River City (31 page)

Maisonneuve could not mount a spirited defence, although he tried. “Iroquois fight a war of attrition. They pick us off one by one. We
must
hunker down inside our walls.”

Jeanne Mance had brought her knitting, a sure sign that she planned to stay awhile. “I agree. We cannot attack the Iroquois. Yet the men are also correct. We cannot hide behind our walls, only to die when we step outside the gate to fetch a carrot!”

She was right, of course, as usual. “What do you propose?”

“Our purpose is to convert the savages. Their purpose is to kill us before we do. They are more likely to succeed than we are. We must change their purpose, and to do that we must first change ours.”

Such words spoken by a woman of her rare piety left Paul de Chomedey, Sieur de Maisonneuve, perplexed. “How?” he asked.

“Become useful to the Huron. To do that, we must be permitted to trade with them. We must barter for their furs as well as their souls. That will make us useful to the king, who cares not a whit for their souls, and that may encourage him to send soldiers to Fort Perilous.” Her knitting needles flashed in her hands, and it was difficult for Maisonneuve to ascertain where her primary attention lay: in their conversation, or with the nascent scarf. “You, Paul, must persuade the governor on these matters.”

How to do so would be the more difficult affair, but now that she had outlined the necessary trajectory, he supposed that something could be accomplished in that regard. At the very least, negotiations ought to begin.

Maisonneuve grew annoyed by a nearby dog barking. With a soldier’s instinct, he looked up towards the sound, and checked that his harquebusier stood in its allotted slot. In sympathy, other dogs within Fort Perilous took up the bray, which he ignored even as the racket irritated him.

“Iroquois raiders,” he said. “These small bands. They come here with a lust for blood. Somehow they must be taught that to attack us on a whim is folly. If they want to attack us, they must do so on
our
terms, in large numbers. In that situation, we will be able to defend ourselves from within the stockade.”

“The military aspect I leave to you.”

“Why is that dog incessantly barking?” he snapped.

Jeanne Mance glanced up from her knitting, listened and observed her friend closely. Understanding that he was weary, frayed from the aggravations and trauma of recent days, she quietly returned to her primary point, to make sure that he understood its necessity. “Montmagny’s army must serve Montreal as well as Quebec, but that will not occur unless we become important to the commercial enterprise of New France.”

A knock resounded sharply upon the door. Maisonneuve stood and crossed the short distance to raise the latch. Before him stood a presence he did not recognize—a shock, given his everyday association with all those living within the fort. He had grown estranged from the notion that someone from abroad might someday visit. The young man before him merely smiled from under his broad-brimmed black hat, with its rounded top, and extended his hand. Behind him, a dog yapped and growled.

Then the visitor turned grave. “You’ve been wounded!”

“My God!” Maisonneuve gasped, backing into the room. “We’ve met! I know you!”

“You do not know me, sir, but we have met. What a memory!”

“You’re Father Lalemant’s nephew! Your name, sir, I’ve forgotten.”

“Father Gabriel Lalemant. We spoke only briefly, before you embarked.”

Maisonneuve ushered him in, then stepped around him and departed the house himself, even before he had introduced one guest to another.

“Lad!” Maisonneuve cried out. “That darn dog!”

“Sorry, sir,” a youth exclaimed.

“What’s his name?”

“Pilote, sir. She’s a bitch, sir. Please don’t shoot her, sir.”

“Shoot her? Why would I shoot her? If she barks at strangers—or the arrival of a priest from France—then she will also bark at Iroquois, don’t you think? Pilote! Come here!”

He had rubbed the snout of this mutt before, but taken only a nominal interest. “Are you prepared to defend us as we perform our chores?” he asked her.

A few citizens paused to take in what they were seeing.

“Friends! Bring your dogs and puppies to this place! Bring anything that makes noise like a bell when struck and bring great lengths of twine! The Iroquois will not sneak up on us again! Not without sounding alarms and raising the hackles of Pilote and her good friends! See to it now!”

He returned inside, where he warmly embraced his guest. “Father! Father. Your sweet arrival gives us cause to be hopeful! Why are you here?”

“Your wound, Paul.”

“It’s nothing. I am in Jeanne’s care, and God’s.” Discovering his manners, which in the New World had suffered somewhat, he introduced his guests to one another. Still somewhat shocked, he asked Lalemant once more, “Why in the name of God are you here?”

“To die, of course,” Father Lalemant laughed. He seated himself, and mopped perspiration from his brow. “Perhaps before I do, I can be of service. Don’t look at me like that! I’m of clear mind. With this enterprise underway, and the encouragement of my uncle, I understood that I could not live my life in a quiet village parish in France. I want to live and die here, in the New World.”

“You’ve chosen well, Father,” Jeanne Mance attested quietly. “Many men are dying here.”

The priest laughed, expressing the full joy of a man at peace with himself. “Then I have come to the right place! Paul, what did I hear you call this hamlet of mud and sticks?”

“The fort is named Perilous. Within the fort, we call this place Ville-Marie.”

“‘City of Mary’?
City!
I have visited cathedrals that had more priests than you have people, and you call this a
city
?”

“We know it will rise here, Father. One day.”

They talked that evening, the three of them, and it was good for the hosts to speak of what they had accomplished to an outsider, for they could see in his eyes and hear in his words a wonder expressed for their triumphs. Through the visitor’s perspective, they understood that they had progressed. Together, by candlelight, the three imagined a new political shape for their community. Father Lalemant believed, as he took to his pallet upon Maisonneuve’s floor, that he had been guided here by the hand of God. Maisonneuve required an adept political advisor, which happened to be his particular bailiwick, and why his uncle had, rather than encouraged,
commanded
him to travel here.

In the waning summer months, Pilote became the new heroine of the community, leaping high above the grass in a barking rage at her first sniff of Iroquois, then dashing back at the call of her youthful master as the men prepared their harquebusiers and the women retreated to the fort. Next, they’d hear the clatter in the woods as Iroquois struck the settlers’ trip lines, and as
the warriors emerged from the trees, whooping and in a fury, they were met by sustained volleys of gunfire. Repeatedly, the small raiding parties were chased off, as occurred the very day that Father Gabriel Lalemant and Maisonneuve were travelling down the river to negotiate for their economic and military salvation with Montmagny, the governor of Quebec.

He dreamed of his uncle’s bees. They flitted among a selvage of wildflowers at the edge of the clearing as his Lord stepped down to greet him, extending a comforting hand and the radiant touch of ecstasy.

Father Gabriel Lalemant proved to be exceptionally adept as a political emissary, a busy bee himself. Not all actions were accomplished smoothly, nor did they gain a desired effect. In the creation of a new society, no one could lay claim to the expertise that anticipated every problem. Yet Lalemant carried influence among the Huron, who thought well of him because they thought well of his uncle before him, who had cared for their fathers and mothers in times of need. The younger priest earned their respect and learned to speak their language well. Whenever the governor frustrated the aspirations of Ville-Marie, Father Gabriel murmured in an offhand manner that the fur trade might suffer as a consequence, that the Company of One Hundred Associates who held a monopoly over furs might soon be driven to bankruptcy.

Thinking out loud in this way, he pondered the result if the Huron should decide to dispatch their furs south to the Dutch at Fort Orange, and enter into a treaty with the Iroquois. Given that their association with the French did little for them except to get them killed, the development could readily be imagined. Lalemant did not issue threats. He did not suggest that he might himself cause these dire predictions to come true. He merely postulated various scenarios and allowed Montmagny to infer the consequences. He was fortunate. He was unaware that the company was teetering on the verge of bankruptcy, and so did not grasp the fullness of the fear his words caused Montmagny and the businessmen of Quebec. Those in power
understood that any prolonged disruption to the flow of beaver pelts would conclude the French experience in the New World.

Father Gabriel Lalemant gazed across the meadow where his uncle had been tortured before him and where so many Indians had gathered. Fires flared in the distance. The beating of the drums had commenced behind him, and in his fatigue he looked to the skies and felt the warmth of the sun upon his brow. In gazing across time, he had many triumphs to consider, and many difficulties also, some of which had proven insurmountable.

The Jesuit influence among the Indians became an advantage the priest pressed to alter political and economic conventions. New France would come to be ruled by a Superior Council of three men: Maisonneuve, who would be given the title of governor of Montreal; Father Lalemant himself; and the governor of Quebec, Montmagny. The Community of Habitants was formed, a commercial enterprise charged with rescuing the fur trade. The new company would pay a levy to the senior firm for each fur sold, fund the garrison at Ville-Marie and undertake the maintenance of the Jesuit priests there. In exchange, the enterprise received a trading monopoly extending west from the St. Lawrence River. At the same time, in France, Dauversière forged an agreement with the Community of Habitants so that Ville-Marie would be allowed a trading store, a move that promised to make the nascent city a commercial centre. The future of the besieged band seemed bright.

Within a year of the new alliance taking effect, Ville-Marie’s future appeared grim again. The new company was interested only in drawing money out as quickly as possible, neglecting the communities it pretended to serve, and everywhere the Iroquois had intensified their raids. The Huron began to buckle under relentless attacks. The number of furs they delivered in 1646 was sharply depleted from previous seasons, and in 1647 that supply dried up entirely. Profits for the Community of Habitants vanished. Lalemant and Maisonneuve took action again, and this time their petitions reached the table of the Royal Council in France. Three commissioners were named to straighten out the affairs in New France, and Lalemant and Maisonneuve, upon hearing the news, grinned like children at Christmas. That night, they drank French brandy, for each of the three commissioners selected turned out to be, secretly,
members of the Society of Our Lady of Montreal, their very own group, and with that stroke of a quill, power in the region shifted away from Quebec and Montmagny to Ville-Marie and Maisonneuve.

In the clear air, a small rogue cloud blotted the sun. Father Lalemant was grateful for the respite. He felt cooler, and closed his eyes, and prayed. He considered many things.

Perhaps his most crucial advice came later. Maisonneuve used his new power and the influence of friends in France to retire Montmagny. He was then asked to be governor of all New France himself, which seemed to be a great blessing, an advantage, yet his friend and advisor Lalemant shook his head no. The priest’s position was reinforced by Jeanne Mance, who adamantly said no. The offer was a ploy. Should he accept, his energies would be diverted elsewhere, his responsibilities would become more widespread, and eventually his power, seemingly enhanced, would be depleted as he sought to satisfy diverse demands. Maisonneuve accepted his friends’ counsel and turned down the position, but managed to have the builder and architect of Fort Perilous and Ville-Marie, his friend Louis d’Ailleboust, made governor instead. At the same time, he had the commissioners address the shortcomings of the Community of Habitants, which led to yet another division of powers. Under the new regime, he was removed from the Superior Council, which was not a concern, given that he had already installed his man in the top post.

Father Lalemant made one more critical suggestion that altered the future of the colony. He developed a network of volunteers, men for whom he revived the name
coureurs de bois,
runners of the woods. These wild men of the forest would continue to develop the skills necessary to live and fight in the wilderness, and they would become close to the Indians, following in the footsteps of Étienne Brulé. Such men would give the French an advantage over the Dutch, and the English, too, whose communities were growing dramatically around Boston and Manhattan. The Dutch stayed in their forts, and the English were not active in the fur trade, except as merchants. As well, these bold, young men would be attached to particular villages—and Lalemant would ensure that many made Ville-Marie their home—bringing back furs to be sold through the merchants in their home communities. As well, he envisioned these
coureurs de bois
travelling farther into the continent, to the west, north and south, to claim ever-greater expanses for the king.

The wise and experienced priest, now thirty-eight years old, reflected upon these matters in the long minutes he had before his captors returned their attentions to him and sliced out his tongue and clawed his nipples off his chest. His testicles were torn away after that and force-fed to Huron captives, men he had converted. In his agony, he may have screamed, but he believed only that he called out to his God and Lord for mercy and forgiveness as blood filled his mouth, throat and lungs. From the hillock where he stood lashed to a stake, he could see the fires where whole villages lay pillaged and burning, and his heart swelled with the anguish of their demise. He moaned for all the Huron people. Voiceless now, he called to God to forgive the Iroquois even as they stoked the fire that scorched his feet and ankles.