The Old French Orchard.—The French Acadians.—The ruined Houses.—Captain Corbet in the Cellar.—Mysterious Movements.—The Mineral Bod—Where is the Pot of Cold?—Excitement.—Plans, Projects, and Proposals.

THE hill on which Grand Pré Academy was built sloped upwards behind it, in a gentle ascent, for about a mile, when it descended abruptly into the valley of the Gaspereaux. For about a quarter of a mile back of the Academy there were smooth, cultivated meadows, which were finally bounded by a deep gully. At the bottom of this there ran a brawling brook, and on the other side was that dense forest in which the boys built their camps. Here, on the cleared lands just by the gully, was the favorite play-ground of the school. Happy were the boys who had such a play-ground. High up on the slope of that hill, it commanded a magnificent prospect. Behind, and on either side, were dense, dark woods; but in front there stood revealed a boundless scene. Beneath was the Academy. Far down to the right spread away the dike lands of Grand Pré, bounded by two long, low islands, which acted as a natural barrier against the turbulent waters; and farther away rose the dark outline of Horton Bluff, a wild, precipitous cliff, at the mouth of the Gaspereaux River, marking the place where the hills advanced into the sea, and the marsh lands ended. Beyond this, again, there spread away the wide expanse of Minas Bay, full now with the flood tide—a vast sheet of blue water, dotted with the white sails of passing vessels, and terminated in the dim and hazy distance by those opposite shores, which had been the scene of their late adventures—Parrsboro’, Pratt’s Cove, and the Five Islands. Far away towards the left appeared fields arrayed in the living green of opening spring; the wide plains of Cornwallis, with its long reaches of dike lands, separated by ridges of wood land, and bounded by the dark form of the North Mountain. Through all this, from afar, flowed the Cornwallis River, with many a winding, rolling now with a full, strong flood before them and beyond them, till, with a majestic sweep, it poured its waters into that sea from which it had received them. Finally, full before them, dark, gloomy, frowning, with its crest covered with rolling fog-clouds, and the white sea-foam gleaming at its base, rose the central object of this magnificent scene,—the towering cliff—Blomidon.

Such was the scene which burst upon the eyes of the boys as they crossed the brook, and ascended the other side of the gully. Familiar that scene was, and yet, in spite of its familiarity, it had never lost its attractions to them; and for a moment they paused involuntarily, and looked out before them. For there is this peculiarity about the scenery of Grand Pré, that it is not possible for it to become familiar, in the common sense of the word. That scene is forever varying, and the variations are so great, that every day has some new prospect to offer. Land, sea, and sky, all undergo incessant changes. There is the Basin of Minas, which is ever changing from red to blue, from a broad sea to a contracted strait, hemmed in by mud flats. There is the sky, with its changes from deepest azure to dreamy haze, or impenetrable mist. There are rivers which change from fulness to emptiness, majestic at the flow of tide, indistinguishable at the ebb. There is Blomidon, which every day is arrayed in some new robe; sometimes pale-green, at other times deep purple; now light-gray, again dark-blue; and thus it goes through innumerable changes, from the pale neutral tints which it catches from the overhanging fogs, down through all possible gradations, to a darkness and a gloom, and a savage grandeur, which throw around it something almost of terror. Then come the seasons, which change the wide plains from brown to green, and from green to yellow, till winter appears, and robes all in white, and piles up for many a mile over the shallow shores, and in the deep channels of the rivers, the ever accumulating masses of heaped-up ice.

Yet all the time, through all the seasons, while field and flood, river and mountain, sea and forest, are thus changing their aspect, there hangs over all an atmosphere which brings changes more wonderful than these. The fog is forever struggling for an entrance here. The air in an instant may bring forth its hidden watery vapors. High over Blomidon the mist banks are piled, and roll and writhe at the blast of the winds from the sea. Here the mirage comes, and the eye sees the solid land uplifted into the air; here is the haze, soft and mysterious as that of Southern Italy, which diffuses through all the scene an unutterable sweetness and tenderness. Here, in an instant, a change of wind may whirl all the accumulated mists down from the crest of Blomidon into the vale of Cornwallis, and force vast masses of fog-banks far up into the Basin of Minas, till mountain and valley, and river and plain, and sea and sky, are all alike snatched from view, and lost in the indistinguishable gray of one general fog.

The boys then had not grown wearied of the scene. Every day they were prepared for some fresh surprise, and they found in this incessant display of the glory of nature, with its never-ending variety and its boundless scope, something which so filled their souls and enlarged their minds, that the perpetual contemplation of this was of itself an education. And so strong was this feeling in all of them, that for a moment all else was forgotten, and it was with an effort that they recollected the captain and his mineral rod.

Upon this they turned to carry out their purpose.

In this, place, and close by where they were standing, were several hollows in the ground, which were well known to be the cellars of houses once occupied by French Acadians. At a little distance were a number of apple trees, still growing, and now putting forth leaf, yet so old that their trunks and branches were all covered with moss, and the fruit itself, on ripening, was worthless. These trees also belonged to the former owners of the houses—the fallen—the vanished race.

And at the bottom of one of these holes Captain Corbet was standing, solemnly balancing the mineral rod on one finger, and calling to the boys to come and watch how it “pinted” to the buried pot of gold.

These cellars were but a few out of hundreds which exist over the country, as sad memorials of those poor Acadians who were once so ruthlessly driven into exile. The beautiful story of Evangeline has made the sorrows of the Acadians familiar to all, and transformed Grand Pré into a place of pilgrimage, where the traveller may find on every side these sad vestiges of the former occupants. Into this beautiful land the French had come first; they had felled the forests, drained the marshes, and reared the dikes against the waters of the sea. Here they had increased and multiplied, and long after Acadie had been ceded to the British they lived here unmolested. They still cherished that patriotic love for France which was natural, and in the wars did not wish to fight against their own countrymen; but, on the other hand, they resisted the French agents who were sent among them to excite insurrection. A few acted against the British, but the majority were neutral. At length the British enlarged their operations in Acadie, sent out thousands of emigrants, and began to settle the province. Then came a life and death struggle between Englishmen and Frenchmen, which spread over all America, far along the Canadian frontier, and along the Ohio Valley, and southward to the Gulf of Mexico. The Frenchmen of Acadie were looked on with suspicion. An effort was soon to be made against Louisbourg and Quebec, by which it was hoped that the French power would be crushed into the dust. But the Acadians stood in the way. They were feared as being in league with the French and the Indians. Their pleasant lands, also, were eagerly desired for an English population. And so it was determined to banish them all, and in the most cruel way conceivable. Ordinary banishment would not do; for then they might wander to Canada, and add their help to their brethren: so it was determined to send them away, and scatter them over the coast of America. This plan was thoroughly carried out. From Grand Pré two thousand were taken away—men, women, and children; families were divided forever, the dearest friends were parted never to meet again. Their fields were laid waste; their houses, and barns, and churches, were given to the flames; and now the indelible traces of this great tragedy may be seen in the ruined cellars which far and wide mark the surface of the country. Far and wide also may be seen their trees,—the apple trees,—moss-grown, and worn out, and gnarled, and decaying; the broad-spreading willow, giving a grateful shade by the side of brooks; and the tall poplar, dear to the old Acadian, whose long rows may be seen from afar, rising like so many monuments over the graves of an extinct race.

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the wood lands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o’er the
ocean.
Nought but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand Pré.


Now, the idea of the boys was not by any means so absurd as may be supposed. It was within the bounds of possibility that a pot of money might be in a French cellar. These Acadians had some wealth; they had been in the habit of hoarding it by burying it in the earth, and the bottom of the cellar was by no means an unlikely place. So sudden had been their seizure, that none of them had any time whatever to exhume any of their buried treasure, so as to carry it away with him. All had been left behind—cattle, flocks, herds, grain, houses, furniture, clothes, and of course money. Vague tradition to this effect had long circulated about the country, and there was a general belief that money was buried in the ground, where it had been left by the Acadians. So, after all, the boys were only the exponents of a popular belief.

The cellar might have originally been five or six feet in depth, but the falling of the walls and the caving in of the earth had given it a shape like a basin; and the depth at the centre was not more than four feet below the surrounding level. Around the edge were some stones which marked the old foundation.

The boys came up to Captain Corbet, and watched him quietly, yet very curiously. As for the illustrious captain, he felt to the utmost the importance of the occasion. He was now no longer the captain of a gallant bark. He had become transformed into a species of necromancer. Instead of the familiar tiller, he held in his hand the rod of the magician. All the solemnity of such a position was expressed in his venerable features. After throwing a benignant smile upon the boys, his eyes reverted to the rod, which was still balanced on his finger, and he walked about, with a slow and solemn pace, to different parts of the cellar. First he went around the sides, stopping at every third step, and looking solemnly at the rod. But the rod preserved its balance, and made no deflection whatever towards any place.

“Go down to the middle, captain,” said Bart, who, in common with the other boys, had been watching these mysterious proceedings with intense curiosity.

Captain Corbet shook his head solemnly, and lifted up his unoccupied hand with a warning gesture.

“H-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-h!” said Tom; “don’t interrupt him, Bart.”

Captain Corbet moved slowly about a little longer, and then descended to the middle of the cavity. Here he planted himself, and his face assumed, if possible, an expression of still profounder solemnity.

And now a strange sight appeared. The rod began to move!

Slowly and gradually one end of it lowered, so slowly, indeed, that at first it was not noticed; but at last they all saw it plainly, for it went down lower, yet in that gradual fashion; and the boys, as they looked, became almost breathless in suspense.

They drew nearer, they crowded up closer to Captain Corbet, and watched that rod as though all their future lives depended upon the vibration of that slender and rather dirty stick.

Not a word was spoken. Lower and lower went the rod.

It trembled on its balance! It quivered on Cap tain Corbet’s forefinger, as the lower end went down and dragged the rod out of its even poise. It slipped, and then—it fell.

It fell, down upon the very middle of the cellar, and lay there, marking that spot, which to the minds of the boys seemed now, beyond the possibility of a doubt, to be the place where lay the pot of gold.

“Thar,” said Captain Corbet, now breaking the silence. “Thar. You see with your own eyes how it pints. That thar is the actool indyvidool place; an this here’s the dozenth time it’s done it with me. O! it’s thar. I knowed it.”

As the rod fell, a thrill of tremendous excitement had passed through the hearts of the boys, and their belief in its mystic properties was so strong, that it did not need any assurances from Captain Corbet to confirm it. Yes, beyond a doubt, there it was, just beneath, a short distance down—the wonderful, the mysterious, the alluring pot of gold.

At last the silence was broken by Tom.

“Well, boys,” said he, “what are we going to do about it?”

“The question is,” said Phil, “shall we dig it or not? I move that we dig it.”

“Of course,” said Bruce, “we’ll dig it. There’s only one answer to that question. But when? The fellows are around here all the time.”

“We’ll have to do it after dark,” said Arthur.

“Early in the morning would be the best time, I think,” said Bruce, a little anxiously.

“No,” said Bart; “there’s only one time, and one hour, to dig money, and that time is midnight, and the hour twelve sharp. If we’re going to dig for a pot of money, we’ll have to do it up in proper shape.”

“Nonsense,” said Bruce, who still spoke in a rather anxious tone. “What are you talking about? Early morning is the time.”

“Early morning!” said Bart; “why, man alive, we’ll want several hours, and it’ll be early morning before we’re done. If we begin at early morning we can’t do anything. Some of the fellows are always up here before breakfast. No! From midnight to cock-crow, that’s the orthodox time. Besides,” added Bart, mysteriously, “there are certain ceremonies we’ll have to perform, that can only take place at night.”

“Nonsense!” said Bruce; “let’s tell the other fellows, and we’ll all dig together in broad day.”

“Tell the other fellows! What in the world do you mean?” cried Bart. “Bruce Rawdon, are you crazy?”

No! Bruce Rawdon was not crazy. He was only a little superstitious, and had a weakness with regard to ghosts. He had as brave and stout a heart as ever beat, with which to confront visible dangers and mortal enemies; but his stout heart quailed at the fanciful terrors of the invisible. Yet he saw that there was no help for it, and that he would have to choose the midnight hour. So he very boldly made up his mind to face whatever terrors the enterprise might have in store.

“The fact is,” said Bart, “we ourselves—we, the ‘B. O. W. C.’—must do it. It would be dishonor to invite the other boys. This belongs to us. We’re a secret and mystic order. We’ve never yet had anything in particular to do. Now’s our time, and here’s our chance. We’re bound to get at that pot of gold. The captain, of course, must be with us, and one other only; that is old Solomon. As Grand Panjandrum, he must be here, and share our labors.”

“We’ll have to get spades,” said Arthur. “I suppose Solomon can manage that.”

“Spades?” said Bart; “I should think so, and fifty other things. We must have lights. We’ll have to make a row of them around the edge of the hole.”

“A row of them?” said Phil. “Nonsense! Two will do.”

“No,” said Bart. “You must always have a row of burning lamps around whenever you dig for money. They must be kept burning too. One of us must watch the lamps: woe to us if any one of them should go out! You see it isn’t an ordinary work. It’s magic! Digging up a pot of gold must be done carefully. Every buried pot of gold can only be got up according to a regular fashion. I’ve got a book that tells all about it—how many lights, how many spades, the proper time, and all that. Above all, we’ll have to remember to keep as silent as death when we’re working, and never speak one word. Why, I’ve heard of cases where they touched the pot of gold, and just because they made a sort of cry of surprise, the pot at once sunk down ever so much farther. And so they had to do it all over again.” Did Bart believe all this nonsense that he was talking? It is very difficult to say. He was not at all superstitious; that is to say, his fancies never affected his actual life. He would walk through a graveyard at midnight as readily as he would go along a road. At the same time his brain contained such an odd jumble of wild fancies, and his imagination was so vivid, that his ordinary common sense was lost sight of. He could follow the leadings of a very vivid imagination to the most absurd extent. If he had been really, in his heart, superstitious, he would have shrunk from the terrors of this enterprise. But his real faith was not concerned at all. He was playing—very earnestly indeed, and with immense excitement, yet still he was only playing—at digging for money, just as he had been playing at being a bandit, or a pirate. He was quite ready, therefore, to comply with any amount of superstitious forms. The rest, also, were very much the same way, except Bruce. He alone looked upon the matter with anxiety; but he fought down his fear by an effort of pure courage.

It was only imagination, then; but still, so strong was their imagination, that it made the whole plan one of sober reality, and they discussed it as though it were so.

“You see,” said Bart, as he threw himself headlong into the excitement of the occasion—“you see, we’ve got to be careful. The pot of gold has been revealed by the mineral rod. If we had dug it up by accident, of course we could have got it without any trouble. But it has been revealed by magic, and must be gained by the laws of magic. I’ve got that Book of Magic, you know, and it tells all about it. Lights around, in number any multiple of three, or seven. Those are magic numbers. Our number inside the magic circle will be seven. That’s one reason why I want old Solomon. We’ll have to keep silent, and not say a word. We must not begin till midnight, and we cannot go on after cock-crow. O, we’ll manage it. Hurrah for the ‘B. O. W. C’!”

And so, after some further discussion, they decided to make the attempt that night. It was to be the last night of the holidays, and was more convenient than any other. Captain Corbet was to meet them with his rod and a spade. They were to come up with old Solomon, and all the other requisites.

With these arrangements they parted solemnly from Captain Corbet, and went back to the Academy, bowed down by the burden of a most tremendous secret.