fleet.”
“How did they come by that information?” Hyacinthe asked.
“You know that the British from New England use Iroquois to fight the Acadians and the Mi’kmaq. An Iroquois relayed the message.”
“That could be bad news,” the old seadog remarked.
There was a heavy silence.
“If you should see a British fleet off Miscou, would you be able to send a messenger to Quebec in time?” he asked finally.
“Yes, it would be possible. One would have to canoe to the Restigouche7 post at the Baye des Chaleurs then up the Matapedia8 River to Rimouski9, and from there up the St. Lawrence to Quebec.”
The captain said nothing, as though waiting for an offer.
“But I can’t leave the camp right now. You’ll have to leave me a few men,” Saint-Jean proposed.
“That’s impossible,” the captain retorted. “If there are any storms during the crossing, we won’t have enough hands on deck.”
Joseph was not sure what came over him. He heard himself say, “I’m willing to stay until fall.”
Chapter 2
On October 31, 1603, the French admiral Montmorency delivered a commission to Pierre du Gua, Sieur de Monts, a Protestant gentleman of the court of France. The commission, a vice-admiralty commission, covered “all the maritime Seas, Coasts, Islands, Harbours & lands found near the said province and region of Lacadie… and “the lands he shall discover and inhabit henceforth.”
… In making him the King’s lieutenant-governor on November 8, Henry IV bestowed on him authority to grant seigneuries for all lands located between the 46th and the 40th parallel as well as a ten-year monopoly over trading with the savages on the Atlantic coast, in the Gaspé peninsula, and along both shores of the St. Lawrence River… lastly, in the first year, he will be responsible for transporting to Acadia one hundred people, including any vagabonds he is able to conscript.
– Marcel Trudel, Histoire de la Nouvelle France, Le comptoir, 1604–1627
Joseph settled into a simple existence in a small hut in the camp at the point where the Saint-Jean Creek – Ruisseau – flowed into the sea. As a man of action used to making decisions without hesitation, he had no intention of remaining inactive while waiting for a hypothetical English fleet. So he restarted the small smithy that Saint-Jean had neglected in order to focus on the fur trade. It was as though the fire from the smithy was the only thing that could compensate for the pain of losing Emilie, the hammer on the anvil giving birth to objects born of his pain. The bellows fired up the embers, sparks danced with each blow of the hammer on the red-hot rods, incandescent metal was dropped hissing into cold water to be cleansed, all to the accompaniment of Joseph’s laboured breathing and the sweat trickling down his body. Hatchets, irons, nails, arrow tips, hardware, and even horseshoes piled up, for he knew one day there would be horses in Ruisseau.
He did not notice her until the third day. She was slender, bare of torso, dark, proudly wearing a wampum necklace – beads of seashells on a string used both as currency and symbolic decoration. Her necklace drew attention to her breasts. She wore a skirt cinched tight at the waist by an embroidered belt studded with loon feathers. Her earrings were carved out of golden seashells. The magnificent young woman was Angélique, Saint-Jeans daughter. Her mother, a Mi’kmaq who had taken the very French name of Madeleine, had been married to the Norman captain Alfred Roussi of Rouen. A daughter, Françoise, now living in Gaspeg, was born of that first marriage. On her husband’s death, Madeleine married Gabriel Giraud, known as Saint-Jean. Angélique had never known Madeleine because she was only a year old when her mother died giving birth to her brother Jean-Baptiste. Angélique imagined her mother through her father’s words, then carried on the family tradition by developing her own talent with medicinal herbs and learning the midwife’s art herself.
This was Joseph’s first contact with native customs. I would never see half-naked young women like this in ob-soCatholic Quebec, even less so in Notre-Dame-Des-Victoires Church. Not women of such innocence and purity. My God, she is beautiful!
Lost for words, he couldn’t tear his gaze away. How can an Indian – Métis or no – have such long golden hair to her waist? he wondered, noting she was even more blonde than her father. Her hybrid beauty fascinated him.
Every day, Angélique came and sat at the entrance to the smithy, mesmerized by the tall, taciturn, bearded man who struck the anvil so furiously. By the seventh day, Joseph and Angélique still had exchanged only a few words. That day, after bringing him a drink of sugar, ginger, and cold water, Angélique decided to break the silence. “Why did you come here?” she asked.
“I was supposed to go to work on the Louisbourg fortifications, but I have to stay here until the water freezes over to warn the Quebec garrison if the British come up the river,” Joseph replied.
“The never-ending wars. I don’t understand your Christian principles one bit.”
“Believe it or not, I have a hard time understanding them myself,” Joseph confessed with a hint of irony.
Not satisfied with his brief response, Angélique insisted, “Why did you leave Quebec?”
Joseph decided to confide in her, “During a trapping expedition out by the St. Maurice1 smithies, where cannons are manufactured for the Quebec fortress, I was badly hurt and the Algonquins cared for me. I spent the winter half-delirious and amnesiac. By spring, when I returned to Quebec, my fiancée had taken me for dead, and left. I tried to find her but in vain. Emilie had flown off to other climes. Louisiana, the West Indies, Europe?… So I decided to leave and make a new life elsewhere…”
Angélique said nothing, but her expression showed she wished she could comfort him, rub salve on the wound. “You’ll forget,” she finally said.
Joseph thought he heard, “I’ll help you forget…” He, too, had questions he was dying to ask.
“How is it that you re so blonde?” he ventured at last.
“They say that shortly before the French came here, a strange boat with a carved prow appeared off Miscou; they were Vikings come from a great island in the North, an island with volcanoes and geysers. The Mi’kmaq welcomed them like lost gods, and bonds of affection were woven between our two peoples on beds of moss. As you can see, they left their traces!” she said with pride. “There are many other legends… When the moon rises, the southwester breeze murmurs that Jacques Cartier was welcomed in Ruisseau by the chief of the Mi’kmaq, who offered him his daughter as a token of his friendship.”
“If the rumour is true, then an explorer’s trade doesn’t just involve planting crosses!” Joseph exclaimed.
Although Angélique spoke French, her voice held the intonations characteristic of the Mi’kmaq language, which sounded sweet to Joseph’s ears.
“But my son has no European features.”
Joseph had trouble imagining her as a mother. “You have a son? But you seem so young!”
“I had a baby when I was sixteen. His father died over two years ago, carried away by one of the white man’s diseases. I didn’t turn to the forge to forget my pain, though, I turned to plants, herbs, and flowers.”
A seagull soared overhead, clouds filled the sky, time slowed to a languorous pace. Time for pleasure. His deep-seated fascination with this woman seemed to show the way to a new life.
Day after day at the fiery forge2, Joseph exorcized his pain and sense of loss