That night, because Antoine Lecorbeau was a leader among the villagers
of Beaubassin, he and his family had shelter in a small but warm stable
where some of the officers' horses were quartered. Their goods were
stacked and huddled together in the open air, and Pierre and his father
cut boughs and spread blankets to cover them from the weather. In the
warm straw of the stable, hungry and homesick, the children clung about
their mother and wept themselves to sleep. But they were fortunate
compared with many of their acquaintances, whom Pierre could see
crowded roofless about their fires, in sheltered hollows and under
the little hillside copses. The night was raw and showery, and there
was not houseroom in Beausejour for a tenth part of the homeless Acadians.
By dawn Pierre was astir. He rose from his cramped position under a
manger, stretched himself, shook the chaff and dust from his thick black
hair, and stepped out into the chilly morning. The cattle had been hobbled
and allowed to feed at large, but the boy's eye soon detected that his pet
yoke had disappeared. Nowhere on Beausejour could they be found, and he
concluded they must have freed themselves completely and wandered back
home. Pierre had no reason to fear the English, but he dreaded lest the
troops should take a fancy to make beef out of his fat oxen; so, after
a word to his father, he set out for the burned village. Early as it was,
however, Beausejour was all astir when he left, and he wondered what the
soldiers were so busy about.
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