The ships were flying British
colors. Presently they came to anchor near the mouth of the Missaguash,
a narrow tidal river about two miles to the southeast of Beausejour.
There the ships lay swinging at their cables, and all seemed quiet
on board. The group on Beausejour knew that the British would attempt
no landing for some hours, as the tide was scarce past the ebb, and
half a mile of red mire lay between the water and the firm green edges
of the marsh.
The French soldiers were talking in loud, excited tones. As they spoke
a tallish lad drew near and listened eagerly. The boy, who was apparently
about sixteen or seventeen years of age, was clad in the rough,
yellow-gray homespun cloth of the Acadians. His name was Pierre
Lecorbeau, and he had just come from the village of Beaubassin to
carry eggs, milk, and cheeses to the camp on Beausejour. The words
he now heard seemed to concern him deeply, for his dark face paled
anxiously as he listened.
"Yes, I tell you," one of the soldiers was saying, "Beaubassin must go.
Monsieur the abbe has said so. You know, he came into camp this morning
about daybreak, and has been shut up with the colonel ever since. But he
talks so loud when he's angry that Jacques has got hold of all his plans.
His Reverence has brought two score of his Micmacs with him from Cobequid,
and has left 'em over in the woods behind Beaubassin. He swears that
sooner than let the English establish themselves in the village and
make friends with those mutton-head Acadians, he will burn the whole
place to the ground.
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