their table.
Saint-Jean had little to do with the farmwork. His passion was trapping, furs, and the forest. So he laid traps and, of course, kept up his weekly treks to his refuge on the island. Each week, he made the league-long trip in his sailboat. One fine morning that Indian summer, he invited Joseph along. At first, they said nothing. Finally, Saint-Jean confided, “Before I left France from the port of La Rochelle, I had to spend several months hiding out on the Ile de Ré nearby. The island’s inhabitants saved my life. Since then, I’ve always wanted to have my own island, a sanctuary where I can rest and forget about the men who were on the galleys with me. I’ve built a fine observation tower there.”
He had created a hideout at the western end of the island, at the top of a triangle formed by three huge spruce trees.
“What a wonderful view!” Joseph exclaimed.
They could see for great distances. The Gaspé coast was visible across the way as were, at the entrance to the Baye des Chaleurs, the Chipagan1 and Miscou islands.
“Cartier pinned his hopes on Miscou. He thought he would find a passage on the other side leading to the sought-after Indies,” Saint-Jean said. “He believed so fervently that when he rounded the northwest point of Miscou, he named the point Cap de l’Espérance, Cape of Good Hope. As a sentinel guarding the entrance to the continent, the island has been witness, and sometimes even home, to many flags: Viking, Basque, French, English, Spanish, and Dutch as well as to pirates and buccaneers who, from the tales that are told, would stop off there to bury their loot and treasure.”
Near the Mi’kmaq camp farther down the coast was a small island the Mi’kmaq called Pokesudie; it was a sacred site sometimes used for religious ceremonies.
“I often come to my hideout to sit and smoke my pipe… I watch the European ships sailing by. It’s too late this year for the English fleet and the privateers: the frost is coming. You won’t have to go to Quebec.”
Deep down, Joseph was relieved. As much as he hoped for news of Emilie, he dreaded it, too. Sometimes, he wished he could close that chapter of his life and have done with it because he was happy with Angélique. She offered everything a man could ever want – beauty, warmth, generosity, intelligence, sensuality. Saint-Jean had lit his pipe and was reliving the past. “I’ve come a long way since my days on the galleys!”
He remembered his early years in Miramichi fur trading for the Comte de St. Pierre, who held trading rights between Ile Saint-Jean2 and Miscou. He was on board the Count’s ship that ran aground in the Caraquet region in 1723. The Count hadn’t taken the loss of his furs well. Out of disgust with the Count’s temper, Saint-Jean decided to settle down in Ruisseau… and work for himself.
Having reminisced enough, he turned to Joseph and said, “Some day I dream I will see along these coasts houses full of people, busy villages, tradespeople: carpenters, blacksmiths, locksmiths, ferriers, tailors, shoemakers…
Joseph let himself be caught up in Saint-Jeans dream. “I think I can see husbandmen and vintners, too. I can hear seamen outfitting the ships.”
“There will be goldsmiths, apothecaries, fishermen, barbers…” Saint-Jean continued.
“Men of the church,” Joseph added.
“Not them,” Saint-Jean exclaimed, irritated. “They ruin it all. The Indian customs are good enough for us.”
Joseph understood the bitterness expressed by Saint-Jean, still hurting from past scars.
“I dont want any arquebusiers or gunners either,” Saint-Jean continued, “but I’m afraid for the future. France isn’t looking after us properly, and the most enterprising French who want to come to America, the Huguenots, have to settle in the colonies of Virginia, Boston, and Delaware. One fine day, the colonies won’t put up with having a foreign empire on their doorstep anymore.”
“But Pierre du Gua, one of Acadia’s founders, was Protestant,” Joseph pointed out.
“That’s true, but that was a long time ago. I’ve even heard that Champlain had similar sympathies. But we won’t change either the past or the politics of France.”
Joseph could only concur with the wisdom expressed. Perched atop the spruce trees, the two men seemed as though suspended in time. After a lengthy pause, Joseph spoke. “Where does the word ‘Kalaket’ come from?”
“It’s a Mi’kmaq word meaning ‘at the mouth of two rivers.’ The rivers run west of the creek named after me. But there’s something peculiar about that word. The Normans who fish nearby on the Banc des Orphelins sail on big low-draft ships called calanques.’ During storms, they seek shelter at the mouth of the two rivers… It’s not a huge leap from calanque’ to ‘Kalaket,’ perhaps that’s what the Mi’kmaq did.”
Silence again. As though in cycles: a few words, then a moment’s truce to fully appreciate the serenity of the surroundings. Saint-Jean broke the silence, “Can you keep a secret? I have a hiding place that no one knows about. For years I’ve been stockpiling dried food, flour, and wine in a cave. I keep weapons and powder there too, in the event of a siege. If ever there’s a raid along our coast, we could hide out there with Angélique and the children.”
The word “children” reminded Joseph he had news for the old man. “Angélique is expecting,” he whispered.
Saint-Jean wept tears of happiness.
* * *
Indian summer was drawing to a close. Opening his eyes one fine morning, Joseph realized that something was missing: all of a sudden, he felt horribly homesick. He thought of his mother, Quebec, the animated docks, the streets, the taverns, the meals with neighbours, and the great ships arriving from Europe and the West Indies.
Joseph spent all that day wandering through the camp, irritated by the sounds, the images, and the smells of Mi’kmaq life. He could no longer see the beauty and harmony, only ugliness and disorder and superstitions, like the one obliging menstruating women to keep to themselves in front of a tent. Nearby, a bear meat and fat concoction boiled in a pot: the meat had hung for too long, it was covered in hair and black from excessive cooking. The women ate greedily straight from the pot, wiping their fingers on the coats of the dogs that waited for scraps. The boiled beans doused with grease made him feel like vomiting.
Foaming Bear, who wanted Joseph as an ally, invited him into his hut – a large round, poorly vented tent that was full of smoke and too low to stand up in. Inside, some twenty people were seated by age and social rank, with the women next to the door to look after the chores! Strips of dried meat hung here and there, and the dogs roamed freely among the clay jars full of corn flour. An old man was eating his lice, not out of desire but to take his revenge on the lice. A horrific stench assailed Joseph’s nostrils, chasing him away, back to Quebec, to his world, to his friends, to Emilie’s perfume. At the risk of offending Foaming Bear, he slipped out. He headed toward the beach, to look for comfort by the sea.
On the beach, several women were sewing hides and birchbark to a pole structure. They were using pine roots as thread and sharpened bones as needles. Joseph was oblivious to their ingenuity, their hospitality and their respect for nature. He had forgotten that hygiene was just as bad in Quebec and that, actually, the stench was even more tenacious there: the stench of corruption given off by certain leaders, and the stench of superstitions and religious intolerance no amount of incense could mask. When he returned home in the same foul mood, Angélique asked, “What’s bothering you?”
He hesitated, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “It’s too quiet here. I miss Quebec.”
Angélique was not at all surprised; she was accustomed to seeing many comings and goings in her tribe. “Why don’t you build a schooner and go off on an adventure, starting with Quebec?” she suggested.
“That sounds like a very good idea.