by John Farrow
He was surprised by this riposte. “Yes, of course. I’ve been in many battles.”
“Did the infliction of wounds cause you to be less of a soldier? Once wounded, some men remain fearful evermore, while others, the wiser, hone their skills.”
Put in such a way, Maisonneuve had no choice but to suggest that the worst of his experiences had aided him to become a more adroit soldier.
“As have I, as a nurse, been made more effective, more caring and more diligent in my calling, thanks to my infirmities. My fragile nature is a great blessing bestowed upon me, I daresay, by God. My frailty, as you call it, sir, will never be cause for your concern. Better that you mind the ways of the strong, for they may turn fearful when first attacked, or surrender when first weakened by hunger or fatigue. They. Not I.”
Dauversière returned upon the departure of Jeanne Mance. “Well?” he asked.
Maisonneuve felt that he had been in the presence of an extraordinary being. He breathed out heavily, which Dauversière interpreted as rejection.
“Paul, please, I didn’t want to bring this up. But she comes here under the sponsorship of Madame de Bullion—”
“Who might that be?”
“A woman who will undertake the cost of the hospital. Please, reconsider—”
“I will not reconsider,” Maisonneuve informed him bluntly. “Jeanne Mance will be our company nurse, and she will also serve as my second-in-command. You cannot persuade me otherwise.”
Recognizing that he’d been duped, Dauversière clapped his hands once and smiled broadly. “Madame de la Peltrie!” he announced.
“Now who’s this?”
“She will also be joining you on the voyage.”
“Another angel? How many can there be? What does she do?”
“Nothing.” Dauversière shrugged. He had the upper hand now.
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t think she’ll get in the way. I’m sure of it.”
“That is the woman’s only virtue, that she won’t get in the way?” He was about to rant about the task at hand, the dangers, the deprivation, the toil.
“She has money,” Dauversière mentioned. “She’s paying the voyage for the entire company. The least we can do is accede to her request to go along.”
“That’s it? She has money?”
Dauversière offered his palms in a gesture of conciliation. “And she is a most pious woman. Therefore, she goes. All I can promise is that she won’t get in the way. She will be accompanied by Mademoiselle Charlotte Barré.”
“What? Who is she?”
“Her servant.”
“What does she do for our mission?” He had rigorously selected candidates based on their piety and capabilities. Now it seemed that women without appreciable worth were appearing out of thin air.
“She serves Madame de la Peltrie. Who has money. Trouble yourself no further, Paul. What’s done is done.”
Maisonneuve capitulated. He complimented Dauversière on being sly, for had he arranged an interview with Madame de la Peltrie and her servant before he had met Jeanne Mance, he would not have stood for these unnecessary developments. Heartened by the arrival of Mademoiselle Mance, his colleague had taken advantage of his accommodating mood.
“What’s next?” he asked his friend. He had little time for idle chat.
“Jean-Jacques is here, with news from across the sea. Prepare yourself. His disposition seemed grave.”
Olier, a short-haired man with a sharply receding hairline—in contrast to the flowing locks of the other two—did indeed appear before them in a sombre mood. Sitting beside Dauversière, he faced Maisonneuve, and such was the nature of his communication that he chose to clasp a hand of the other man in both of his.
“What news? From whom?” Maisonneuve pressed him.
“Montmagny.” The governor at Quebec. Maisonneuve already knew that the governor did not welcome his arrival, largely because the new colony would exist outside his immediate control. For services rendered to the king, title to the island of Montreal and been vested in Jean de Lauzon, who, unknown to the king, was a member of St. Sacrement. He had passed on the title to Dauversière’s company of gentlemen, and so the colonists were not crossing the ocean under the governance of France, but under the governance of God, to do God’s work. The number of French who had survived or been born into the New World or had travelled there since the time of Champlain was about 340, with about 150 at Quebec, 60 at Trois-Rivières, less than that number each at the communities of Beauport and Beaupré, while the rest had scattered along the St. Lawrence, clinging to the land and the river while managing a scant trade in furs. Of these, it was said, many ran with the Indians and had surrendered the Frenchman’s natural attributes for civilized life. They were thought to be in greater need of redemption than any Indian. Lalemant had warned Maisonneuve of this occurrence, for the New World could compel a man to live on the rivers and in the woods where he might lose his moral and spiritual compass. No one lived on the island of Montreal anymore, Indian or French, and Montmagny had already stated that he saw no value to the project there. He preferred that all new arrivals settle in Quebec, where he could observe them personally.
“What does the good governor have to say now?” Maisonneuve inquired.
“The Iroquois have broken the eternal peace that they made with Champlain. They’ve attacked.”
Sobering news indeed.
“Montmagny has been strengthening the fortifications at Quebec,” Olier continued, “and at the mouth of the River of the Iroquois. He states that he is fearful for all those who dwell along the St. Lawrence or in isolation. These men and women he cannot protect.”
“Montreal?” Dauversière asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.
“He cannot, and perhaps I should say he will not, protect Montreal,” Olier confirmed. “Of course, no one is there at the moment, but his opinion will not change with your arrival.”
Maisonneuve received the news and let it settle with him. This was not good. Their mission was exceptionally difficult, pitting a few stubborn French against the wilderness. Add to their woes the prospect of war, and the magnitude of their struggle had just been increased tenfold.
Olier limited the volume of his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s possible,” he suggested, “that Montmagny instigated the war with the Iroquois to coax new funds for fortifications and other projects. It’s a rumour that arrived on the same ship as the messenger to the king.”
Troubling news. If the governor at Quebec was willing to compromise the security of his people as a political gambit, then the new colony would be more vulnerable than Maisonneuve had imagined. He could envisage the possibility that Montmagny would benefit from seeing them sacrificed.
“We can withhold … delay … the voyage,” Dauversière whispered.
Maisonneuve gazed upon both men before speaking, and measured his tone so that there could be no doubting his resolve. “If all the trees on the island of Montreal turn into Iroquois warriors, my duty and honour require that I establish a colony there. I will speak these same words to Montmagny before I sail from Quebec to our island home.”
They were quiet at the table awhile, as though the words echoed among them.
“Well and good,” Olier concurred, although the gravity of his mood had not been displaced.
Dauversière, fearfully, for this mission had begun with his vision while he himself would be staying home, nodded his consent.
Just then, a lad burst around the corner of grain sacks, full of unabashed excitement. “Monsieur! Monsieur! It’s the cardinal! The cardinal is here!”
“What cardinal?” Olier chastised him. He held spiritual sway in this region, and was unimpressed by the interferences of Church officials.
“Richelieu!” the boy exclaimed.
For a man perhaps more powerful than the king to visit their endeavour so close to departure caused Olier to stand immediately and press his garments with b
oth hands. Dauversière’s eyes went round and panicky, for he envisioned the entire project imperilled, if not doomed. Maisonneuve alone exercised guidance, cautioning his colleagues to relax.
“The court does not favour our enterprise!” Dauversière complained.
“Nor does the court fear it,” Maisonneuve pointed out. “Richelieu and the king are agreed on one salient point: they believe we are crossing the sea to our imminent demise. That being so, they perceive no reason to impede our progress. Our peril is of no concern to the king, and he may welcome it as much as Montmagny.”
Olier agreed. “You’re right, Paul. But then why is he here?”
“To wish us bon voyage, what else?”
Richelieu sought to do exactly that. Jeanne Mance had shown him into a further chamber in the warehouse where the group was stocking supplies, and she made him reasonably comfortable upon a chair. He wore the vestments of his office, appearing in a red and black cape. Obliged to remain standing, each of the courtiers in his entourage made it obvious that the quaint, humble surroundings remained unappreciated, even odious. The cardinal adjusted his arms to indicate the irritation of his hard and narrow seat.
Olier led his group in, kneeled and kissed the cardinal’s ring. Dauversière followed. Both men had met with him before, Olier as a religious leader, Dauversière as a tax collector. Maisonneuve, now, was the man Richelieu had come to see, and he accepted the humility of the soldier’s bow as he proffered his ring to be kissed. Maisonneuve attended to the obligation, then rose before the power of France.
“Sieur de Maisonneuve. So. You are the man for this task.”
“With God’s favour, Your Grace. We expect to embark in a week’s time, when wind and tide are favourable.”
“May you enjoy fair winds. Godspeed, Maisonneuve, to your destination.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. Your words are most heartening.”
Richelieu nodded, never removing his eyes from the man. “Yes. Yes,” he said. “I bring, gentlemen, greetings from the king. Everyone accepts that your … excursion … is born of religious zeal, and the king honours your fervour and wishes you well.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the three men repeated, almost in unison.
The cardinal lowered his voice a notch. “So that no misunderstanding should arise, the king has sent a gift to commemorate your voyage, to sanctify your travels with a token of his generosity.”
Raising a hand to draw the attention of an assistant, Richelieu received a wooden box onto his lap. The three pious men shared glances among themselves, curious that the cardinal had raised the issue of the king’s generosity when they had previously encountered only his parsimony with respect to this project. Richelieu opened the box, and before them lay a knife.
“This is the Dagger of Cartier,” he explained. “Given to Jacques Cartier by the Iroquois, and carried back to New France by Champlain. He lost the weapon to English pirates, but it was returned as part of a dowry paid by the king of England to the Holy Monarchy of France. Now it is the king’s wish that you receive the dagger from New France and carry it back with you to the New World, and he would bid you go in God’s grace.”
Their visitor resisted all requests that he remain to dine with his petitioners, or that they be permitted to see to his accommodation. While he protested that he had other men to visit in La Rochelle, that he was expected at the cathedral shortly, it was clear that he feared that the cuisine might not be to his standard and that any bed offered might prove insufficient for his rest.
“There is one more matter we should discuss,” Richelieu intimated. He was looking at Paul de Chomedey, Sieur de Maisonneuve, in particular.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Montmagny. He has built fortifications at the head of River of the Iroquois.”
“So I understand, Your Grace.”
“This name, River of the Iroquois, strikes me as inappropriate, given that the Indians have turned against us and instituted a war. Have you heard of this peril?”
“I have, Your Grace,” Maisonneuve admitted.
“Are you not deterred?”
“With the love of God, and the blessing of our king, we are each of us the more determined, Your Grace.”
“Well spoken.” He extended a hand for Dauversière, then Olier, to kiss his ring, not taking his eyes from Maisonneuve’s. “I will have you inform Montmagny that the River of the Iroquois shall be renamed. Do you have a suggestion?” Although he continued to gaze upon Maisonneuve, he asked, “Anyone?”
The others were flummoxed, but Maisonneuve, knowing that he required the acquiescence of this man if his party was to embark without impediment, suggested, “I believe, Your Grace, that the river shall be called, henceforth, the Richelieu.”
In surprise, the cardinal placed a hand upon his chest. “You do me greater honour than I deserve.”
“Not at all.”
In humility, Richelieu bent his head slightly. “Very well, then,” he concurred.
Once he had departed, Dauversière and Olier looked to Maisonneuve to explain the remarkable encounter.
“We have the king’s blessing, and carry with us tangible proof, Cartier’s dagger. Should we fail, we shall be remembered as religious zealots ill prepared for our undertaking. The king will have lost no treasure—merely a knife he does not value, sent back from whence it came. If we do not fail …”
Maisonneuve allowed his voice to trail off.
Close by, Jeanne Mance picked up his thought. “… If we do not fail, the king will claim a credit for our success. Such is the supremacy of his blessing, and the power of the Cartier Dagger.”
“The knife gave Richelieu his excuse to come here,” Maisonneuve noted, and frowned. “Really, it’s nothing more than a payment for the perpetuation of his name.”
Olier nodded. “Richelieu thinks of everything.”
“Which is what we must do,” Maisonneuve reminded them. “Come, let’s leave the cardinal to his politics. The rest of us must attend to lowly, practical affairs.”
In its case, he held the knife to his bosom. Whatever Richelieu’s cunning motive, he was glad to have received the dagger into his possession, his first contact with the New World, delivered now to the service of their endeavour.
Over the course of two days in 1642, May 17 and 18, the colonists landed on the island of Montreal, having wintered in grave discomfort at Quebec. Maisonneuve was the first to come ashore, bounding from his longboat and splashing through the water to fall upon his knees on the hallowed ground. They were alone, save for the ship’s crew, who followed them ashore, and the governor’s attendants. Each man and woman repeated Maisonneuve’s example and kissed the benevolent earth.
While the men worked diligently to unload their armaments and stores, tents, personal effects, seed bags and tools, three women, Jeanne Mance, Charlotte Barré and her mistress, Madame de la Peltrie, created an altar for evening prayers. The decorations, cut from wildflowers and undergrowth, earned the awe of the company as the people gathered in the evening light. In glass jars, Jeanne Mance had collected fireflies, and as the first mass on the island was conducted, the little bugs from the New World shone radiant light from the altar. Each man and woman knew they were being welcomed by God.
That night, they slept in their tents. In the morning, they set about creating a new village, scarcely looking up as the ships that had carried them from across the sea departed, leaving them alone in the wilderness with the trees and the animals and the persistent rumours of war.
CHAPTER 9
1955
AS A PRELIMINARY STEP IN HIS INVESTIGATION, CAPTAIN ARMAND Touton asked his officers to examine all Cadillacs registered in the province of Quebec. A mainstay among the rich of New York or Beverly Hills, the make of vehicle was not so ubiquitous on his home turf that the task appeared either too daunting or costly. That the rich were accommodating surprised him, initially. They opened up their garage doors or sent his officers to their country estates
to examine these emblems of extravagance. Soon enough, he realized that owners who chose to advertise their station in life by driving an ostentatious vehicle would rarely deny themselves an opportunity to show it off, not even to the police. Of those Touton interviewed personally, a dozen had offered to take him for a ride, and he could not stop another twenty drivers from turning the key to “listen to her purr.” He listened to Cadillacs purr. To Touton, one car sounded pretty much like any other, whereas proud Cadillac owners responded as though enraptured by an evening at the symphony.
“Named after a Frenchman,” a diminutive lady in her eighties informed him from the aerie of her Outremont home, high above her street. Touton was still puffing from the climb, as the front stairs were built into the side of a cliff. He wondered how she made it up and down more than once a week, and presumed she had an elevator that descended through rock to the garage. He hoped she had a chauffeur. He couldn’t imagine that, shrunken by age, she could see above the steering wheel.
“You’ve given your car a name?”
“No, silly.” Osteoporosis had made her feeble and stooped, although in his judgment the weight of jewellery around her neck didn’t help. This tiny woman was calling him silly. He liked that. He liked her. “The car. Cadillac. It’s named after Antoine de la Mothe, Sieur de Cadillac, who founded Detroit. Did you know that?”
“I did not.”
“You should know the history of your people. He was one of us, a Frenchman. He called Detroit ‘Pontchartrain,’ at first. These days, you can find that name down in Louisiana. Cadillac went there after Detroit. He became the governor of French Louisiana in 1713. Did you know that?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You should.”
“Now I do.”
“Thanks to me.”
“Thanks to you. What colour is your car, Madame?”
“Black. All cars should be black. Or, as Henry Ford said of the Model T, the colour doesn’t matter as long as it’s black.”
