.

Not one or some, but everyone. It represents an entire group of people who were isolated to their own community with no newcomers. Everyone was related. That’s part of the power of this place.

Tears streamed down my face.

Earlier generations, before the deportation, were buried in now-unmarked graves in the cemetery at the fort, established before the Catholic church was burned. The fort, church, and cemetery were the center of the town of Port Royal.

In 1755, many of those graves would still have been fresh – and marked.

I walked around the fort grounds several times over multiple days, understanding the central place in the lives of all Acadians.

On the last day, I noticed something off to the side, across the ramparts, extending into the water. This was actually outside the fort, kind of behind the end of the current town. The building in the photo at right is a municipal building housing the police station.

I was drawn to this…thing…whatever it was. But I couldn’t exactly get there.

The hill descending to this walkway of sorts was very steep. It overlooked the land across the river that had been the homesteads of the Doucet, Bourg and Leveron families – also my ancestors.

By the time I found this small peninsula of land, it was late in the day, nearly sunset, and I was exhausted. I had been ill the week before my trip to Nova Scotia and not fully recovered – but nothing was stopping me now.

I had to get down there somehow.

I walked part way into town and around, behind the police station, and discovered stairs descending to the river level.

When I was leaving, I saw a sign and walked over to see what it said. I’m telling you this out of order so you understand what’s coming.

Good heavens! I had stumbled onto the deportation wharf. I had absolutely no idea it still existed.

The physical location where my ancestors’ lives were ripped apart in 1755.

Where they and their unsuspecting children and family members were shoved into rowboats, rowed out into the river, and deposited onto different ships. It was chaos. No one knew what was happening.

Families, in those horrific hours and minutes, carrying only what they could, were eternally separated – never to find or see each other again.

Many searched until death.

Where did death befall them? In many cases, we simply don’t know. Some overcrowded ships sank. Others, as poverty-stricken refugees, were buried and forgotten in anonymous graves where they landed among people all too unhappy to see them.

In most cases, we have no idea where they were – as the ships were intentionally separated and sent to different colonies so that the Acadians couldn’t scheme to return home.

God rest their souls.

I walked out onto the wharf and back in time into their lives.

The fort ramparts were to my left.

The wharf in front of me, now grass-covered, was a one-way ticket to Hell. 

A death march for many. Torturous for all.

How could the British do that?

Much like Hitler’s minions in the 1930s, “just following orders”?

Torture.

Murder.

Genocide.

I reached the end of the wharf where there were only stones, preventing today’s wharf-walkers from proceeding into the endless waters.

Yellow roses for their broken hearts.

The harbour where the ships anchored, and the exit into the Bay of Fundy – the last the Acadians would ever see of their beloved Acadia.

I could see the fort behind me, just as they would have. Originally their fort, but long-since the British fort.

The ships were anchored here. Boats rowed by British soldiers from the wharf to the ships loaded unwilling and probably sobbing Acadians.

No one knew where their family members were.

Standing on the beach, the edge of the town to my right.

A panoramic from the wharf of a now-empty, deceptively tranquil, harbour, but filled with ships taking the Acadians to God-knows-where back then.

I stood here for a very, very long time, realizing that their lives and families were ripped from them. Their agony is still palpable. They did absolutely nothing, aside from simply existing, to deserve this.

We have literally no idea what became of many of these people, or their children. I’m certain that this list of my ancestors is not comprehensive.

• Marie Charlotte Bonnevie, born about 1703, married Jacques Lore/Lord, and died after 1742. Nothing more is known.
• Jacques dit Montagne Lord/Lore, born about 1678, married Marie Charlotte Bonnevie, was probably deported to New York and died in 1786 in Quebec.
  • Honore Lore/Lord, born 1742 to Jacques Lore/Lord and Marie Charlotte Bonnevie, fought in New York in the Revolutionary War and died in 1818 in Quebec.
• Jean LePrince, born about 1692, married Jeanne Blanchard and died sometime after 1752, probably either in Les Mines or after deportation.
• Jeanne Blanchard, born about 1675, married Jean LePrince, death unknown
  • Marie Joseph LePrince, born in 1715, married Jacques DeForest, and died after 1748, probably in Connecticut.
• Francoise Dugas, born 1679, married Rene DeForest, son Jacques DeForest. She may have died about 1751 or perhaps during or after the deportation.
  • Jacques DeForest, born in 1707, married Marie Josephe LePrince and died in Connecticut sometime after 1763.
    • Marguerite DeForest, born in 1747 to Jacques DeForest and Marie Josephe LePrince, died in Quebec in 1819.
• Rene Doucet, born about 1678, married Marie Anne Broussard, death unknown
• Marie Anne Broussard, born in 1686, married Rene Doucet, death unknown.
  • Anne dit Jeanne Doucet, born in 1713, married Daniel Garceau, was deported to Connecticut, and died in 1791 in Quebec.
  • Daniel Garceau, born in 1707, married Anne Doucet, was deported to Connecticut, and died in 1772 in Quebec.
    • Appoline dit Hippolyte Garceau, born in 1742 to Daniel Garceau and Anne dit Jeanne Doucet, deported with her parents and died in 1788 in L’Acadie, Quebec.

Of course, it’s not “just” these people – it’s their families too. Children, grandchildren, siblings, nieces and nephews, and sometimes, elderly parents.

Cruelly separated. Gone where?

On December 8, 1755, at least 1664 men, women, and children, all of whom were related to each other, often in multiple ways, suffered this fate – launched into sure and certain Hell from this wharf.

Eventually, I turned and walked back up what’s left of the wharf, knowing that they never had that privilege. They would have given anything to do what I just did.

I walked for them – even decades and centuries later. I felt their agony as they watched this land that they loved become more distant and then disappear, a dot in the distance, as their ship sailed into oblivion. They had never known any other home or lived anyplace other than Acadia.

What were they to do?

How would they survive?

My heart is so very heavy.

The enormity of this genocidal tragedy overwhelmed me and still does. One doesn’t “recover” from something like this.

I walked a block or so into the town where they had once lived, then onto Hogg Island, formerly owned by Jacques Bourgeois, also my ancestor, watching the sun set as I walked – as I knew they had done hundreds of times in their lives.

They must have watched the sun set over their beloved Acadia from the frigid decks of those ships, slipping behind the mountains and winking goodnight – unaware that it would be the last time for all of Eternity.

François was born between 1616 and 1621, someplace in France.

François’s surname, Girouard was spelled a myriad of ways including Giroir, Girrior, Gerrior, Girouer and Giroud. However, Girouard really wasn’t the name by which he was known. His nickname, Lavaranne, was what he was called by other Acadians.

“Dit” names are translated loosely as “said” or ”called” names. Don’t you just love them. Nicknames with a purpose. Maybe. Maybe a hint as to where the person came from. Or, maybe something about their trade or them personally.

Was François from the La Varenne region of France? La Varenne, an ancient town whose population is still only about 1,700 people, is located Northeast of Nantes on the Loire River.

The people of the town of La Varenne are known as Varennais, Varennaises today.

By I, Parigot, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2390276

You can see a lovely view of the town from the top of the old castle, here.

La Varenne is about 100 miles from La Rochelle, where many of the Acadian families originated. In fact, François’s wife, Jeanne Aucoin, and her family were from La Rochelle.

There are also other places in France that incorporate the name La Varenne.

Some researchers say that François was “undoubtedly” born in the La Chaussée commune in the Vienne department in the Nouvelle-Aquitaine region in western France. That, too, would explain Lavarenne. Lord d’Aulnay was from this region, which includes Chaussée, Aulnay, and Martaizé in the Loudon region of France. He likely recruited colonists from nearby. D’Aulnay and his cousin de Razilly were responsible for bringing at least 60 French families to Acadia between 1632 and 1636.

D’Aulnay, of noble birth and eventual Governor of Acadia beginning in 1635, established Port Royal as the headquarters by erecting a fort and maintained control of Acadia through 1643 and 1645 attacks from rival French forces. If François was there during this time, he would have been one of the soldiers defending the fort. He was assuredly there before 1654 when Acadia fell to the British again.

D’Aulnay died in 1650 in a boating accident, weakening French control of Acadia before falling to the British in 1654. Three years later, his rival, La Tour married his widow. D’Aulnay’s legacy, though, is the fact that Acadia thrived under his leadership because he focused on encouraging and transporting French families to settle in Acadia.

Where Did François Girouard Come From?

Did the Girouard family immigrate with D’Aulnay from La Chaussee?

My amazing cousin Mark has done a significant amount of trawling through original French records. Thank you so much, Mark.

He notes:

There is a lot of conflicting speculation as to François’ birthplace, and Find-a-Grave, without any evidence or source, states he was born at La Chaussée in 1621. I’m very familiar with La Chaussée records and went back online to confirm that they only go back to 1626.

Is Lavarenne just a nickname, or does it mean something more, indicating a location? Given the lack of records, we may never know – that is – unless a male with a similar surname from France tests and matches a Girouard male descendant of François.

(If you are a Girouard male descending from François or from any ancestor in France, please reach out, I have a Y-DNA testing scholarship at no cost waiting for you.)

Karen Theroit Reader rules out some possibilities on her wonderful tree:

Clarence J. d’Entremont, “The GIROUARD Family,” in LE REVEIL ACADIEN; vol. XII, no. 3 (Aug 1996); p. 63. The head of the Acadian branch of the family is François GIROUARD, but he is not the François who is found in the archives of La Chausse’e, France, since he was there in 1679 as well, in an act from a Loudon notary. (Reference: E453/118-119) He could have been from any of several La Varenne locations in France, since that was the name given him on the Belle-Ile-en-Mer genealogical declarations. According to those, as well, he and Jeanne AUCOIN were already married at the time of their arrival in Acadia, which would place them with the contingent of colonists in the “200 Elite Men” of Jacques de Poix, Sieur de Saint-Mas, brought over in 1651.

If men who descend directly from François Girouard through all males, so carry his Y chromosome, take a Y-DNA test – and so do men from various locations in France – we can tell definitively if they are the same lines. In essence, this means that while this particular man who was born in 1679 in La Chausee cannot be our François, because we know our François was in Acadia by 1671, this could still be the same Girouard line.

The English controlled Acadia from 1654 until 1670, so no French families would have arrived during that time. Therefore, it’s very likely that François and his family arrived before 1654 when Robert Sedgwick, a Puritan Englishman, captured Acadia for the English with about 300 men in three ships. We know for sure that François Girouard had already been married to Jeanne Aucoin for at least 7 years by this time, based on the ages of his children. François would have been one of the Acadian men attempting to fend off the British by defending both the fort and their homesteads.

Depositions

Two of François’ descendants gave detailed depositions a dozen years after the 1755 removal when some of the Acadian people were first exiled to Virginia, then to England, then after 1763 to Belle-Ile-en-Mer in France. The French government wanted to know as much as possible about the origins of the earliest family members of the Acadian refugees in order to determine who, by virtue of their French ancestry, was eligible for assistance.

Lucie LeBlanc Consantino’s website provides the translation of the depositions. We find two depositions from descendants of François Girouard and his wife, Jeanne Aucoin:

On February 9, 1767, appeared Louis Courtin, farmer, living in the village of Aprens de Triboutons, Parish of Sauzon, who, in the presence of Simon P. Daigre, Joseph Babin, Jean Baptiste Le Blanc, and Armand Granger, all Acadians living on this island, stated that he was born in St. Nicolas de Prete Vales, County of Dunois, Diocese of Blois of Jean Baptiste (Courtin) and Marie Anne Pellereau, born at Blois, St. Honore Parish, married at Cork, Ireland on Sept 15, 1761, to Marie Josephe Martin, born at Port Royal in 1740, of Michel Martin and Magdeleine Girouard. Michel Martin issued from Etienne and Marie Comeau, and Etienne issues from Rene Martin, who came from France and married at Port Royal to Marguerite Landry. Both died there. Madeleine Girouard was born at Port Royal of Guillaume and Anne Renauchet. Guillaume issued from Jacques Girouard and Anne Gautrot of Port Royal and Jacques Girouard descended from another Jacques who came from France with Jeanne Aucoin, his wife; both died at Port Royal.

On February 9, 1767, appeared Pierre Richard, from Kbellec, in this Parish, who, in the presence of Honore LeBlanc, Joseph LeBlanc, Oliver Daigre, and Laurent Babin, all Acadians living on this island, witnesses and states that he was born at Port Royal principal town of Acadia on November 15, 1710, of Pierre (Richard) and Madeleine Girouard. Pierre Richard, Sr., died at Port Royal in 1726, son of Rene Richard and Magdeleine Landry, both died there. Rene Richard was the son of another Rene de San Souci who came from France, married at Port Royal to Magdeleine Blanchard, and both died there. Magdeleine Girouard died at Port Royal in 1752 and was the daughter of Jacques (Girouard) and Anne Gautrot, Jacques Girouard is issue of another Jacques dit La Varanne who came from France with his wife Jeanne Aucoin, who settled at Port Royal and both died there.

First, you might notice that these depositions state François Girouard’s name as Jacques. We can verify the accuracy of his wife’s name and his children’s in the census, thereby confirming that his name was François. In the intervening generations, a lot of devastating events had occurred, and their family had literally been torn apart- children ripped from their mother’s arms. We can forgive their descendants this error three and four generations later.

What’s interesting here is the phrasing of the information regarding their arrival.

• “…descended from another Jacques who came from France with Jeanne Aucoin, his wife.”
• “Jacques dit La Varanne who came from France with his wife Jeanne Aucoin.”

Given that both of these descendants had been exiled together for a dozen years, it’s certainly possible that they had jointly misremembered François’s name or that somehow it hadn’t been passed down correctly. Perhaps his middle name was Jacques, or maybe genealogy just wasn’t that important when the English, then other French commanders, and then the English again, were continually attacking.

How are these people descended from François Girouard? I had to draw this out.

Louis Courtin was the husband of Marie Josephe Martin, the great-great-granddaughter of François Girouard and Jeanne Aucoin. Note that Marie was born in 1740, which means that she would have been 15 when the Acadians were rounded up and forcibly deported in 1755. Families were indiscriminately divided. Marie’s father had died in 1747, but her mother, Magdalene, was deported with her children and died in 1765 in Ireland, four years after Magdalene was married to Louis Courtin.

This tells us that at least Marie and her mother, Magdalene, were together. It also tells us that Magdalene was separated from her aged father, Guillaume, who would have been 70 years old when the deportation occurred. It’s amazing he survived at all.

Guillaume wound up in Quebec City somehow, and his death is recorded in the Parish register there two years later, in 1757. Since Marie Joseph’s only sister, Marie Anne, born about 1744, was married outside Quebec City in 1780, she got separated in 1755 from her mother and sister. Oh, what terror and grief they each must have felt. I can see their mother, Magdalene, screaming in the insanity of the human roundup, trying desperately to find both of her daughters – her only two children – to no avail. She only found one, Marie Josephe, and probably held on like steel. Her other daughter, Marie Anne, was herded away by the soldiers, never to see her mother again or even know if she lived or died. Magdalene, I’m sure, always wondered about her father and daughter.

Can you imagine the cacophony? The blood-curdling screams as Acadian families were separated?

Let’s pray that her other daughter, Marie Anne, somehow wound up with her grandfather, Guillaume Girouard, and that neither of them was alone.

Therefore, other than knowing her mother, after age 14, Marie Girouard had no contact with her grandparents or other ancestors. It would not be unexpected for Marie’s husband only to know what perhaps was told to him by her mother and her first cousin once removed (1C1R), Pierre Richard, who gave the other deposition.

Pierre Richard was born in 1710, much earlier than Marie. He would have known his grandmother, Anne Gautrot, until age 17 had the family remained in Port Royal, even though his grandfather, Jacques Girouard, died in 1703, seven years before he was born.

By the 1714 census, Pierre’s father, also Pierre Richard, is living about 65 miles further northeast, in Les Mines, a general area surrounding the Minas basin that includes Grand Pre, so Pierre Jr. would not have known his grandmother personally nor Jeanne Aucoin.

Furthermore, assuming they had lived near enough, Pierre Richard would have known his great-grandmother, Jeanne Aucoin, who did not die until 1718. Had she been able, she would have told him stories and her remembrances of France, where she was born. By the time Pierre was born, his grandfather, François Girouard, would have been dead for roughly 20 years. The 1751 census shows three Pierre Richards, a widower with 5 children in Les Planches next to Pierre Jr. with a wife and one child. I believe this is the correct Pierre, although another one is shown with a wife and 5 children in Riviere de Nanpan. Regardless, none were living near Port Royal and François Girouard.

Pierre was attempting to remember three generations back in time, through his grandfather Jacques Girouard to his father. The extreme trauma events of the 1755 deportation could well explain why Pierre Richard misremembered his great-grandfather’s first name and called him Jacques rather than François. He did remember his nickname, though. That’s probably how François had been referenced all of Pierre’s life.

La Varenne.

What was life like in Acadia when François, dit LaVarenne, arrived?

Fort Anne

Life in Acadian revolved around the Fort in Port Royal, the capital of the New France colony of Acadia. Built as Charles Fort in 1629, it is known today as Fort Anne. Soldiers were stationed at the fort, trading took place there, and the church was built nearby. In essence, this piece of land on the Bay of Fundy was the hub of life in Acadia.

Soldiers manned the fort, and the residents had to be able to reach it fairly quickly to defend it.

Prior to 1654, most people probably lived near the fort. There was safety in numbers, and their numbers weren’t great. Plus, the Catholic church and cemetery were nearby. Church attendance was incredibly important to the Acadian people.

1654

In 1654, Port Royal was still small, with 270 residents, as estimated by Nicholas Denys, a prisoner at Port Royal.

Denys did us the immense favor of describing Port Royal in 1653:

There are numbers of meadows on both shores, and two islands which possess meadows, and which are 3 or 4 leagues from the fort in ascending. There is a great extent of meadows which the sea used to cover, and which the Sieur d’Aulnay had drained. It bears now fine and good wheat, and since the English have been masters of the country, the residents who were lodged near the fort have for the most part abandoned their houses and have gone to settle on the upper part of the river. They have made their clearings below and above this great meadow, which belongs at present to Madame de La Tour. There they have again drained other lands which bear wheat in much greater abundance than those which they cultivated round the fort, good though those were. All the inhabitants there are the ones whome Monsieur le Commandeur de Razilly had brought from France to La Have; since that time they have multiplied much at Port Royal, where they have a great number of cattle and swine.

That’s VERY interesting, because La Have was the first capital of Acadia. D’Aulnay moved to the capital to Port Royal in 1635 from La Have. If this is accurate, then the settlers in 1653 arrived between 1632 and 1635 when D’Aulnay was importing settlers into La Have.

Denys also said that Robert Sedgewick of Boston had been ordered by Robert Cromwell to attack New Holland (New York). As he got ready, a peace treaty was signed between the English and the Dutch. Since Sedgewick was “all dressed up with nowhere to go,” he attacked Acadia in August 1654 and destroyed most of the settlements (even though it was peacetime), including Port Royal, La Have, and the Saint John River. He left the area but appointed an Acadian council with Guillaume Trahan in charge. At this point, some of the French may have returned to France, but clearly François Girouard and family did not.

After the initial 1654 attack, the Acadians were allowed to retain their lands, goods and to continue worshiping as Catholics. However, if your home had been burned, this turn of events would have provided motivation to perhaps move a little further upriver. Given that the Girouard Village was clearly upriver, this is probably the timeframe when they established their homestead, although they are still shown adjacent to Julien Lor, who was also upriver, living on the north side of the Dauphin River, which is now the Annapolis River.

Of course, who knows the path that the census-taker, who would have been paddling a canoe, would have traveled.

The First Census Records

The first definitive contemporaneous record that we have of François Girouard is found in the 1671 census, where the entire census near Port Royal consisted of 392 people in 60 homes in Port Royal. From 1654 to 1670, Acadia had been under the control of the English, and no new French colonists had arrived. After the reversion to French control, the first thing the new governor did was to take a census. How many Acadians were living there, and where? He was surveying his new domain and probably wanted tax revenue as well.

In the 1671 census, François Girouard, a farmer, age 50, is shown with wife Jeanne Aucoin, 40. They had three married children, Jacob, 23, Marie, 20 and Marie Magdeleine 17. Unmarried children include Germain 14 and Anne 12. They lived on 8 arpents of land with 16 cattle and 6 sheep.

Of course, Acadian farmers didn’t just build a cabin and begin plowing. It wasn’t that simple. First, they needed to cooperatively build dikes and reclaim the marshland along the river from the saltwater. Three or four years later, the land was ready to begin farming. Acadia was an investment any way you looked at it. 

Jacques Belou, a cooper, age 30, lives next door with his wife, Marie Girouard, age 20, with one daughter, Marie, 8 months, 7 cattle, 1 sheep, and no land.

Next to Jacques is Jacob Girouard, age 23, a farmer, and his wife, Marguerite Gautrot, age 17, one son, Alexandre, no age, and 7 cattle, 1 sheep, and no land.

Seventeen houses away on the list, we find Thomas Cormier, a carpenter, age 35, married to Magdelaine Girouard, 17, with one daughter, age 2, 7 cattle, 7 sheep, and 6 arpents of land.

It looks for all the world like François, Jacques, and Jacob are all living in separate houses on François’s land.

This census indicates François’s birth year as 1621, plus or minus a year, and his marriage to Jeanne Aucoin happened in approximately 1647, presuming that Jacques was their firstborn child.

Acadia hadn’t seen any new settlers in roughly two decades, so the 70 families on the census would have known each other very well.

The 1678 census shows François Girouer and Jeanne Aucoin, no ages given, with 15 “acres” and 18 cattle, according to Lucie LeBlanc Consentino. Additionally, Germain, age 22, is shown in the household.

By 1680, son Germain had made his way to Beaubassin with a small group of Acadians, where, on June 9th, he married Marie Bourgeois.

His surname was spelled Girouer in the parish marriage record, as was his surname in the 1686 census. Names during that time were spelled as they sounded. Spelling wasn’t standardized. Today, the name is pronounced similarly to Girard.

Life was good, at least comparatively, in Acadia. A new governor in 1684 reported that “the Acadians lived better than the Canadians, never lacking for meat or bread.” But, he added, they also weren’t as industrious.

The 1686 census at Port Royal (and nearby) shows Françoise Girouard, now age 70, along with Jeanne, 55. None of their children remain in the home, but they have 1 gun, 13 cattle, 16 sheep, and 8 hogs on 5 arpents of land. His age indicates his birth year is 1616. By now, he has lived more than half of his life in Acadia, and France must seem like a distant memory. I can’t help but wonder if any of his siblings were still living, and if he even knew when his parents died. Did he set sail for New France because he was an orphan and his new wife’s family wanted to go? Most, if not all, of his children were born in Acadia.

Next door, daughter Charlotte (called Anne in 1671), age 26, had married and was living with Julien Lord, age 33, along with their four children, ages 1-10. No land or livestock is shown. This does suggest that both families are living together on what became the Lor (Lord, Lore) Village or what became the Girouard Village.

Twenty houses away, François’ son, Jacques Girouard, age 38, is living with his wife, Marguerite Gotro, age 32, with their 9 children on 6 arpents of land with 13 cattle and 15 sheep.

In the past 8 years, three of François Girouard’s children had left for Beaubassin. Every parent wants their children to do better than they did – to have more opportunities, which often meant more land or increased safety in that time and place. It still must have been incredibly bittersweet to see those children leave. Perhaps exactly as his own parents and family had felt about him as he set out for the untamed New World.

While not as far away by water, which was the highway of the day, the distance to Beaubassin was still prohibitive. Regular visits simply didn’t happen. François certainly would not have known his grandchildren.

Son Germain Girouard, age 30, had relocated to Chignouctou/Beaubassin with his wife Marie Bourgeois, age 34, her 3 children by her first husband, and two children by Germain. They live on 4 arpents of land and have 8 cattle, 3 sheep, 4 hogs, and one gun.

Jacques Blou, age 47, along with his wife, Marie Girouard, the same age, have also relocated and lived 12 houses from Germain with their 3 children on 40 arpents of land with 15 cattle, 18 sheep, 20 hogs, and 3 guns.

Next door, we find Thomas Cormier, 55, married to Magdelaine Girouard, 37, along with their 9 children, including 1-year-old twins. They live on 40 arpents of land with 30 cattle, 10 sheep, 15 hogs and 4 guns.

The entire Beaubassin census consists of only 20 homes, 127 people, and 102 guns, which would have been used for both hunting and protection. They are cultivating a total of 426 arpents of land, or an average of 21 arpents a piece. They have 236 cattle, 111 sheep and 189 hogs. Everything else, they had to fish for, hunt or grow.

Twenty households could have been wiped off the face of the earth in an instant if attacked.

The largest Beaubassin landholder, Michel Leneuf Sr., the Seigneur, with 60 arpents of land has five servants, one of whom is a gunsmith. Leneuf also has 70 guns. Most families have one or two guns. Two families have 3 guns, one has 4 guns, and one has none.

Hell in 1690

François Girouard was listed as 70 years old in 1686, a quite respectable age for any man in that place and time. He had to posses some combination of skills and luck to reach that ripe old age.

François and his family had been settled on their land, living relatively pastorally since the English returned Acadia to the French in 1670. A lot would happen in the next few years. Change, like wisps of smoke from a distant fire, began wafting in the air in 1688.

François would soon find himself living in a war zone – a situation that dwarfed anything he had ever faced. That war on the horizon with the English may well have killed him. Or, perhaps François had already died of natural causes.

The Acadians were unprepared for what was coming. In 1689, the fort at Port Royal was razed to build a new one. At about the same time, Massachusetts authorized an expedition against Acadia after Fort William Henry fell at Bristol, Maine to French and Indian forces.

The stars were aligning against the Acadians.

In April of 1690, Sir William Phips was commissioned as a Major General and given command of an expedition against Acadia.

The fort at Port Royal was unfinished, essentially wide open, with incomplete walls and towers. Her 18 cannons were unmounted. Only 79 soldiers were present, and 42 men were absent from the community. A paltry 19 muskets were present. Resistance was not only futile, but impossible. The fort, town, and farms upriver were entirely undefended.

In May 1690, the British, who significantly outnumbered the Acadians, dropped anchor in the Bay and demanded surrender. From their vantage point, they couldn’t see how unprepared the Acadians were. In other words, they couldn’t see the fort, or lack thereof.

The priest, Louis Petit, went aboard the British ships and negotiated the terms of surrender, as the Acadians had no other choice. Terms included the protection of both the Acadian people and their personal property, along with the preservation of their right to Catholic worship. After decades of back and forth, these terms were pretty much the norm by now.

When the British saw the condition of the fort, they were apparently furious, feeling they had conceded far too much and, essentially, had been bested by the priest into giving anything at all. They knew they could have walked in and just taken everything.

What followed in no way resembled the negotiated agreement. There were differing stories, of course. Who said what, to whom, and when – and drinking might have been involved.

Ten days after their arrival, on May 19, 1690, the English attacked brutally.

Phips had the soldiers imprisoned in the church and confined the governor to his house, under the guard of a sentry. Then organized pillaging began. For the next 12 days the militiamen ransacked houses and gardens, seized the wheat and clothes of the Acadians, killed their cattle, sacked the church, and demolished, then burned the stockade.

Undefended Acadian farms and homes were burned for no reason and counter to the negotiated agreement. Belongings were stolen, and farmland was destroyed, severing any remaining shred of trust.

Because François lived upriver, his farm may possibly have been spared, but based on later census where households have combined, it’s doubtful.

Additionally, the English required that the Acadians sign an oath of loyalty to the British Crown. Fortunately, the priest somehow protected that oath document, taking it along with him, which tells us which male Acadians were present. I found the petition in 2008 in the Massachusetts archives, dated 1695. When I first transcribed the signatures, I didn’t understand the document’s history (or value) – that it had been signed in Acadia in 1690. The signatures and the original petition can be found here, but François Girouard is not among the signatories.

When the soldiers were finally finished, Phips sailed away, taking 65 Acadian prisoners, including the priest who was subsequently imprisoned in Boston. I can just see the priest hiding that petition beneath his frock, thinking it might prove valuable in defending the Acadians. Proof that they were indeed “loyal subjects,” an argument that might spare their lives.

François may have died in those fires or died in captivity. He may also have perished at the hands of the English pirates that followed, like vultures, after the soldiers departed, plundering anything remaining of value and killing any surviving livestock.

Many of the surviving men, and one would presume their families, fled to Les Mines.

I don’t know how François perished, but some part of me sees a 73- or 74-year-old man going down swinging, even in the face of insurmountable odds. Acadians are tenacious and gritty like that. I actually hope he died peacefully in his sleep before all that madness unfolded.

After 1690

By 1693, living arrangements had changed a bit, although families were still living in clusters. Protection was probably more essential than ever. Of course, the new arrangements could have been precipitated by the 1690 devastation, by François death, or both. Rebuilding could have occurred in a different location as well.

The 1693 census confirms François’ death and the combination of households by showing Jean Aucoin, his widow, age 60, living in the same household with Julien Lord, her son-in-law, age 41, Charlotte, age 33, their 5 children, 20 cattle, 40 sheep and 10 hogs on 20 arpents of land. They have two guns.

Jacob Giroud, age 46, is still living two houses away with his 11 children, 25 cattle, 30 sheep and 15 hogs on 20 arpents of land, with two guns.

In Beaubassin, we discover that François’ son, Germain Girouard, had died approximately 8 years earlier, according to the age of their youngest child, but his widow is living. I wonder if François knew that his son died not long after the 1686 census.

François’ daughter, Marie Girouard, wife of Jacques Blou, has 5 children, 34 cattle, 22 sheep, 10 hogs, 2 guns and 16 arpents of land.

François’ daughter, Madeleine Girouard’s husband, Thomas Cormier, has also died within the last five years. She has 7 children, 16 cattle, 4 sheep, and 12 hogs, but no land is listed.

The entire Beaubassin community consists of exactly the same number of homes with 119 people. That community hasn’t grown since 1686. But it hasn’t shrunk or perished either.

These same families are shown in the 1698 census and 1700 census as well.

The Girouard Village – Tupperville

MapAnnapolis has placed the Girouard Village on the map near what is present-day. Tupperville.

Using Google Maps, I was able to “drive by,” using the location of the school to pinpoint the Girouard land.

Today, the land originally occupied by Jacques Girouard (1648-1703) and, by inference, probably also by François Girouard is noted on the marker erected by the Congres Mondial Acadien in 2004 as having belonged to Charles d’Aulnay from 1636 to 1650. That alone may suggest that the Girouard family obtained possession of this land through d’Aulnay and may have arrived as some of his settlers.

The marker also states that Jacques was the son of François Girouard and Jeanne Aucoin of La Montagne (Granville Ferry.)

Let me introduce you to cousin Milt, who was kind enough to provide the photo above and the ones below. Thank you so much!

A decade ago, Milt drove cross-country to find his way back to the Girouard Village. You can see for yourself in his YouTube video, taken on his pilgrimage back to find his Girouard roots in Acadia.

I found Milt on WikiTree, where he has been fleshing out the biographies of our ancestors, and we began corresponding. I had lots of questions about his pictures since Milt has actually been there.

Roberta, yes, there is a stone in Tupperville for the Jacques Girouard and Girouard Villages area. It is in front of the old Tupperville school house, which now is the Girouard and Acadian museum, but it’s more like a visitor center. If you look at the photo, [above], you’ll see the old schoolhouse behind the Girouard stone. They have volunteers that work at the old schoolhouse during the summer to help tourists and those seeking genealogy information. There is also a place at Annapolis Royal that helps people with the Acadian history of the area.

The Jacques Girouard’s property area is now “Inglis Orchardview Farm” where they grow organic apples and other goodies. When I visited in 2013, I got to meet the matriarch of the family, Marion Inglis, who was 95 at the time, and her son Jim. She passed just a few years later. I believe they told me they were only the second family to own the old Girouard property area since the expulsion in 1755.

With Marion’s help, Milt found not only the original land, but the outlines of the foundations of their homes and perhaps the farm buildings as well.

Milt explained that the flowers inside the outline of their homes, including the medicinal hert Tansy, were flowers that survived from original seeds, potentially from France.

Here’s a closeup provided by Milt of the Tansy growing in the cellars of our ancestors. The Inglis family may have stored their own Tansy in those cellars as well. You can read about a traditional Acadian garden, here. The Mi’kmaq adopted the use of Tansy from the Acadians, where it was used in poultices and medicinal purposes for bee stings, flu, and intestinal problems.

Tansy has died out or perhaps been cultivated away as weeds elsewhere, but not here where it has self-seeded for generations.

Tiny bits, remnants of our Girouard family remain. But there’s more from Milt.

I believe Granville Ferry was where François and his wife Jeanne lived after marriage and I believe that is the same property Charlotte Anne and Julien Lord lived afterwards. There is a person on Facebook, The Acadian Peasant, that lives in Annapolis Royal who took a photo of François’s water well on that Granville Ferry property site. I will attach that to this email as well.

Be still my heart. The very well that served up the water that sustained generations of my ancestors.

I cannot stop looking.

I cannot stop…

I Must Journey

You may have guessed by now that I must go.

I must travel this path.

I must walk in their footsteps.

I must find this well and drink from its knowledge.

I hear them calling so loudly that I cannot silence their voices.

I am going home.

This is the year of the Acadians.

Buckle up and hold on tight, because you’re going with me.

_____________________________________________________________

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