The Canadian Civil War: Volume 1 - Birth of a Nation

by William Wresch

In early April I learned how Elise handled stress – she walked. And she walked. And she walked. I wish I had bought a pedometer. I am convinced we walked a thousand miles around the university while she handled the stress of her upcoming dissertation defense. Had we been in Virginia, I would have enjoyed the walks. April is fabulous there. The trees are green, the flowers are in full bloom, temperatures are in the seventies. It is spring there. In Green Bay the first week of April means most of the snow has melted, temperatures get into the mid fifties during the day and thirties every night, some of the grass is getting a bit green in spots, and it rains more often than it snows. No one will ever write a song about spring time in Green Bay.

  Elise took my hand and we walked. Sometimes we exchanged small talk – how quickly some of the snow drifts were going down, how pretty the mud puddles looked – actually those were the things I talked about. Elise had less and less to say each day. She just grabbed my hand firmly and kept walking. Periodically she would give my hand a series of clenches and I knew she was rehearsing her dissertation defense. Each grab of my hand was another point she was emphasizing. She had strong hands.

  I mostly kept my mouth shut and looked for anything that resembled green. I discovered willows. While the sap was doubtless rising in the huge oaks and maples of the campus, it was hidden under their deep bark. Willows have thinner bark on their whip-like branches so I could see them changing from grey to brown to green. Willows gave me hope.

  Elise’s defense was scheduled for April tenth. It was unclear how many shoes we would wear out in preparation for that day, but it seemed to me that she had done everything else that was humanly possible to succeed. The French graduate system is very similar to ours, and why shouldn’t it be, we both stole our system from the Germans. After completing her bachelor’s degree, she spent three years taking graduate courses. Then she took her comprehensive exams – sixteen hours of writing answers to questions covering any topic in her field. You want to claim you are an expert in this field? Prove it. Or so the sixteen hour endurance test seemed to say.

  She had completed her dissertation in two years, which is pretty aggressive in either the US or Canada. Most people take three or four years. The objective in either country is the same. If you want to be a Doctor of Philosophy, prove you can do independent research. So far you have just been a good student, capable of learning the work of others. Now show that you can make a contribution to the field.

  She was done in two years because she knew exactly what she wanted to do when she started – research migration. She had gathered her data, she had written her dissertation – nearly two hundred pages – and now she had to present her findings to a panel of five professors. If she could handle their cross-examination for two hours, she was done. During the examination anything could happen. Three of the professors had supervised her research and helped her revise earlier drafts of her report. They should be on her side during any debate over methodology.

  But it wouldn’t be that simple. Elise had chosen an assistant professor as her main advisor. He had had a great career in the Interior Ministry and knew exactly how her research could be applied, but he had only been on the faculty for three years. This is to say, he didn’t have tenure and had to be careful of how he presented her work to a panel of people who would later vote on whether or not he got to keep his job. The two other professors who supervised her work constantly fought over how she should present her results. Since the statistical work she was presenting was the whole basis for Elise’s research, Elise had gotten a woman out of the statistics department to supervise her work, carefully vetting each measurement technique she had used and every formula she had calculated. The result was that nearly one hundred pages of the dissertation was a description of her methodology and results. The third supervising professor was convinced this was too much and that Elise should present the data “in a form laymen can understand.” Elise had visions of the two professors fighting each other throughout the defense. Then there were the two outside professors. What would they find to argue about? Who knew? So Elise walked and walked and worked through every argument she could think of. My hand got a real working over, as did my feet.

  When I wasn’t escorting Elise around campus, I was paying more and more attention to the news. I hadn’t read much of the news my first year in Green Bay. I hadn’t been much interested in the current century, and besides, you know how it is when you are new to a place. The paper and TV are full of names you don’t know doing things you can’t really understand. You have no context and you have no sense of movement. Pierre So and So did such and such. Who is Pierre, and does he always do such and such? Why does it matter?

  Over the last year I had made a more serious effort to follow events. I was interviewing the ex-President of the country. It only seemed fair to be able to name the current president, major officials, major issues. I was getting the sense that the major issue of the day was Louisiana. At first I thought I might be seeing too much there since I had just been down to that province and I had had my own personal dealings with folks there. But the more I followed the news, the more I was convinced something big was building.

  Much of the focus was on the governor’s race. The election was scheduled for September and the rhetoric just kept getting louder as the day approached. The current guy was running for a second four-year term, but he had lots of opposition. It seemed like there were twenty or thirty political parties down there, but each of them had the same platform – we are getting screwed by the bastards in Green Bay. Listening to the candidate debates I sensed the main effort was for each candidate to list as many injuries as possible, with the winner being whoever found the most fault with the national government. Going bald? Losing your job? Not landing a trophy bass with each cast? Those rotten guys in Green Bay were at fault. Some of the accusations were so weird I sat in front of my TV and laughed. But when they panned to the audience down in Baton Rouge or Biloxi, the faces were all clenched in anger.

  The weirdest group wore blue arm bands with white crosses on them. These boys looked seriously constipated. I wondered what a blood pressure cuff would register on them. A few of them even wore pistols on their hips. I was glad I hadn’t run across any of them in New Orleans, but maybe they only came out after midnight. They seemed to have several leaders, but the guy actually running for governor was the shortest of the three. I kept waiting for him to pose with his hand in his shirt like Napoleon, but I never saw him do it on camera.

  I asked one of the guys at work about the arm bands and if they had any meaning, and I was glad I asked him rather than President Jolliet.

  “It’s a clever twist of history,” he told me. “Blue arm bands is what the Jolliets gave the citizens who rose up to defend Quebec after the governor had run off to Montreal with the regular troops. It has since always meant citizens taking over government. The white crosses? That means the white religion, which in their twisted view is how some Huguenots see themselves. If I were a Jolliet, I would go a little bit crazy every time I saw one of those arm bands.”

  I quickly filed “arm bands” away as one topic I would never broach at the President’s residence. My next appointment with the President was the same day as Elise’s dissertation defense. By the time I got back to Green Bay she would be done. She told me that if things went well, she and her committee would go out to dinner at an Italian restaurant just off campus. I was to look for her there first. If things didn’t go well, I was to go to her apartment and help her work her way through a case of brandy. I gave her a good luck kiss and promised to be at the restaurant by six.

  As I drove into the new security parking area I could see that the President was busy again. There were a dozen cars in there already and more arriving with me. It looked like negotiation time again, or at least a time for some serious meetings. Security took fifteen minutes to let me in the front door, but Picard was right th
ere to meet me. I was impressed with how calm he remained even when things got hectic like they surely were that day. He explained that this would be another of our “small office” days, and he led me down a side hall to the chef’s office we had used before.

  President Jolliet arrived after about ten minutes and his first thoughts were about Elise.

  “How is she doing today?”

  “She’s a bit tense,” I said. “But she is completely prepared for this exam. If those profs aren’t careful, she will jump in and give a two hour lecture on migration statistics and none of them will get a word in.”

  “Yes, I bet she would do it, too. Where is the celebration later?”

  “They are going to Antonio’s off campus. Do you know the place?

  “Yes, before they went upscale, they were a great place for a student to get a cheap pizza. Maybe I will drop over to congratulate her.”

  “That would be great. I bet with you there the service will improve.”

  “I just hope the wine has improved. I used to go there to eat with my children as they were in the university. They had the worst Chianti on earth. But let’s talk quickly of 1674. I will save Father Marquette for a day when we have more time. His story should not be rushed.”

  “1674 had four other problems, three involving paper work and one involving Louis’ future. Let me at least see if I can get through the paper work problems before Picard comes for me. You will recall that Louis and Marquette each kept a log of the journey and that they kept them in separate canoes. These logs included the maps they had made, observations of animals, reflections on the tribes they had encountered, all important matters. They were also a form of legal proof. The logs established to the world that Frenchmen had been to new places and found new territory, so they helped establish legal claim to the lands on behalf of the French King. Yet here they were, being jostled around in the bottom of a leaky birchbark canoe that could tip over with any wave or any shift in the wind. For two thousand miles, these logs rode the bottom of these canoes.”

  “In 1674 Louis had spent the winter in the Sault. He had lots of time to make a copy of his journal, and he did so. The safest place to leave the journal was with the Jesuits. With one copy safely stored with the good fathers, he could take the second copy down river with him in the spring. And as you know, having paddled across most of Canada, portaging all the portages, fighting through all the rapids, he was within sight of Montreal when the canoe capsized. The log went straight to the bottom and was lost.”

  “And Louis was almost drowned.” I added.

  “Yes, that is where Claude DuPry first saved his life. Nobody was much of a swimmer in those days. There was no Red Cross to give lessons. Besides, going under in the midst of a rapids, few men had time to swim. The water was ice cold and knocked the air out of their lungs instantly. The rocks broke limbs or gashed ribs. And then there was the tangle of canoe and packs and trade goods all being tossed around and onto the unlucky men in the water. Men drowned every year in pretty much the same manner. It looked like it was Louis’ turn.”

  “Fortunately, Claude was at the stern and was thrown clear of the canoe when it went over. He landed in a small pool of water and was able to get his feet. He got out of the river and ran along side looking to see if he could find either Louis or Jean Tiberge who had also gone in. You can imagine what things were like for him, trying to look for his two friends in the midst of the confused articles rapidly floating down river. He got Jean first. Jean had his head above water and was working his way over to a side of the river, fighting the current and looking for some place solid to grasp. Big Claude managed to jump around a rock and grab Jean by the shoulder as he passed. That was all the help Jean needed to get his feet under him. He was a bit unsteady, but he was able to grab a rock and sit down on the shore. He would be okay.”

  Louis was the bigger problem. Claude thought he saw him once, but then he was gone again. Everything was flying down river so fast, Claude had to race along shore to stay even with the canoe. Was Louis under it? Behind it? Somewhere totally separate? When he did finally see Louis, he thought he was too late. Louis was floating down the river just beside the canoe, but he was floating face down with blood streaming from his head. Claude jumped into the river one more time, pushed the canoe aside, and grabbed Louis by the back of his coat. As he dragged him toward shore he flipped him over on his back, but he could see no signs of life. Jean joined him as he pulled Louis the last few yards to shore, and both of them laid Louis bent over a rock, the standard approach of the day to force water out of a man’s chest. Louis did cough out some water, but he was still unconscious and bleeding badly. He was unconscious for over an hour, by which time Claude had bandaged his head and slowed his bleeding. It was a very close call.”

  “I suppose the fact that he had survived the capsizing gave Louis some perspective on his loss, but his loss was still substantial. The log was essentially the King’s document. It was gone. The pelts he had traded for over the last year? Gone. The gifts he had gotten from the various Indian tribes they had met on the journey? Gone. The canoe he had borrowed from his mother? Gone. Had he managed to go just five more miles without mishap, he could have paddled into Montreal a hero. As it was, he and Claude and Jean had to walk the rest of the way and arrived in Montreal like beggars. Then of course they had to travel the rest of the way to Quebec and face the governor. If there was one saving grace to his situation, it was that he had made a copy of the log and left it safely with the Jesuits at Sault St. Marie.”

  “When did he find out that it was lost too?” I asked.

  “News never traveled fast in those days, but he knew already in August that the other copy had been destroyed. One would have thought that the Jesuit mission would have been the safest place in the world to store such a document. It wasn’t. You have probably already read it was the Ottawas again. Do you mind if I take us on a tangent about Indian politics?”

  “No, please do.”

  “Both our countries learned to fear and respect the Iroquois. They were brave in battle and savage in victory. All the stories about torture are true. They spent twelve hours killing captives, slowly burning them to death from sundown to sun up. But so did the other tribes. The brutality of those times was unbelievable – and universal. What made the Iroquois so fearsome was their political skills. Tribal leaders actually controlled tribe members. Young men couldn’t just run off and do what they wanted, and then run back to the tribe where the whole tribe might have to face the consequences of their actions. Eighteen year old men are inherently stupid and savage. Societies that can control them survive, societies that can’t, fail.”

  “The Iroquois could not only control their young men, but they managed to coordinate five separate tribes in a confederacy that lasted centuries. The Sioux exercised the same kind of control and the same kind of organization. They fought us to a stand-still for two centuries. The Illinois seemed to have the political organization to survive, or at least that is what Louis thought after meeting with them. I trust Louis’ judgment on that. They could have been a powerful ally.”

  “Then you get tribes like the Ottawas. They had already murdered Sioux near Chequamegon Bay, and so had had to run hundreds of miles to escape the obvious consequences. Many still lived in St. Ignace in hopes that that was sufficient distance to save them from the revenge that was to be expected from the Sioux. A few Ottawas had settled around Sault St. Marie. They hunted, they fished, they traded, and they drank. By 1674 there were maybe a hundred in the vicinity of the mission.”

  “In June, a party of ten Sioux braves approached the settlement and asked permission to enter so they could discuss trade. For the French at the settlement, this was a marvelous event. The traders wanted to trade with the Sioux since they controlled huge swaths of land that were reported to be teaming with beaver and other animals with commercially valuable pelt
s. The missionaries wanted to meet with the Sioux since a treaty with them might enable the Jesuits to send missionaries to the west for a thousand miles and save tens of thousands of souls. But the French saw the problem immediately – the Ottawas. There was no sense exacting a promise from the Ottawas – they never kept their word. So the French did the best they could. They admitted the Sioux into the fort, and admitted only a couple dozen Ottawas, disarming all of them as they came in the gate. But they did not search them carefully enough. The Sioux had barely sat down when one of the Ottawas took out a hidden knife and stabbed one of the Sioux. A fight broke out and the outnumbered Sioux retreated to the mission house – the strongest building in the fort. The Ottawas didn’t even hesitate. Once the Sioux were in the mission, the Hurons piled wood up around the building and burned it. All the Sioux were burned to death, and of course the missionaries lost their church and all its contents – including Louis’s log.”

  “By the next morning even people as stupid as Ottawas knew they had brought big trouble upon themselves, and they took off straight north, where most were never heard from again. I suspect the Athabascans made short work of them. But in the meantime, they had killed innocent men, destroyed the mission church, obviated any trade pack between the French and the Sioux, and of course they had also burned the sole remaining copy of Louis’ log. Word of all of this reached Quebec in late July.”

  “But there is still Marquette’s log.” I added.

  “Yes, the poor father was ordered to immediately make a copy of his log and send it to Quebec. Of course “immediately” had a different meaning in those times. A message was sent to Green Bay in late July and would have reached Father Marquette in late August. He was already ill then, so it took him several weeks to make his copy. By the time traders had brought it all the way to Quebec, it was October. Then begins a series of political intrigues that guarantee the log isn’t published until 1681. But let me come back to that.”

  “While these logs are being lost, Claude Dublon, the senior Jesuit at the time, and the Governor agree that they must use the one resource that has not yet been lost – Louis Jolliet. On August first, 1674, Louis is ordered to report to the Governor’s residence to provide an oral description of his voyage. He arrives at nine in the morning and find’s the governor’s parlor is filled with the first citizens of Quebec. The governor is there, as is the Intendent’s aide (Colbert was currently back in France), plus Dublon and most of the church hierarchy, plus two dozen scribes and soldiers. There is barely space for him to enter the room.”

  “Many of these men are Louis’ friends, people he has known all his life, but I suspect he was still a bit nervous giving such an extended report before the Governor and the rest of the nobility. He had brought a map with him that he had drawn from memory, and once he was given permission from the Governor to start, he pointed to the map and began his story. For the next twelve hours he described each of the islands he had found in Lake Michigan, the rapids above Green Bay, the courtesy and business acumen of the Mascoutin, the surprises of the upper Fox, the wild ride down the Wisconsin, the first sighting of the Mississippi, the meeting with the Peorias, the hunting of buffalo, the many rivers that intersected the Mississippi, including ones they thought might be helpful when traveling east or west, the Arkansas and their threat, the Illinois and their quick route to the Lake of the Illinois, and the huge lake that flowed into the lake of the Hurons.”

  “The scribes copied his words as fast as they could, and a few nobles asked questions about the Mississippi and about buffalo, but most of the room sat motionless while Louis told his tale. They broke twice for meals, but otherwise the day was spent entirely in listening to Louis. Of course he had already told much of his story to many in the room during the past several weeks, but this was the first time he had explained the entire trip, and the first time he had made an official report of his voyage. That night fifty men disbursed to their homes where they retold the tale and tried to appreciate for themselves what the voyage had meant. It would take weeks before they all understood the consequences of Louis’ discovery – the new lands, the new routes to the south and west, the new source of food. Canada had just doubled in size, and the consequences of that would be many. One of the transcripts of his report was put on the next ship to France, where they too would need time to understand all that had been achieved.”

  “But politics giveth and politics taketh away. While Louis’ report was now available to the leaders of France, Marquette’s log was about to be lost to the Jesuits. If any thing, this loss was more grievous than the burning of Louis’ log, and it is even more difficult to understand. You see, Marquette’s log was unpublished because of the way Catholicism was practiced in China.”

  “China?”

  “Yes. You see every time the missionaries went into a new country they had decisions to make about which local practices to allow and which to ban. Ban too many, and you have no converts. Ban too few, and you have no religion left. Compromise was required at every turn. In the case of China, the issue was how much ancestor worship to permit. The Portuguese Jesuits, who were first into the country, decided that ancestor worship would be allowed, and they modified their service, defining the new service as the “Chinese Rite.” Decades go by and Spanish Jesuits come to China. They abhor the practice and demand that ancestor worship be stripped from all Catholic rites. The Portuguese refuse to change. Both sides appeal to the Pope. His cardinals advise careful review of all liturgical materials, and closer control of religious rites. The Pope agrees and says nothing can be published without his specific permission, meaning among other things, that the Portuguese cannot keep publishing books of “Chinese Rites” until the Pope has had time to review the practices.”

  “All this seems perfectly reasonable from the Pope’s perspective, but in his declaration that he will have full authority over all religious publications, he forgets about Louis 14th. Louis has been working very hard to make himself the head of all religious activity in France, from appointing bishops to determining the location of new cathedrals. Louis believes all publications require his approval, not the Pope’s. So the two argue over the matter and during that period nothing can be published by the church since nothing could be approved by both Pope and King. Their argument begins in 1673.”

  “Among the things that cannot be published are the Jesuit Relations. These are the annual reports on the activities of the missionaries abroad, the reports that had so excited Louis when he had been at school. Now the voyage down the Mississippi is ready to be included in the Relation, and in fact Claude Dublon has created a Relation for the year 1673 and has included Marquette’s log. It is sent to France so that the Jesuit schools can spread the word of the great news. A Jesuit father has found the main river of the Americas. What none of the priests in Canada know is that there will be no publication of the Relation this year or any year over the next decade. The Canada Relation is filed away at the cathedral in Chantilly in the hopes that someday permission will be granted. It never is. If you care to see it, the Relation is still in Chantilly. Meanwhile, decades go by and none of the teachers of students of France know that there is a river called the Mississippi and it flows to the south through some of the best land on Earth.”

  “I can see why you hate this year,” I responded. “One of the major discoveries of this era is made, yet remains unknown. Louis’ logs are destroyed, and Marquette’s logs are blocked from publication. There should be people all over France planning to take advantage of these new lands, but it would appear few understood the opportunity.”

  “Yes, years are wasted and silly decisions are made. The first portion of Marquette’s log, the Recit, is published in 1681 in a book of discoveries written by Thevenot. A member of the Academy of Sciences, he is publishing a series on the main explorations in the Americas, and includes an edited section of Marquette’s log. From it he concludes that the voyage
of Marquette and Jolliet has shown that there is another way to the west across North America. That is the extent of his interest in the voyage. And that is almost the last mention of the voyage to be found in print for another half century.”

  “Meanwhile, if there is one man on earth who fully understands the importance of this discovery, it is Louis Jolliet. He spends 1674 reporting on his voyage and fighting off lawsuits from all those who thought they would get rich from his trading in the new lands. It is an ugly time. Even his mother sues. But as he has time, he plans his next move. He will take a group of men to Illinois. They will trade and they will farm that rich land, and they will feed Canada. The Governor is interested enough to send the request to the King. Why not give Louis some of this new land, and see what can be grown there? The King says no.”

  “I have read several places about Louis’ request,” I interrupted. “But I have been unable to find any rationale for the decision. There are millions of acres of new land. Why not use some of them?”

  “You won’t find an explanation for the King’s actions because Kings never explain their actions. They also aren’t like presidents who keep their old papers and create libraries for men like yourself to unearth their strategies. We will never know why the King did what he did.”

  “Do you have a theory?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes.” The president laughed quietly. “Our family has many theories. My favorite is that Louis the 14th wouldn’t approve a move to Illinois because none of his advisors could find Illinois on a map. In that court, such a thing was possible. A more common theory is that the general policy was to keep men near Quebec. There were always threats from Indians or the British, so the more men within two day’s travel of Quebec, the more men who would be available to its defense. That is a reasonable theory, but it assumes a reasonable sovereign. Given what we know about Louis the 14th, who can say.”

  “But whatever the reasons for the decision, we know the consequences. Had Louis been granted lands in Illinois, that would now be our capital. Canada, which in 1674 was still importing food from France, would have been self-sufficient in food a decade earlier and exporting food to France soon thereafter. We would also have had a stronger position along the Ohio and would have been better able to meet the British challenge at Fort Duquesne. Much of our history would have been different.”

  “That includes your personal history, as I understand it.” I added

  “Yes, it certainly would have changed my ancestry. And I would be drinking wine along the banks of the Illinois instead of along the Fox. It is even more flat there, but somewhat warmer. That would be nice some days. But, enough of such thoughts. I have a few challenges here in Green Bay that will take the rest of my afternoon. Please give my best to Elise. If I am lucky, I will be able to join the party some time this evening.” With that he stood, shook my hand, and left. I wrapped up my tape recorder, packed away my notes, and headed for the front door.

  Picard was waiting for me. “Congratulate Elise for me,” he asked as I left. I agreed and walked with a guard back to my car. I half expected the guard to also say something about Elise, since it appeared much of the world knew this was her day to defend her dissertation, but the guard, as always, walked with me in total silence.

  My time with the President had been longer than I had expected, so it was after six by the time I got to Antonios. I half expected the dinner to be winding down. It would be for Americans, where the after-defense dinner tends to be short and formal, and reserved for just the committee and the new Ph.D. I hadn’t even gotten into the restaurant before I saw that the after-defense dinner in Canada was a good deal more fun. Several of her friends were entering the restaurant at the same time I was, and all of us had to make a serious effort just to get in the door. Antonio’s was packed, and all of it was for Elise.

  The noise level was as amazing as the crowd. Everyone was happy, and everyone was shouting. Each of us who entered were greeted by shouts of “She passed,” from several people who had posted themselves near the doors and felt it was their job to explain the obvious to Elise’s friends. We thanked them, shook hands, and pushed onward. I still hadn’t seen Elise, but the center of the crowd seemed to be to the left of the doors against the wall. I gradually worked my way in that direction. Along the way I spoke with more of Elise’s friends. I learned that she had passed, that her professors were still here somewhere, as were a number of big shots from the Interior Ministry. I was tempted to tell them that President Jolliet was on his way, but I decided to let that be a surprise.

  My first glimpse of Elise came after I had already been in the restaurant for over ten minutes. She was where I thought she was, but getting over there was going to be hard. She was in an animated discussion with an older man who I assume was from the Ministry, and I had at least six or eight more bodies to crawl over or around before I could get to her. Thank God for being tall. She spotted me and pushed her way over. “Shawn! I passed.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard.” I have her a hug and then held on while she led me back through the crowd.

  “Shawn Murphy, this is Professor Mitrand, my major professor.”

  “My pleasure, sir.” I extended my hand.

  “The pleasure was mine.” He replied, looking briefly at me, and then turning his attention to Elise. “This was the first dissertation I have ever supervised, and I suspect it will always be the best. By fall your research will be published in one of the leading journals, and you will be able to pick any academic post you wish.”

  “And you know,” she replied, “that I am not cut out for the academic world. I will work in the Ministry just as you did.”

  “Ah, but you are smarter than I am,” he continued. “You will tire of the meetings more quickly and will get back to the university where you can conduct your research without needing approvals from four layers of bureaucrats.”

  “If so, I hope I will be able to work with you again.” She replied. She gave him another hug and then led me off, as always, taking my arm with both her hands. We never took more than two steps before we had to stop while she took congratulations from another friend or spoke with another member of the ministry she would soon be joining. It appeared she had followed the President’s advice and given the ministry a copy of her research, or at least fully briefed them on her work, for they all seemed very conversant in her results. Each of the ministry people was careful to address her as “Doctor DuPry.” I wondered how many of them would be her subordinates when she started there July 1st.

  “When I hear people say ‘Doctor DuPry’,” she told me, “I think they are talking about my father. It will take me a while to connect my own identity to that name.” While I tried to think of some profound response to her observation, we were off again, steering a path through a sea of friends. There must have been two hundred people on that room, and we talked with each of them, pausing only twice to grab glasses of wine that were being brought around on a tray. Some food also appeared at one point, but we never got near it.

  Around nine some of her family also began to filter in. I saw Elise’s sisters first, the two of them standing together, each with a glass of wine, and both having a great time looking over the boys in the room and comparing notes. Later I saw her father talking with the restaurant manager, and I guessed who was paying for the party. At least he was smiling.

  President Jolliet arrived just before ten. Despite the crowd, room was instantly made for him, and he quickly walked to Elise and gave her a long hug. “Congratulations, Doctor DuPry.” He said. She looked so proud I thought she was going to cry. Before she could, he turned to the crowd which had suddenly hushed as even the folks in the corners learned the President was there.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began, in a voice that was louder than normal, but not shouting. He seemed to have determined the perfect volume to be heard, yet to command attention. “I have with me
an act of our Legislature, duly signed by President D’Stang this day.” He pulled a white envelope from his pocket and slowly unfolded a sheet of paper that had been inside. I could see it pretty well from where I stood, and it looked official to me.

  “The Legislative Act, now the Law of our Land, reads as follows: ‘Whereas Elise Marie DuPry has now performed all the duties required to be named Doctor of Philosophy, and whereas this degree has now been granted by the National University of Canada, and whereas this esteemed woman of Canada will soon be taking a leadership role in the Interior Ministry of her nation, and whereas Doctor DuPry is known to be a woman of fine character and a credit to her country, we the Legislature of Canada and the President of Canada, do this day, April 10, 2004, declare to be Doctor Elise Marie DuPry Day, and do enjoin the leading citizens of Canada to celebrate this day in the appropriate manner. Signed, Henri D’Stang, President, Canada.”

  “Doctor DuPry,” he turned and faced Elise. “On behalf of the current President of Canada, and on behalf of several past Presidents of Canada…” the crowd laughed at that. “Allow me to congratulate you on your achievement.” He bowed to her and kissed her hand while her friends cheered.

  “And now,” he said, quickly taking a glass of wine from one of the people standing near him. “We are under Presidential orders to celebrate appropriately. To Doctor DuPry.” He raised his glass and then drank the contents in one gulp as did the rest of the room. There was a cheer, more wine appeared, and the room somehow got even louder.

  I have to admit the French know how to have a party. There was still a good crowd at Antonios past midnight, and there was no let up in volume. But I could feel Elise begin to tire. She had been there, on her feet, since before five, and once we passed midnight she began to lean more and more on me – not that I am complaining. I kept an arm around her as more and more people came to talk with her, this time to say their goodbyes. Finally she spent some quiet time with her family. She and her mother had a long hug and some tears, and then there were hugs and tears for her sisters. Finally she and her dad spoke for a while, followed by more hugs and more tears.

  I took her home then. It was past one and we went straight to bed. Elise spoke quietly for a little while, a bit about some questions they had asked her during the defense, and a bit about how happy she was so many people came to the party, but slowly she wound down and dropped off to sleep. I listened silently and watched her eyes blink shut. I think I will never see a woman as happy as Elise was that night.

  Chapter 16

  1674-1675 - The Final Journey of Father Jacques Marquette