Humming a hymn, Joel Crawford slipped on his worn wool coat and stepped out into the frosty Canadian air. 

“Thank you, Lord, for this beautiful morning!” he exclaimed into the wind, lifting his muscular arms in praise. His trusty fishing boat was faithfully waiting at the dock, its wooden planks evidently showing signs of decay. As Joel was unanchoring the vessel, he heard a faint moan, followed by an almost inaudible plea. “Aide-moi.”

Joel tilted his head, covered with snowy white hair. Was that…a person? Out on the frozen lake?

“S’il te plaît…aidez-moi,” the voice croaked out, more desperate this time. Joel shoved all thoughts of doubt piercing his mind and jumped into the fishing boat, paddling furiously toward the frozen area of the small lake. As he got closer to the fading voice, he noticed a head with unruly dark hair and a well-trimmed mustache sticking out of the thin ice. 

  “Don’t worry! I’m coming! Hold on!” Joel yelled. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally reached the poor man. Joel offered his hand to the stranger and pulled him up into the fishing boat. 

“M-m-merci,” whispered the man. His eyelids fluttering, he fell unconscious, hypothermia threatening his life. 

The mysterious man was French! Joel, being a proud Englishman, was surprised. Tension remained at an all-time high following the recent French and Indian War. But Joel feared for the safety of the suffering Frenchman. The others in the settlement of Halifax were sure to commit harm to him. Joel shook off these negative thoughts and focused on saving the man’s life, although he was French.

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Pierre Jean-Baptiste woke up in a stranger’s home, his head fuzzy and his mouth parched. “De l’eau, s’il te plaît,” Pierre said, not knowing if his wish would be granted in this strange place. He heard some rustling, and a gentle lady with a simple blue dress and coffee-brown hair stubbornly escaping her white bonnet approached Pierre, offering him a crudely carved wooden cup filled with crisp, clear water. He thirstily gulped it down and thanked the kind woman. Her gentle smile comforted him. As he was about to close his eyes, Pierre heard the woman chatting with an older man, who spoke with an undeniable British accent. Terror seized Pierre’s heart, and he clawed at the colorful quilt covering him, trying to get out of the house. The brown-haired woman rushed back to Pierre’s side, comforting him with soothing words of assurance and lulling him to sleep.

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Lucy Crawford, the daughter of Joel, walked briskly to the kitchen early in the morning to make an herbal tea for the Frenchman, whose name they still did not know. Recovering from hypothermia, he had tried to leave the Crawfords’ modest home, fearing for his well-being. Lucy sighed ruefully at the memory. At this point, the English or the French didn’t even remember why they were constantly warring. While in deep thought, Lucy heard a shuffling sound in the sitting room. “I hope the Frenchie isn’t trying to leave again,” she muttered, rushing toward the noise. To her utter surprise, Pierre was sitting straight in a rocking chair, sipping water from a cup. His eyes went wide, and he instantly fell to his knees. “S’il te plaît, ne me fais pas de mal!”  begged Pierre. “S’il te plaît!” 

“Please, umm, si’l vous plait, do not be, umm, effrayé!” Lucy cried out in broken French. Calming down, Pierre set down his cup and nervously cleared his throat. “Name is Pierre. From France.”

“Well, I’m Lucy,” she replied, staring at the floor. Just then, Joel came out of his room, fully dressed for another morning of fishing. “Good morning to you both.” 

Pierre cleared his throat again and asked,  “Why help moi? Am French!”

“It’s what my Lord would’ve done,” Joel replied, shrugging. A smile slowly formed on Pierre’s face.

“Teach moi about your Lord, si’l vous plait,” Pierre asked shyly. Lucy reverently pulled the family Bible from their fireplace. Grinning, she asked, “Where would you like to start?”