BOOK 3
The New World and the Old 1757
Chapter Twenty
SUNDAY, JULY 22, 1757
QUéBEC UPPER TOWN
THE HALLS OF the Collège des Jésuites were paneled with the finest woods. The floors were of red and white and black marble. The brothers kept everything spotlessly clean and gleaming, nowhere with more care than in the broad and colonnaded south corridor that passed by the private apartments of Monsieur le Provincial, where Philippe Faucon now walked silently reading his breviary. Old Brother Luke was twenty strides ahead, shuffling forward with large cloths tied to his feet, telling his beads as he polished the floor. His sibilant whisper could be heard clearly in the otherwise silent hall. “Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâce.” Men became Jesuit brothers rather than priests because they were unschooled and could therefore not fulfill the priestly obligation to daily read the Divine Office. They prayed the rosary in French, while each priest of the Society read the Latin Hours by himself, fitting in the duty among his other chores.
It was Sunday. Philippe had no chores. He would have liked to be off sketching in the countryside, but he and Luke had been left to look after things while the rest of the community was away at a reception in the château of the governor-general. Ten strides from the door of the apartments of Monsieur le Provincial Philippe began the third psalm of Vespers for this feast of St. Mary Magdalene: Quis ascendet in montem Domini? Innocens manibus et mundus corde. Who can ascend the mountain of God? He with a clean heart and innocent hands.
The words chilled him. Philippe did not believe his heart clean or his hands innocent.
“Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu,” the old man ahead of him murmured. It was not appropriate to do menial work on a Sunday, but Brother Luke had long since decided that polishing the floor while he walked was not actually labor and had dispensed himself. “Priez pour nous …” His purposeful shuffle carried him forward, past the door of the Provincial’s study and around the corner into the corridor leading to the Retraite de Ste. Anne, the community’s private chapel.
Philippe slowed his pace still further. He knew that when Luke reached the door to the chapel he would pause, remove the cloths tied over his shoes, and go inside. The old man spent hours in devout prayer. He was quite possibly a saint.
A few moments passed. The sounds of the whispered rosary grew fainter, then died away. Philippe heard the squeak of the one hinge that defied all their efforts to silence it; even a novena to Saint Anne herself had produced no results. The squeaking hinge meant Luke had opened the door of the Retraite. When it squeaked a second time Philippe knew the door had been closed.
Alors. In practical terms he was alone in the house. He did not remember the last time such a thing had happened. It was a sign from God.
He closed the breviary and lay it on a nearby table, then hurried forward and without hesitation grasped the handle of the door to the Provincial’s study. It turned easily. He had told himself that if the door was locked that too would be a sign from God. He would make no effort to force his way inside, simply accept that what he was thinking was grave sin and prepare himself to do penance to expiate it. But Louis Roget had not locked the entrance to his private apartments. The door swung wide at Philippe’s first touch. The wondrous carvings of the ébénistes of Reims were spread before him.
Straight ahead was the panel that depicted the Flight into Egypt, which if he touched it in the proper place would swing wide and give him a view of the Lower Town and the wretched monastery of the Poor Clares, and the hovel where Père Antoine Rubin de Montaigne lived. On his right was the panel with the angel whose wings covered his face as he knelt in adoration before the Divine Throne. Philippe, too, put his hands over his face.
Lord, I wish to do Your will. His heart thumped wildly, his hands were icy cold. But it could not be the will of God that the night terrors would not leave him, that his grieving and sense of failure, were like a scrofulous growth in his belly which no amount of prayer or sacrifice could relieve. It is not your fault, Philippe. That’s what Xavier Walton told him each time he confessed the same sin of betrayal. You did not desert the habitants of l’Acadie. They were sent away by the heretic English soldiers, may God have mercy on their souk. The English forbade you to accompany your parishioners. What were you to do?
What he had done was the only thing he’d known for certain was right and the thing God expected of him. He had borne witness, using the small talent that had been given him to document the sufferings of those entrusted to his care. And the moment he arrived here, back in the Collége, he had turned his drawings over to Monsieur le Provincial.
It had rained the afternoon of his return. Philippe remembered being soaked to the skin as he walked up the Côte de la Montagne. No one knew he was coming so no calèche had been sent for him, and by his lights his vow of poverty—however loosely it was interpreted among Jesuits—prohibited him from hiring a cart and cartman. He remembered dripping puddles of water when he stood right here in this very room, facing his superior and clutching the deerskin envelope that contained his drawings.
“Welcome home, Philippe. You would perhaps prefer to dry yourself and change before we speak.”
“No, Monsieur le Provincial, with permission. I wish at once to give you these things.”
“Your drawings.” Roget could not quite suppress a sigh. “Yes, of course.”
Philippe opened the envelope and spread his sketches on the gleaming surface of a mahogany table. “This is what I saw, Monsieur le Provincial. Exactly as I saw it.”
For some moments the only sound was of rain thudding on the lead roof. Louis Roget had looked a long time at the drawings. Finally he made the sign of the cross and Philippe saw his Ups move and knew that Monsieur le Provincial was praying for the habitants, asking God that the sufferings of the Acadians might be rewarded with the joys of heaven. When he finished he gathered up the drawings, handling them, Philippe thought, with a certain tenderness. He had never before seen Louis Roget be tender. “You have done well, my son. I shall take charge of these now.”
Almost two years, and Philippe had heard nothing more. His record, the only thing he could give those parishioners who had been put in his care, had been stifled. At least that’s what he thought had happened. Twice he’d tried to ask Monsieur le Provincial what had been done with his drawings. Both times the question was answered with an icy stare and the reminder that it was not his place to concern himself with the decisions of his superiors. But, mon Dieu, this thing gives me no peace. I have to know.
Philippe crossed to the panel of the angel kneeling in adoration and pressed on the wings. The wall parted and a drawer slid forward. It was lined with velvet and deeper than he remembered, crammed full of papers. This time nothing had been left open for him to see.
The rasp of the Retraite’s squeaking hinge was unmistakable. Impossible! Brother Luke never left the chapel after so short a time. There was a second squeak as the door closed again. “Je vous salue, Marie …” Luke had left the Retraite and was retracing his steps, coming back toward Philippe.
He had not closed the door to the Provincial’s study. He raced toward it, resisted the urge to slam it shut, closed it carefully and soundlessly, and pressed his throbbing forehead against the coolness of the wood.
Luke’s footsteps grew louder. “Priez pour nous pauvres pécheurs—” The words stopped.
The old man was standing right outside Monsieur le Provincial’s study. He had stopped reciting the rosary. But Luke never stopped; decade after decade rolled out of him, a constant stream of petition. Philippe leaned all his weight against the door. Perhaps if Luke tried it and it did not give, he would assume the study was locked. The handle, however, did not turn. Philippe put his hand on his chest and counted his own heartbeats. They seemed to him loud enough for Luke to hear. He had reached nine when the river began again to flow. “… maintenent et à l’heure de notre mort. Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu …” Brother Luk
e continued on down the corridor.
Philippe had promised himself he would not look at anything else in the drawer. He wanted only to know if his drawings were there, if Monsieur le Provincial had, as he suspected, hidden away the record of the sufferings of the Acadians. He could be wrong. Louis Roget was a thousand times more clever than Philippe Faucon. Perhaps he had sent the drawings to Versailles, or even to the pope in Rome. Perhaps Louis Roget, like Philippe, was waiting for the English to be publically accused of the terrible things they had done.
The sketches made in hiding in the little Eglise du St. Gabriel in those dark days of terror and turmoil were tied together with a black ribbon. They had been placed in the rear of the secret drawer. Philippe knew without doubt that they had been there since, in keeping with his vow of obedience, he had presented them to his superior.
He carried the drawings to the mahogany table and untied the ribbon, turning the sketches over one by one, flipping through them quickly, tears streaming down his cheeks as he saw again the anguish he had been trying to forget. There were Madame Trumante and Rafael, her four-year-old son, sent away on separate ships, unlikely to find each other ever again. There were the women cowering on one side of the hall and the men on the other, the redcoats between them with fixed bayonets. Not just exile, but separation, whole families destroyed, for no other reason than that their tormentors wished them ill. Alors, even Mademoiselle Marni Benoit, standing on the ramparts and looking out to sea smiling, the one habitant who seemed glad to leave her homeland. The record he had made was intact, but no one had seen it except himself, his superior, and of course Cormac Shea, that night when the métis had arrived looking for Marni.
There was a drawing in the pile that had not been made by him. It had been caught in the black ribbon and lifted out of the drawer when he removed his sketches. A map of some sort, with dotted lines to indicate the depths and the positions of shoals and reefs and little numbers scattered all about So perhaps a navigation chart. Both. A map and a chart. The artist had not wished to be bound by convention. And though the thing was old and yellowed, it was meticulously drawn with ink and a quill.
Philippe held the sketch to the light, squinting so he could read the signature. Mon Dieu! Ignace Loualt? Que magnifique! He was holding a drawing made by one of the most famous names in the Society. Louait had been among the Jesuits who accompanied Champlain when Québec was established in 1608. This drawing must therefore be 150 years old.
At first Philippe could not orient himself to the artist’s point of view, but after a few seconds he realized he was looking at the St. Lawrence River and the earliest beginnings of Québec Lower Town. Alors, the big tree, the oak with the large wound in its trunk left from a bolt of lightning … it is still there. Louait drew this from the shore just below the falls. Bien sur. It is the river passage between Ile d’Orléans and Ile Madame, the place they call La Traverse. No merchant ship larger than a hundred tons can maneuver through La Traverse, and even then only with the aid of one of the experienced local pilots. Everyone knows that’s why we are impregnable here in Québec. He had heard the statement more times than he could count. No British warship can sail upriver and threaten us, they cannot pass La Traverse. It was an article of faith in Québec. He had no doubt it was true. But why would Monsieur le Provincial have such a map as this hidden away?
The Society was immensely proud of its history in New France. The breviaries of the first Jesuits to come here were on display in the public rooms of the Collège. Their battered birettas, two with holes said to be made by the arrows of hostile Indians, were in a glass case beside the entrance. There was even a reliquary containing a fragment of bone said to have come from a Jesuit who had been tortured and killed by the Huron. But this map, this document straight from the pen of Louait himself, why should it be hidden away?
Because whoever saw it was in possession of a secret. No other explanation was possible.
Philippe was no longer conscious of where he was, or the moral danger of his position. He was drawn into the heart of the drawing by his pure love of lines on paper. He turned it this way and that, examining it from every angle. Louait the artist, his brother Jesuit, seemed to speak to him. See, I am bearing witness with my gift for art. As you have borne witness, to the trees and flowers and grasses of this place, and to the Indians, and to the sufferings of the habitants of l’Acadie. In my own way, in my own time, I did the same. Because, my brother, a thing is not always as it seems, or as people say it is. But the truthful eye of the artist, that does not fail.
Mère de Dieu … Loualt had made a chart of the channel through La Traverse.
Philippe’s hands shook. Only with the knowledge of local pilots, everyone said. They have secrets that are passed from father to son. There is no other hope of finding a way through. It was not true. Ignace Louait had provided all the knowledge necessary. The cross-hatching identified the various shoals and—he was no expert in these things—perhaps even a reef. The numbers were fathom markings, indications of depth. But were they accurate? They had to be. Louait must have made the soundings himself or he would not have committed the results to a permanent record.
We Jesuits are always thorough and precise. Do all for the greater glory of God. We are taught that from the first day we enter the Society. No shoddy efforts, no half measures. So, since it must be accurate, with this thing one could navigate La Traverse—Mon Dieu …
Philippe made the sign of the cross. He closed his eyes and prayed that when he opened them he would not see what he thought he’d seen. But when he looked a second time the numbers on the chart had not changed. Mon Dieu, I am not a seaman. But I have heard it said over and over since I came to Québec seven years ago: La Traverse is not only too fierce and too narrow for English warships, it is nowhere deep enough. The smallest frigate cannot get through. But here I see with my own eyes that according to the soundings of Ignace Louait, priest of the Society of Jesus and companion to Champlain, the channel is plenty deep, only crooked and difficult to locate.
He had to sit down. The closest chair was the one usually occupied by Monsieur le Provincial. Philippe sat in it, holding the map in both trembling hands. Québec Harbor was not inviolate. It could be entered by English warships. The redcoats would separate husbands and wives, mothers and children, and banish them to some terrible place where they could not receive the sacraments and save their souls.
He looked across the room to the record he had made of the sufferings of the Acadians, still spread out on Monsieur le Provincial’s beautiful mahogany table. Tears rolled down his cheeks and his shoulders shook, but he was careful not to allow his sobs to be heard.
“You left this in the corridor, Monsieur Philippe. I thought you might need it.”
Philippe took the breviary from Brother Luke’s wrinkled hands. “Merci, mon Frère.” The old man nodded and went to his place in the refectory. Philippe set the breviary on the table beside the boiled egg and rich, dark beef bouillon of the Sunday evening collation. He lifted the cup of broth and drank, carefully avoiding any glance at the head table where Monsieur le Provincial sat.
The Provincial was equally careful not to look directly at Faucon, though he did not miss what had passed between the priest and the brother. Did you by chance leave your breviary in my study, Philippe? Non, I do not think so. If you had Luke would not have found it. It is not Brother Luke who disturbed the hair in the angel’s wings. And only you and he were in the house. Au fond, you left your breviary somewhere else. Near my study, perhaps. And the saintly old brother who thinks ill of no one has simply assumed that you forgot it.
The brother in charge of serving the evening meal approached with second helpings. Roget had a mind to refuse for the sake of self-discipline, and because the crisis in the matter of food grew worse every day. The fisheries were managed for the good of France, not Canada. Most of the catch was salted and sent to the mother country. The growing season in this place was short, and the habitants came of s
tock selected for fishing and trapping skills. They were not, God help them, natural farmers. Worse, Bigot offered them so little for what wheat they did grow that they preferred to hoard, and to sell on the black market. As a result the bread in the town bakeries was of terrible quality—the flour was augmented with ground peas—and rationed to a few thin slices per person per day. For meat, the habitants were reduced to slaughtering their horses.
Such deprivation was not apparent in the refectory of the Jesuits. They baked loaves of the finest white bread from excellent flour presented to them by Intendant Bigot, who also frequently supplied them with sides of beef. All, of course, for the sake of his soul. What would be gained by refusing such gifts? Bigot would not turn around and give the food to the poor.
The brother stood in front of his superior, head bowed, holding the tureen of bouillon, waiting to be told if Monsieur le Provincial wished a second helping. The rich aroma of the broth was irresistible. Roget nodded and two ladlefuls of the soup were added to his cup.
The Provincial did not always eat here in the refectory with his sons. Frequently his status required that he dine with those in Québec who, like himself, were in positions of great authority. Though they were not, of course, anything like himself. What did he have in common with the likes of a stunted little charlatan like Bigot, or that old Canadian who fancied himself an aristocrat, the marquis de Vaudreuil? The Provincial sighed. It was his duty to associate with such people for the greater glory of God, just as it was his duty to do all in his power to promote the welfare and spread of Christ’s Holy Catholic Church, not simply here in this brutal Canadian wilderness, but in all of New France, most particularly the more hospitable lands to the south. He had known almost from the moment he arrived on this side of the ocean that the future lay in the Ohio Country and the territory known as Louisiana. They would be not just the heart, but the spine of New France. From there the Holy Church and the Society could spread west. Whatever happened, such treasures must not be given up to the English. Certainly not to save this harsh land. But now, with a Canadian as governor-general … Patience, he reminded himself. The time will come.
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