by Jean Little
I went to the fire with Mama and Papa. I thought of the fire we had last year in Mairie’s Cove. Mama brought her sketchbook and Papa brought his fiddle.
The janneys were there, of course. Everyone was. Except Mr. Downs the Younger. He had said already he considered the fire “a pagan practice.”
Tamsin has begun on B. I hope that will not take quite so much space.
Wednesday, January 2, 1723
I needed sugar. Tamsin would have gone to the store but I would not let her. I wanted to look at Mr. Downs the Younger and smile to myself with knowing that Tamsin can learn EXTREMELY WELL.
Thursday, January 3, 1723
Mama has made a very good drawing of one of the janney men in what looks like a wedding gown. Even Tamsin does not know to whom the gown belongs.
Friday, January 4, 1723
Mr. Downs the Younger came to visit. He asked Mama to make a portrait of him. He says his “beloved fiancée” in England misses him and would like to have something of him nearby.
His visit upset me. I know that I am right to be angry with him, but I know also how kind he can be. When we first arrived in Trinity he took me walking with him so I would know my way about.
Saturday, January 5, 1723
Tamsin remembered that if Mr. Downs is to come here to pose for his portrait she will have to call me Mistress Sophie in his presence. I said I would call her Mistress Tamsin. All day we curtseyed to each other and we both of us laughed. Laughing seemed the best thing to do, but the matter really is not funny. I do not think anyone should be curtseying to anyone. Except perhaps the King and Queen.
Tamsin insists the pine boughs must be put out before tomorrow midnight because it is Twelfth Night. If they are not, the year will be unlucky. I do not want to risk that. (Last year I forgot about Twelfth Night completely. But then we had no decorations at Mairie’s Cove.)
Tamsin also told me she thought that Mrs. Jenkins does not want to be here. A girl goes to work for her. That girl’s name is Jeannie. Jeannie says Mrs. Jenkins cries “a deal too much.”
Sunday, January 6, 1723
Perhaps God has given me an answer. As I was praying, I knew I must stop being angry. If I wish to win Mr. Downs the Younger over, I must do something for him that he will like.
This is the last night for the janneys. Tamsin says it will be “the wildest time of all.” She says she wishes she could go janneying — just once even — but girls are not allowed.
The pine boughs are not forgotten. I am going to take them from the house at once.
Monday, January 7, 1723
Tamsin has found a way to practise with pieces of charcoal from the fire. She makes her letters on the hearthstone first and then she rubs them out. Even with this, I think she will still need at least one whole page to get C right with quill and ink.
Mrs. Black came to visit. She is the wife of Mr. Jacob Black, who is a planter. I think Mrs. Black only comes to see what I am doing. I do not like her very much.
Tuesday, January 8, 1723
In my head, I made Mr. Downs the Younger a poem. I went to him and asked him for paper so I could write it out. He has not come yet to pose for his portrait. He says he must make sure his accounts are all in order. He truly does work VERY HARD.
Wednesday, January 9, 1723
My poem for Mr. Downs the Younger says:
Mr. Downs will one day be
Known o’er the world
And o’er the sea
For his great work in Trinity.
I told him he was the Mr. Downs that I had written of. He pinned the poem on the wall in the store. He spoke to Papa about it. He said he hoped he too might have a daughter such as I am in some future time.
I thought perhaps Papa might speak of his own poetry, but he did not do so. My poem is, of course, not so poetical as his was meant to be.
The name of Mr. Downs the Younger’s fiancée is Elizabeth. I asked him when she would come here. He said he is afraid she will find the clime “too rugged.” Although he hopes that if he can get a house that is made of boards, instead of logs, it will help.
Thursday, January 10, 1723
Tamsin told me a hard thing. She said one of the reasons she wants to learn to read and write is so she may see what Mr. Downs the Younger puts in his ledgers. She wishes to do this because her father is always telling her they are being cheated. He says “that be the way of merchants and that always will.”
I wanted to reprimand Tamsin as I have never done before. Although in the end I did not.
Could what she says be true? I do not think so. Uncle Thaddeus would not cheat. Of that, I am QUITE CERTAIN.
Here is the problem though. The catch for the season is often not enough. When it is not, people must get supplies “on credit.” That means they are paying in what they hope they will gain, and not what they have. They are bound to the merchants by some means I do not quite understand.
Also here there is almost no money. It is like Uncle Thaddeus’s “arrangements.” One thing is for another, but no one gets anything to put in a pocket or a purse.
Perhaps it would be better if there was more than one merchant here. But there is not. Still, what if there were none at all? Do I not know of that? Have I not seen how terrible it is to try to manage when supplies run out?
Friday, January 11, 1723
I have started to read to Tamsin from my last year’s journal. When I do so, I move my fingers beneath the words so she can see what they are. Also whenever it says “a” something I have her make the sound.
Tamsin says I am her very best friend IN ALL THE WORLD.
Saturday, January 12, 1723
A great storm has blown up. The house is shaking with the wind. I have put rags under the doors to stop the drafts. At least when a storm comes during winter there are no boats at sea for us to fear about.
Mama is making a portrait of Mr. Downs the Younger without him knowing about it. She is doing it from a sketch she made on Christmas Day.
Sunday, January 13, 1723
We gave thanks that the storm had done so little damage. The service was delayed, however. Because it took so long for everyone to dig tracks through the snow because the houses are so dotted all about.
As usual, Mr. Downs the Younger sent a boy to dig the snow for us. His name is Hal. He stacked our wood before the winter came. I think Hal is yet another of Uncle Thaddeus’s “arrangements.” His family lives very close to the water. Their home is much more like a tilt, as all the homes closest to the water are.
Now that Tamsin has discovered about the hearthstone, I can call out the sounds of the letters for her to write them without copying. Already she is learning more quickly. Already she is up to H.
I want to make another poem for Mr. Downs the Younger, but I am finding it harder. I keep thinking of what Tamsin said. Then I remember Mr. Downs’s concern for his fiancée, and how much I like the name Elizabeth. Perhaps it will be simpler to write about the store.
Monday, January 14, 1723
I wrote Baa for Tamsin on the hearthstone. She puzzled and puzzled and then she said it out. She read it over and over because she did not want to forget it. She was so pleased to have read a whole word that she cried.
We must AT LEAST get through to the end of the alphabet. I have divided the pages accordingly. Even with making half a page for each remaining letter, my own pages are almost run out.
Tuesday, January 15, 1723
Here is the second poem.
Should you be in need of a nail
Or perhaps a pail
Of line, or rope, or hooks
Of cloth or dish
Or salt for fish
Of knife or fork
Or salt for pork
Of needle for sewing
Or yeast for spruce beer brewing
Visit the Younger Mr. Downs
Where what you seek will soon be found.
The line about spruce beer is not right, but brewing is the only thing I could
think of to almost rhyme with sewing. Also, spruce beer is important, so I left it in.
Wednesday, January 16, 1723
RELIEF AND VICTORY. I gave Mr. Downs the Younger my second poem also. I explained how there were others who might write poems for him if he would BUT ALLOW THEM THE CHANCE. I showed him what Tamsin has done. Even if I was trembling when I did it, for fear of what he might say to me. And for fear for Tamsin’s family as well.
I do not know if the poems helped. I just know he smiled a little.
“What’s done cannot be undone again, now can it?” he said to me.
I knew then that all was well. He explained to me though that paper is in short supply here. I am not to go to him for more until my book is “well used up.”
Tamsin is very joyful. I asked her if she would tell her parents what she has been doing. She says most likely that she will.
Thursday, January 17, 1723
The secret is out. All need for it is finished. How lucky to have arrived at this conclusion when there is no more space for me to write.
Tamsin’s parents are actually pleased with her. They believe she may have “chance for betterment.” “Chance for betterment” seems to be what everyone wants in this New World.
Hélène St. Onge began her voyage to New France with her sister, Catherine, who died on the voyage. She wed in the summer of 1667 and became not only a wife but a step-mother.
What a Blessing Is This Peace
Le 9 décembre 1667, tard la nuit
I do not need a candle by which to write, as the full moon on the snow that covers Montréal gives light enough. I should be content. New France is at peace with the Iroquois, my step-daughter Kateri and her dog Ourson sleep in her small room down the hall, our house is safe, our larder full, and Christmas will soon be upon us. With Minette and Sottise purring near Jean’s feet and our bed piled with the quilts that Tante Barbe and I fashioned from goose feathers this fall past, I am warm and comfortable.
And so very unhappy, although I can tell no one of this.
Le 10 décembre 1667
A few moments in which to write before our day of work begins. While Jean labours in his gun shop, there will be bread to bake and linens to air. I must also walk over to the inn later and help Tante Barbe make a potage of salt cod and onions for any passersby who may wish to take a meal there. Perhaps if I work hard I can forget what I heard yesterday. Why did I stand in silence in the kitchen, listening while Jean spoke to a customer? Why can I not control my curiosity? Papa used to say that eavesdropping behind doors may tell you things you have no wish to know.
He was correct.
Tard
How strange life is. One moment I am filled with misery and the next? Joie! Later, though. The common room is filled with men all calling for their dinners and cups of spruce beer.
Plus tard
If this is to be a faithful record of my life here in New France, it must be as clear as possible, yet I can see now that what I have written makes little sense.
So. Yesterday, a new friend of Jean’s came into the gun shop. It was the Cavelier de la Salle, who arrived here from France only last month, a fellow who ceaselessly talks of exploring the wilderness. He wished to have Jean undertake a small repair on his musket. “When do you leave?” he asked my husband, saying that Jean was wise to journey to the Mohawk encampment without his wife and daughter, since the wilderness was no place for females.
Jean answered, but I could only hear the blood thundering in my ears. For the rest of the day I fought hard with my feelings. If Jean must visit the Mohawk and say nothing to me about it, who was I to interfere? Yet by the time we were at the inn supping with Tante Barbe, by the time the bowls were cleared away, Jean’s pipe was lit and my knitting was in my hands, my temper was not good. As I have written before in my journal, I have a terrible temper.
Tante Barbe looked at my face, then at my knitting, and said that if my knitting became any tighter, Jean would not be able to wiggle his toes in the stocking.
How unfortunate, I thought. Perhaps it will keep him here at home.
When Kateri remarked that my cheeks were very red and wondered if I was becoming feverish, her father said, “I pray not. How can you travel with me if you are ill, Hélène?”
I? I was to travel with him? It seemed I was, for I must finally meet Kateri’s grandparents and the rest of her maternal family. They are there at the new mission at La Prairie, having come out of curiosity and planning to remain only a short while. Kateri would come too, of course. It would be a mere stroll of only half a day’s journey. Seraphim would remain here to watch Jean’s shop during the time we would be gone. Tante Barbe would care for the cats and dog, preferring to remain by her own fire, merci. A short visit only, since Christmas was nearly upon us.
I met Jean’s eyes then, and I could tell he had known the source of my irritation, and that curiosity — I am doomed to it — had again overcome my good manners. But he only laughed and said how surprised I must be.
Mon cher Jean. How well he has come to know me in these few months since we wed.
Le 11 décembre 1667
I helped Tante Barbe set out her new crèche this evening, one I fear she will have to guard closely. Minette and Sottise are already eyeing the small wax figures made by the nuns here in Montréal, ready to bat them with curious paws.
We are ready to depart in the morning. I must admit that packing of any sort is always aigre-doux and fills me with a mixture of sadness and happiness. How long ago it seems that I helped my sister Catherine pack once she made the decision to come to New France as a fille à marier. So many deaths, so much suffering, and yet what great happiness has come to be mine here in this untamed land.
Enough. I will wipe my quill and pack it and this diary. Our two traînes are loaded; the snowshoes stand near the door. By tomorrow, we will be among the Mohawk.
Le 14 décembre 1667
At the Mission
It has, as the date of my entry shows, been impossible to write these last few days. Only now have I been able to slip away from the feasting and celebrations. Jean has told me many stories of the Mohawk and other tribes, but nothing prepared me for this.
Le 15 décembre 1667
As the sun rose, Jean set out for a day of hunting with a few warriors. I will have work to do — it is impossible to escape household responsibilities, even here — but for now I am left to myself. Kateri is asleep next to me, wrapped in warm blankets, just the top of her head showing.
So. Our journey was no mere stroll, as walking on snowshoes through deep snow tires the legs. The forest was so beautiful and the calling of birds so cheerful, but even with the sun shining, the cold was bitter.
“Il est froid comme le marteau de Saint-Éloi,” Jean observed in time. I would have thought Saint-Éloi’s hammer would have been hot rather than cold — Saint Éloi being the patron saint of metalworkers and gunsmiths — but I was too cold myself to say so. I can recall thinking that I was glad of my wool mittens and the warm moccasins on my feet, and that Tante Barbe’s own feet must be very comfortable if she was sitting by the fire … and then, there it was.
La Prairie, the mission founded just this fall by Père Raffeix, a priest from Montréal. A few warriors were just entering the palisade that surrounded it, but when they saw us a great shout went up and they came running on their snowshoes, muskets in their hands. Jean and Kateri called out and began to run as well. What a reunion it was, with all the back slapping and embracing and Mohawk greetings.
Jean looked well, they said, calling him by his Mohawk name, Sawatis. And Kateri — she was a woman grown! Then, “This is your wife?” they asked, crowding around me. “Her name makes no sense. She will have a Mohawk name in time.”
Then the next words! Jean though, only laughed aloud and answered, “Children? We are wed but four months, my friends. All in good time, and take care what you say. My wife has enough Mohawk now to understand what you have asked.”
How I blushed at that, but there was little time for it, since we were being taken to the palisade and led through a maze that Jean had told me was built for protection. Once inside I saw longhouses, just as I knew I would, but with them stood two cabanes built of plain boards.
I would have thought it proper to go to the priest’s house — I could hear the sound of a hymn coming from it — and pay our respects, but it seemed it was not. Instead, we were taken to one of the smallest longhouses, where it was necessary to stoop to enter the low doorway. I could see a group of people seated around a fire. An old woman and an old man rose to their feet slowly, and held out their arms. In an instant Kateri was in their embrace. “Ákhsotha! Rakhsotha!” Kateri called through her tears, and I knew that they were her grandmother and grandfather.
“Sawatis!” called the old man to Jean. “Come to our fire, my son.” Jean led me to them and we sat down together. As the old man studied me, the silence went on so long that I felt beads of sweat forming on my upper lip. He would be remembering his daughter, I thought. He would be thinking that I am not good enough to be Jean’s new wife and Kateri’s step-mother. But then I realized he was speaking to me.
“Kwe, Kwe.” Hello, my daughter. And with that, I was welcomed into Jean’s Mohawk family.
The chattering began then, with names exchanged as I was introduced to Kateri’s grandmother and to her cousin and his wife, who held a small baby in her arms. This sleeping cubicle was to be ours, Kateri told me; the three of us would share it, as was the custom of Mohawk families.
Then I noticed a man, one who was not indien, who was standing away from everyone, his arms folded across his chest, a wide smile on his face. Someone taken in war and adopted into the family? I wondered.
“Madame,” said the man. “I am no prisoner, but live here willingly, helping Père Raffeix and acting as his interpreter.” Bowing, he added that he was Charles Boquet, and that he was contracted to the Jesuits. He and Jean must hunt tomorrow if the cooking pots in this longhouse were to be filled to the satisfaction of the women.
