* * *
It was dark when Jeanne climbed out of the caleche at the hospital. She entered the building and went up to the woman’s ward. She and her parents had divided the hours of the day into times each of them spent with Marguerite. They did not want her to be alone at any time. Jeanne had the night hours.
“How is she, Father?” Jeanne asked.
Etienne stood up from the chair by the bed and stretched. “She has not changed. She has gone from chills, to fever, and back to chills this evening. Her breathing has been labored and while she was awake for a while, she was listless.”
“Did she eat?”
“Yes. I managed to get some soup into her.”
“Good.” Jeanne kissed her father. “Go home and get some sleep. I will look after her now.”
After her father left, Jeanne stood looking down at her sister. Her breathing was rapid and shallow and she wheezed as she drew each breath. She was suffering and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
Jeanne slumped in the chair. She felt so helpless. And she knew her parents did too. She saw her mother’s red eyes from crying when she came to the hospital each morning. She had seen her father throw his tools while working in the smithy. Though he tried to hide it, she had even seen tears in his eyes.
Marguerite open her eyes.
Jeanne jumped up. “I am here.”
Marguerite raised her head and looked around the room. “I am still in the hospital?” she asked weakly.
“Yes.”
Marguerite dropped her head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. “Then it must have been a dream.” Her voice was sad.
“What did you dream?” Jeanne sat on the bed beside her sister.
“I dreamed I was in France in a carriage on my way to the convent of the Congregation de Notre Dame in Troyes. I was feeling so well and so happy.” Marguerite sighed with disappointment. “I am not getting better.”
Jeanne did not know how to answer that. “This is the first time you have been able to talk this much to me since you came in.”
Marguerite smiled wanly. “That is not good enough.”
Jeanne wanted to keep her sister talking. She did not want her to slip back into unconsciousness.
“Do you need anything?”
“I am thirsty.” Her voice seemed to be fading.
Jeanne poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the night table. She held the glass to Marguerites lips and helped her lift her head. Marguerite took a couple of sips and laid back.
“Thank you.”
“Do you want more?”
Marguerite shook her head. “Maybe later.” She closed her eyes.
Jeanne searched her mind for a topic to keep her sister awake. She missed their conversations.
“Tell me more about Marguerite Bourgeoys.” She had heard the story many times but she knew that Marguerite enjoyed telling it.
Marguerite opened her eyes and her face lit up.
“Marguerite Bourgeoys was born in Troyes, France, on April 17, 1620 and joined the Congregation de Notre-Dame when she was twenty. The Congregation de Nortre-Dame was founded in 1597 and dedicated to help the poor but the nuns were not allowed to go outside the cloister to do their work.”
Marguerite’s voice had started out somewhat strong but slowly faded. She kept pausing to regain her breath. Jeanne continued the story for her.
“The director of the Congregation was the sister of the governor of Montreal. When he went to France, she and several nuns, Marguerite included, volunteered to come back to New France as teachers. He said that, at the time, the new colony could not support a community of cloistered women. But he did say that one woman would be welcome to cross the ocean to act as teacher for the children of the settlers and the natives. Bourgeoys was chosen and at age thirty-two she headed to New France.”
Jeanne paused. “Am I right so far?”
Marguerite nodded. Her breathing was labored but she continued slowly. “She established the Congregation de Notre Dame here in 1658. The big difference between this one and the one in France was that the nuns were not confined to the convent. They lived among the less fortunate and helped them right in their own area. The Congregation were missionaries to the natives, they opened a boarding school for girls, and they were there to welcome young women when they arrived from France.”
“Did she die here?”
Marguerite’s nod was barely perceptible. Jeanne was afraid she had worn her sister out, maybe even made her sicker by not letting her rest.
“Marguerite Bourgeoys gave up her life for a young nun.” Jeanne had to lean close to hear the words. “The nun was very sick and Marguerite prayed to God to take her life instead. According to the story, the nun recovered and Marguerite fell very ill, dying a few days later. During a public visitation, people brought their treasured items to press against her hands. They were then considered holy and became spiritual relics. Before burial her heart was removed and preserved as a relic by the Congregation.”
“It is such a wonderful story,” Jeanne said. “I can understand why you would want to travel to her birth place.”
Marguerite did not answer. Her chest barely moved. Jeanne quickly reached out her hand to touch her face. Marguerite did not stir. Jeanne sat in the chair and watched her sister. Eventually, she could not keep her eyes open. As she did most nights she laid down on top of the covers beside Marguerite. But she slept fitfully. She was afraid of missing any fluctuation in Marguerite’s condition.
Chapter Twenty
One morning Florian and some of the men rushed to Andrew’s tent before he was up. They pulled out the poles and dumped the canvas on top of him. Phillippe saw Andrew scrambling around under the canvas before he was able to crawl out. His face was red with anger.
“Who did that?” he sputtered.
The men looked at each other with innocent expressions on their faces.
“Did what?” one of them asked.
“Who stole the poles of my tent?”
“We need to use them in the canoes to balance the bundles as we load them.” Florian stepped up.
Andrew stared at him and then at the crowd of men facing him. “You do not,” he said. “I want them back right now.”
Phillippe went to stand beside Andrew. He needed someone on his side.
“Or what?” Florian asked. “You will take them back?
“No, I will not fight you, even if you want me to.”
“Then what are you going to do to us?” Florian taunted.
“I will see that your wages are docked when we get back to Montreal.”
Florian glared at Andrew and Phillippe could see the contempt on his face. “My, you are a real tough man. Instead of standing up for yourself you will go whining to your cousin.”
“Get loading the canoes,” Pierre yelled, stepping between Florian and Andrew. “Save the fighting until we reach Grande Portage.”
The men turned away. One of them dropped the tent poles on the ground as they headed to the overturned canoes.
Phillippe had started to follow them when he saw Florian lean towards Andrew. He just barely caught the words.
“What does she see in a wimp like you? If she had seen how you acted now, she would be running right to my arms.”
Late afternoon they reached another shallow area in the river. Again, the canoes were partially unloaded. The tow cords were tied to the fronts and they were pulled, pushed, and guided along. This time the water was swifter, creating rapids. The depth varied according to the level of the river bed.
Phillippe fought for footing on the slippery rocks as he pushed the canoe. He was looking down when suddenly he heard men yelling. He glanced up to see that one of the ropes had broken. The water grabbed at the heavy canoe and pulled the other rope out of the men’s hands. The canoe began to twirl around. The men along the inside of the twirl scrambled to get out of the way of the heavy craft. Those who could not were knocked off their feet.
P
hillippe was slow to understand what was happening. He stumbled and as he fell face down into the water, he instinctively held his breath. He felt the canoe hit his back. But it did not continue over him. It seemed to have stalled on top of him. He realized that it held him, that he was pinned with his face scraping the river bed. Fear enveloped him. He squirmed, desperately trying to get out from under the weight. But he could only shift his arms and legs a little. He tried to get his hands under him but they did not fit. He reached up behind and pushed the bottom of the canoe. It would not budge.
Phillippe knew he could not hold his breath much longer. He wanted so badly to exhale and take another breath but he knew it would be full of water. He let a little air out of his lungs hoping it would make his chest smaller and the canoe would dislodge. That did not work. Surely his body was not stopping the canoe from floating down the river.
Panic enveloped his mind. He was close to losing consciousness. He was going to die on his first trip. Images of the crosses he had seen along the banks of the river flashed through his mind. Would there be one erected for him here? He could not hold his breath any longer. His lungs burned for air. A vision of Marguerite floated in front of him.
“I love you,” he thought as he lost consciousness.
Phillippe did not feel the canoe shift nor did he feel the hands that grabbed the back of his shirt and roughly pulled him out of the water. The next thing he knew he was gasping and coughing in an attempt to fill his lungs with fresh air and his uncle was carrying him to the shore. His uncle laid him on the grass.
Phillippe looked up at Pierre and then at some of the other men hovering nearby.
“Good,” Uncle Pierre said. “You will live.”
Phillippe nodded weakly.
“Just stay here while we finish with the portage,” Uncle Pierre said. “I will come back and get you.”
Phillippe’s hand shook as he brushed the wet hair off his face. He closed his eyes. He could scarcely believe he had survived. He knew he had come so very close to dying. And his uncle had saved him. He regretted the anger he had felt towards his uncle when he had found out that he had been hired by William to look after him. If Uncle Pierre had not been watching over him, would he have gotten to him in time? Would one of the other men have felt the need to try and save him?
Phillippe thought back to what had happened. The cord had broken, the canoe had begun to swing around. Men scrambled to get out of the way. His feet slipped on the rocks. The fight to move the canoe, then nothing until he was on the bank with his uncle looking over him.
He reached inside his shirt and pulled out the cross Marguerite had given him. It had kept him safe, just as she had wanted.
* * *
Jeanne could not sit and watch her sister’s shallow breathing any longer. Nor did she feel like lying down beside her. She stood and taking the candle went to check on the other women in the room. There were two, one who had just had a baby and one who had broken her leg. They both were asleep.
Jeanne wandered out of the room. The flickering light of the candle made shadows on the hall walls. She knew the men’s room was empty so she bypassed it. In the children’s room were the newborn baby, a young boy who had fallen out of a tree and was unconscious, and a year old child whose parents had abandoned her on the hospital steps with a blanket and a few shillings.
As she strolled she marveled how much this hospital had suffered through since its inception. She had learned some of the history in the school for young women and through the stories told by the present nuns that they had heard from the nuns before them.
In 1535, Maurice Cartier had sailed up the St. Lawrence River and discovered the Iroquois natives of the Confederacy of Five Nations in their village of Hochelaga. He climbed to the top of the hill behind the village and after admiring the view named it Mount Royal. However, it was not until 1603, when Samuel de Champlain arrived at the island of Montreal, that the idea of habitation was first discussed, and it was not until 1641 that settlers were sent out from France. They constructed a fort with living quarters inside for security.
In that year, Jeanne Mance came as a missionary, and to oversee the building and running of a hospital in Montreal. Two years later, a woman in France, the Marguise de Bullion, donated 42,000 livres to be used to set up the hospital. But there was not enough room inside the walls of the fort for the Hotel-Dieu so it was constructed outside the stockade on a height of land. It was surrounded by a palisade and a ditch. That first Hotel Dieu was called La Maison de Mille Mance after Jeanne Mance.
Unfortunately, the main hospital and some other buildings were destroyed by fire in 1685. It was nine years before a new, larger hospital was built but fire ravaged it three months after it was completed. Another hospital, this one just for men, was erected that same year. By this time the town had spread outside the fort.
A third Hotel Dieu was constructed. However, when a salvo was put on to announce the passage of the Holy Sacrament during Pentecost in 1721, a musket shot landed on the hospital roof and started a fire. The fire not only destroyed the hospital but spread rapidly through the nearby wooden houses and when finally under control, the hospital and 138 homes were demolished.
It was after this fire that a town ordinance was issued for the re construction of the homes. No more houses were to be built of wood or with wooden timbers. All new houses had to be two stories high and made of stone. There were to be no large roof frames; instead horizontal beams were to be used to support the rafters. Roofs had to form a peak and only be covered by tiles or slates, not shingles. Inside, the floors of the attic had to be overlaid with tile and three inches of mortar.
Then in 1734, a black slave decided to run away. In order to distract her mistress, the slave deliberately set a fire in her owner’s home. The fire also levelled the Hotel Dieu and forty-six other homes. Unfortunately for the woman, she was captured and hung for her misdeed.
More ordinances were passed. Two hundred-eighty buckets were to be fabricated, two hundred of wood and eighty of leather. One hundred axes and one hundred shovels were also manufactured along with twelve long ladders and twelve battering rams for knocking down walls. These all were distributed in four different areas of the town.
Also, an axe and bucket were to be kept in each house and taken to help fight a fire. Anyone not bringing them was fined. Chimney sweeping became mandatory and each roof had to have a ladder for easy access to the chimney.
Jeanne looked at the sturdy walls of the building. In her lifetime there had been fires in the town but none as destructive as those four. With all the new precautions, there should never be another one.
Marguerite and Jeanne’s mother, Marie, had been named after Marie-Madeleine Jarret, the young woman who had saved her family home, her brothers and other people from Indian attack in 1692. She, in turn, grew up admiring the women who had made a difference in the people’s lives in New France and named her daughters after them. Marguerite after the nun, Marguerite Bourgeoys, and Jeanne after Jeanne Mance.
Jeanne thought of Jeanne Mance. She had been a brave woman to come to the wilds of a new country as a missionary and to build a hospital. Jeanne hoped she could live her life as bravely as her namesake.
Jeanne went back to the women’s room. Marguerite was still asleep, her breathing unchanged. Jeanne set the candlestick on the night table and blew out the flame. She laid down beside her sister and closed her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-One
As they paddled the hundreds of miles of the Ottawa River Phillippe learned some of the names of the many falls and rapids they portaged around. Names like The Kettle, The Candlesticks, and the Peace Pipe had been coined over the years. They also continued to drag the canoes through many shallow areas. Phillippe had no idea how many times they had used the poles to make some time against the current.
When they passed the places where simple wooden crosses were stuck in the banks each one of the voyageurs removed his cap and one man said a short prayer.
Phillippe began to do the same. He noticed that some men even wiped a tear from their eyes. The cross must represent a brother or friend.
In one area Phillippe counted thirty crosses.
One morning they woke to an overcast sky. It did not start to drizzle until after their second pipe. Phillippe watched the other paddlers remove their shirts and stick them under a bundle. He did the same realizing it would keep it dry. They continued paddling bare skinned while Andrew struggled to put on his oilskins. The drizzle turned to rain. Pierre turned them into the shore. The men quickly unloaded the canoes and turned them over the goods to protect them. The rain became a downpour.
In spite of having their oilskins on Phillippe, Jerome and Andrew squeezed under the edge of one of the canoes to get out of the rain.
“What is a little rain going to do to you?” Florian asked looking down at them.
A voyageurs with him laughed.
Emboldened, Florian kicked some damp sand at the three. “Are you going to melt away?”
“Florian, take two men and get a musket each, some shot, and flints and go look for game,” Pierre said. “You others find some trees with overhanging branches to get out of the rain.”
“If I did not know better, I would think your uncle is protecting us,” Andrew said to Phillippe. “You, I can understand, but me, I do not understand.”
Phillippe shrugged. He did not explain what he had overheard between his father and his uncle. It was too embarrassing.
In about an hour Phillippe heard a muffled shot and then another.
“Sounds like we will have meat for supper,” one voyageur said rubbing his hands together.
“If this rain stops long enough for us to build a fire,” another said.
The three men tromped into the camp. Florian had a small deer slung over one shoulder. He dropped it on the ground. The other two found some rope and tied a piece around each of the hind legs. They threw the other ends over a branch and hefted the animal up until its front hoofs just barely touched the ground. They went to work skinning and gutting it.
West to Grande Portage Page 14
