The Story of an Acadian Exile.—The Country in Flames.—A dread Discovery.—Pursuit.—Flight over the Water.—The Bloodhound Instinct.—Red Sea Waves.
THE story which the old man went on to tell the boys was long, and subject to frequent interruptions, partly owing to his own emotion, and partly from the eager questions of his listeners. A direct report of his own words need not therefore be given here, but rather the material of his narrative.

Grousset, then, the grandfather of their host, was a young man at the time of the expulsion of the Acadians. He was not married, but lived with his father and mother in a place which, by close questioning, Bart conjectured could not have been far away from the very spot where the school stood. As the old man had never been there himself, but had only to speak from hearsay, he could not, of course, give any very exact description of localities; and it was only from his general knowledge that Bart was able to draw this conclusion. At any rate, the young Grousset lived here. There was one brother besides himself. They devoted themselves to farming, chiefly, but they also went out fishing, whenever any good opportunity presented itself.

Their house was on the side of a hill which sloped towards the Basin of Minas. In front were extensive marshes, beyond which was a river, that emptied into the bay. Into this river ran another smaller stream, a little below the house. The principal part of the settlement was two or three miles away. Their house was a very comfortable one, their farm extensive, and a thriving orchard contributed something towards the luxuries of life.

On that day Grousset was out in his boat. He had been out for two days fishing. The fleet of schooners which was to convey the settlers away had arrived before he left, but he had no idea whatever of their real intent. He supposed that they had come for the purpose of buying corn, or hay, or something of that sort; and he regarded them simply as a probable market where he could sell his fish. With this belief he spent much longer time than usual, hoping to fill his boat, and thereby effect a larger sale.

In the course of his fishing, he had gone well over towards the other side of the bay; and when at length he started on the return voyage, much time was taken up, and he could not go more than half way. He anchored for that night, and very early on the following day resumed his homeward progress. As he drew nearer, he was astonished to find great clouds of smoke rolling over the whole country where the Grand PrÉ settlement stood. He could not understand it. At first he thought it was the woods; but as he drew nearer, he saw that the smoke came from the cultivated parts, and not from the woods. This puzzled him at first. He had intended to sail at once for the mouth of the Gaspereaux River, where the fleet was; but these strange and unaccountable appearances excited the deepest anxiety and alarm, and drove all thought of traffic and money-making out of his mind. He changed the boat’s course, therefore, and steered straight for his own home; for there, as well as elsewhere, the smoke clouds arose, and the terrible conflagration seemed to have extended over his father’s fields.

Heading thus towards his own home, full of fear and anxiety, he drew ever nearer, but only to find his anxiety deepened as his progress increased. Nearer and nearer still he came, until at last he could see that every house and every barn had disappeared from the face of the country. The fire was not accidental—it had evidently been done on purpose; but this discovery was still more perplexing, for he could not imagine any possible cause that could give rise to such a deed.

The rising tide bore him onward rapidly, and soon his boat floated up that river that ran past his father’s farm. There rose the hill-slope where his father’s house and out-houses had once stood; but now the house and out-houses had all vanished, and over the surface of the hill were spread the black traces of the devastating fires. Nor was the desolation confined to this place. It extended everywhere. Every building had disappeared. Every human habitation had vanished. The fire had spared nothing. All had gone.

Grousset stood in his boat, gazing with looks of horror upon the scene, altogether bewildered, overcome by this sudden blow, wondering in his bewilderment what might be the fate of his relatives, wondering where his father was, and his mother, and whether behind this conflagration there could possibly lurk some other calamity. With such feelings as these he floated on, and did not even seek to bring his boat to the shore.

Suddenly a loud cry came to his ears. Looking in the direction whence the cry came, he saw a figure crawl stealthily forth from a mud gully, and wave his hands towards him. Then the cry was repeated—

“Pierre!”

Grousset recognized the voice. It was his brother Paul. At once he directed the boat towards the place, which he reached in a few minutes. His brother plunged into the water, seized the boat, clambered in, and then implored him to turn and fly.

His brother Paul was pale as death, and was covered with mud from head to foot. Pierre was so horrified by all that he had seen, and by his brother’s appearance, that he could scarcely gasp out a question about it.

“Fly! fly!” cried Paul, “or we’re lost! It’s the English! They’ve burned all the settlement, and seized the people! They are carrying them away to another country as slaves! Father and mother are gone! I was a little late at the place, and managed to escape. But fly! fly! for they are scouring the country, and if they see us, we are lost!”

At this frightful intelligence Pierre’s first impulse was to join his father and mother, and suffer with them; but the impulse passed away, and the thought of the horrors of slavery and exile deterred him. Flight was now his only thought—flight instant and immediate. The boat’s head was turned, and Pierre now sought the bay as eagerly as a short time before he had sought the shore.

And now, as Pierre retraced his course, he soon perceived that he was discovered. Over the marshes a number of men came running. They were dressed in red coats, and by this, even when far away, they could easily be recognized as English soldiers. They gesticulated wildly towards him, and finally, on reaching the bank of the river, they discharged their muskets at the boat. But by that time the fugitives had passed beyond their reach, and the shots, though fast and furious, did no damage, but only urged them on to swifter flight, if possible; and to accomplish this, the two brothers seized the oars, and sought by rowing to make greater speed.

The pursuers stood for a time as though baffled, and then hurried away back to the rising ground.

“They’ll pursue us,” said Paul, gloomily.

“O, no,” said Pierre.

“They’ll pursue us,” said Paul once more, obstinately; “you don’t know their malignity. They will not let one of us escape. They have gone for a boat.”

Pierre said nothing. After what had occurred, how could he hope for any forbearance on the part of his enemies? There, as he sat rowing, appeared full before him the blackened fields of his father’s farm, the gaunt chimney that rose above the ruins of the house where he was born.

For some time the two brothers pulled at the oars, with their eyes fixed upon the desolated shore, speaking not a word, for the hearts of both were too full. Pierre did not seek as yet to know the particulars of the dread tragedy whose results Paul had already stated, nor did Paul care to say anything more about an event upon which he scarcely dared to think; so both pulled on in silence, until at length a cry from Paul startled his brother.

“They have a boat! They are chasing us;” he cried. “They are coming out of the creek!”

While he was speaking Pierre saw it. He saw a boat shooting out from a creek which emptied into the river. They had already passed its mouth, and the boat was fully a mile behind them; but still it seemed too near for safety, and almost too near for hope. They understood all at once. The soldiers, intent on capturing them, had hurried back to the creek where the boats usually lay, and one of these they had seized. It was a boat like their own, and in it there were a half dozen soldiers, armed, and full of the bloodhound instinct of pursuit. Their own boat was loaded down with fish, and even the aid of the oars did not seem sufficient to draw them away from their pursuers.

There was one thing which had to be done immediately, and this thing was suggested simultaneously to the minds of both of them. They must lighten their boat at all hazards. The fish were useless now; worse—they were an impediment.

“Over with them!” shouted Pierre, still rowing with one hand while he flung out the fish with the other. But Paul had already begun to do that very thing. Hearing Pierre’s words he passed his oar over to his brother, and then, gathering the fish up in both hands, he flung them out of the boat by armfuls. Meanwhile Pierre rowed with all his strength, and at the same time the wind never ceased to bear the boat along. But the same wind bore onward after them the boat of their pursuers, and the two brothers watched with anxious eyes the progress of those who followed on their track.

At last all the fish were flung overboard except about half a dozen, which were reserved for food. They felt the benefit of this very soon. Gradually the distance between themselves and their pursuers increased. By this time also the tide had turned, and swept them on at an ever accelerated rate of progress; and, although the same tide swept their enemies along after them, still their own speed was the greater, and every minute served to increase their chance of escape. For the boats were about equal in speed, and while their boat only had two inside, the other carried six, and therefore was over weighted in this race.

Several hours passed away, and the united action of wind and tide had carried onward pursuers and pursued many miles into the bay. There rose before them the frowning cliffs of Blomidon, and past this the current was setting in a swift stream, by which they were borne along. Now, too, the wind died away, and the tide alone remained. This caused a change for the worse. Thus far the lightness of their boat had favored them, so that their pursuers had fallen behind as much as four or five miles; but now, when it came to drifting, this difference was no longer in their favor, and the enemy, either from having caught a stronger current, or from some other reason, seemed to be slowly gaining upon them.

The question now arose, what was to be done? They could easily have landed here, scaled the cliff, and escaped in the woods. But that was not to be thought of except as a last resort. At all hazards they wished to keep the boat. If they fled to the woods their boat would be captured, and their fate might be a miserable death. With the boat, however, they might hope not only to save their lives, but perhaps to follow their friends, perhaps to rescue them; or at least, if such a thing as that should be beyond their powers, they could choose some new home, and have the means of living from the water, till the land should be ready to yield them sustenance. For these reasons they resolved to cling to the boat, and fly as long, and as far, as possible.

But however eager they were in their determination to escape, the enemy showed a resolve to pursue which was as obstinate as theirs. As they floated along they saw the other boat still following. The tide bore them on, in its course, down through the Straits of Minas, beneath the frowning cliffs that rise gloomily on one side, where Blomidon overhangs the water, past the rocks all covered with sea-weed, past long, bare sand flats, past the giant cliffs, which, torn and riven by earthquake or by tempest, rise at the extremity of the straits, and onward into the wide Bay of Fundy.

They had hoped that in this place a breeze might arise, but their hopes were disappointed. The water was smooth, and they were borne onward over an unruffled surface, by the strong tide, far down. Yet though there was no wind, they at length encountered something which to them, in that extremity, was no less welcome. Before them rose a wall of mist, shutting out all the scene beyond, hiding even the Haute, which lay so near. Into the entrance of this dense fog bank they were borne by the tide; and soon all surrounding scenes, all prospect of rock, and cliff, and distant shore, and overhanging sky, and all sight of their pursuers, were snatched from their eyes, and nothing remained but an all-surrounding blank, an opaque wall of unpenetrable fog.

At any other time such an occurrence would have plunged them into despair, but now it raised them out of despair into hope. At first they thought of rowing in some direction, but a little discussion served to dismiss this thought from their minds. In the first place, they could not tell in which direction to row; and in the second place, they thought that their pursuers would probably take to their oars, and if so, their best plan of escape would be to drift.

Hours had passed away since their flight commenced, and at length darkness came on. That darkness was most intense. There was not the slightest light to alleviate the gloom. Still even this darkness was a relief, for they felt more secure. In spite of the hope which they tried to entertain that their enemies had given up the chase, they could not get rid of a dark fear that they were still pursued, and a foreboding that with the return of light they might see them. And as the darkness seemed to bring safety, they bore it with patience, and resignation, and hope.

All night long they drifted in this thick darkness. At last light came again. But the light was dull and obscure, for the fog still enveloped them. By this time they had lost all idea of locality, and could not conceive in what direction they were drifting. They knew, however, that while the falling tide would carry them down the bay, the refluent tide would bear them back, and therefore hoped, when the fog lifted, that they would find themselves somewhere near the land. The day that followed was a gloomy day indeed. The water was glassy. There was not a breath of wind. Having nothing by which to judge of their motion, they seemed to be without motion, and to be floating on a stagnant sea. There was no sight to meet their eyes through the dense surrounding fog, and no sound came to their ears through the wide, surrounding stillness.

At last the evening of that day came on, and the fog lessened. Land appeared on either side of them. Gradually the atmosphere cleared, and to their amazement they found themselves drifting up a long channel that seemed like a river. Up this river the tide seemed to run, carrying them with it at a great rate of speed. As they went on the shores approached more closely, the stream grew narrower and more winding; but still the swift waters lost nothing of their speed. The shores on either side were a wilderness, covered with the primeval forest, with not a sign of any human habitation. The strangeness of the place and the suspense which they felt at finding themselves here prevented them from trying to land. They rather chose to drift onward, and allow themselves to be borne wherever the current might carry them.

At length darkness began to come on, and the fugitives thought that they had drifted far enough. They therefore flung out the rude anchor which they had in the boat. It caught, and their progress was stopped. They felt safe at last. Here, in this remote place, no pursuer would follow them, and they might rest. They had not slept during all the time of their flight, and were very greatly fatigued. It seemed to them that the boat was safer than this unknown shore, and to sleep there at anchor floating on the water would be better than in those unknown woods where wild beasts or prowling Indians might be lurking; and thus, as soon as the boat came to anchor, they flung themselves down in the bottom, and were soon in a sound sleep.

Their sleep was somewhat disturbed, and early on the following day they awaked. Pierre was up first, and he looked about in surprise. It was about dawn, and in that morning twilight surrounding objects were as yet indistinct. The first thing that he noticed was, that the boat was aground. The channel up which they had drifted on the preceding evening was now bare of water—a wide expanse, like those red mud flats of Grand PrÉ with which he was so familiar. These flats extended here above and below for miles, and on either side they ran for a great distance before they touched the shore.

Suddenly, in the midst of this survey, Pierre caught sight of an object which made his blood run cold, and caused his heart for a few moments to stop its beating. It was a dark object that appeared, on the mud flats, about a mile away, down the channel.

It was a boat!

That boat, like his own, had grounded, and lay there on her side.

Could that be the boat of their pursuers? Had they been followed all this time, and all this distance, so remorselessly? It seemed like it. Perhaps his pursuers had become bewildered by the fog, or perhaps they had allowed themselves to drift, as the surest way of keeping near to the fugitives; but whatever the reason was, it seemed as though the same currents that had borne them away had carried the pursuers after them.

And there it lay! It grew lighter as he looked, and then, as if to confirm his worst fears, there suddenly appeared something which put an end to all doubt.

A figure stood up in that boat. It was light enough to see the color of his dress.

It was red.

Scarcely had he seen this than other figures appeared—red-coated figures. They stood up. Pierre could no longer doubt. They were English soldiers. Even as he looked they began to leap out from the boat, and run towards him. As he looked his eyes caught sight of something beyond—something white—like a long, low, white wall; and from that far distance there arose a low, droning sound, which struck a strange terror into his soul.

In a moment he roused his brother. Paul stood up, and stared in the direction where Pierre was pointing. He saw the wide, flat river bed uncovered. He saw the red-coated English soldiers.

Pierre looked all around to find the best place for refuge.

On his right there projected a wooded cliff, its sides rising precipitously for fifty or sixty feet, and its summit covered with fir trees. This was the nearest land. If they ran towards this they might get out of sight of their pursuers in a few minutes, and plunge into the woods at a place where the cliff ended and the land sloped gradually down. To this place he directed Paul’s attention; and then calling upon him to follow, he leaped from the boat. Paul followed. The two brothers ran with their utmost speed over the treacherous mud flats towards the shore behind the point.

Up the channel, over the same treacherous mud flats, came their pursuers, who, at this unexpected sight of their prey, seemed to be filled with fresh fury. Seeing that prey about to escape, they fired after them. Report after report sounded through the air and echoed along the shore.

Six shots were thus fired, and then, as the last echo died out, there arose another sound. It was that low, droning sound which had come to Pierre’s ears before he left the boat but the sound was louder, and deeper, and nearer, and more dreadful. It was a sound of wrath. It was the voice of many waters! It was the sound of a pursuer more terrible than man—the sound of the pitiless march of innumerable waves.

The cliff rose overhead. They had reached it; but before they passed behind it they turned one glance at their pursuers. In that one glance a sight revealed itself which was never forgotten.

Far down arose a wall of white foam, formed by the advancing tidal wave of the Bay of Fundy—a dread mass of surging billows, rolling up the channel, extending all the way across. At the moment when they looked it had caught the boat and overwhelmed it, and then, in hungry fury, advanced towards the soldiers.

They had heard it! They had seen it—that terrible pursuer, the tremendous, the inevitable! They stood still in horror. Escape was impossible. On came the wave. Even the fugitives stood for a moment overwhelmed with the horror of that spectacle.

On came the wave!

The wall of white foam rose high. It rushed onward. It reared its curling crest. It fell in thunderous fury upon the wretched victims of its wrath. One wild, despairing yell burst forth, and then all sounds were drowned in the roar of the rolling waves.

The brothers fled. They reached the sloping bank, and clambered to a place of safety, from which they looked with pallid faces upon those waters, which, like the waves of the Red Sea, had saved the fugitives by overwhelming the pursuers.

After this they wandered through the woods for some days, and finally met with friendly Indians, with whom they went to the Miramichi.

Such is the substance of M. Grousset’s narrative.