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

by William Wresch

Over the next several weeks Elise and I were able to spend a lot of time together. She had the dissertation behind her, and while she was still teaching the statistics course, she had come to terms with her class – she would teach as well as she possible could, and they would learn what they chose to learn. Relieved of all the stress, Elise was amazing to be around. We went out for dinner, met friends at clubs, and took long walks. Even the walks were better. She now proceeded at a much more comfortable pace, she talked constantly and excitedly about anything and everything, and periodically she would sort of jump into me from the side. I loved those walks.

  Near the end of April Elise called me at work and asked me to join her for lunch at the university and to “meet some people.” The golf course was opening up and so was the café near the first tee. This was a rite of spring for the campus. Since most of the university eateries were along the underground passageways between buildings, students and faculty had been eating in basements for six months. With the opening of the golf course café, they were now free to come up into the light. That didn’t mean it was summer yet, but it was at least one indication that winter was over.

  When I arrived at the café, I found Elise already sitting at a table with two middle-aged men. I assumed they were professors of hers, or maybe people from the Ministry. I was wrong. Elise had prepared a surprise for me.

  “Shawn, I would like you to meet Doctors Jacard and Messier.” They stood and we shook hands all around before I took the fourth seat at the table. “Doctor Jacard is Senior Editor of the National University Press, and Doctor Messier is chair of the university History Department. “ I gave Elise a look at that point that I think indicated a bit of puzzlement, but the men seemed to be aware of my situation and both began explaining their presence.

  “Doctor Murphy,” Jacard began. “I have been hearing about your work with President Jolliet, and I asked Elise if she would introduce us. You see we publish a biography series, and it occurred to me that your work might be a good fit.”

  “Well I certainly appreciate your interest,” I replied. “But I have to tell you I have no book at this point. I have been gathering information of the first voyage down the Mississippi, and the interviews with President Jolliet have added a great deal of personal color to the historical record, but I am still undetermined about how to shape the material. Is this a narrative about the voyage? An explication of the political consequences? A portrait of the participants, especially Louis Jolliet? I don’t know. I am afraid if you asked me for ten page overview, I couldn’t provide it yet.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “I know the problem. But that is also exciting, isn’t it? You have so much material and so many possibilities.”

  “I guess exciting is one way to describe it. But I think I could do with a little less excitement and a little more structure.”

  “Yes, that does feel better. We currently have three biographies in press. How would it be if I sent copies over so you could see how some of our other authors are facing the challenge?”

  “That would be helpful,” I answered, “but I should tell you my dissertation advisor is an editor for the University of Virginia Press and we have already talked about placing the book – whenever I actually have a book – with them.”

  “I like that idea.” And from the look on his face it appeared that he actually did like it. “We have been looking for a partner university in America for some time. I could see this book as being the bridge between us. They could publish the English edition, and we could publish the French. This could be very good for both of us.”

  At this point the waiter came and took our order, so I had a convenient break to think through this offer. It was good on its face, but it also created real problems. I had arrived two years ago looking for a flaw in the Jolliets so I could expose the rot at the base of the French nation. Even if I no longer published slash and burn history, could any thesis I established be equally valid on both countries? We were still enemies, right?

  As the wine and salads arrived I mumbled something that I hoped was noncommittal but still courteous. We would keep the issue open. Then Messier began his presentation and I was stunned to hear him offer me a job.

  “I read your dissertation with great interest,” he told me. “I have always had an interest in Washington. It was always my opinion that he would have done far better in the attacks on Fort Duquesne had he not been under British command.” Something in the way he phrased that opinion stirred my memory. Then I made the connection.

  “You are Henri Messier, the military historian.” I blurted out. “I have read your books.” All four of us laughed at my outburst.

  “Thank you for remembering. It has been a few years since my last volume has been published. National University Press published the last book, by the way, and they did a fine job.”

  “I will have to put you on the sales staff,” Jacard joked.

  “As I recall,” I continued, “you were critical of the first attack on Duquesne, finding fault with almost all the military aspects of the assault. The second attack you found better organized. You also had a number of critical comments to make about the command of the fort, an aspect of the campaign that would of course be unknown to us in the U.S.”

  “You have an excellent memory. Yes, I thought if Phillippe Jolliet had not arrived with one thousand men at the right moment, the fort would have fallen and you would have taken a foothold in the Ohio Valley. Would the French have ever pushed you out of that position? I am not so sure.”

  “Yes, that was a key battle, and one that is almost unknown in my own country.” Our food arrived around this point but it provided little interruption as Messier and I refought the second battle at Fort Duquesne. He marched his troops forward with two forks and the salad dressing. I came over the Appalachians with a coffee cup and an empty wine glass. Elise just sat and laughed.

  “Do you two boys want to adjourn this lunch and find some toy soldiers to play with?”

  “No,” I replied, “but I could use your soup spoon. Unless I get reinforcements, I am afraid my position cannot hold.” That was outrageous enough that we all sat back and laughed. The battle was over. Now it was time to return to the original topic – the job. Messier wasted no time.

  “We have three professors in the U.S. history area. One is going on leave, and one is due to retire within the year. I need someone to come in for three years while we determine what to do long-term. We have never had an American teach U.S. history, and I think that is long overdue. My guess is you would challenge much of our thinking in the area, and that is overdue too.”

  “I am honored to be considered. Yours is a fine university and your department has a good reputation. But this is a complete surprise. Would you mind if I took a couple weeks to consider your offer?” Messier agreed to give me the time, and the conversation turned to leisure matters – the quality of the golf course (I was assured faculty got discounted greens fees and first choice of tee times), a university sailing club that filled the Bay with sails most evenings, and a new prairie restoration project they were creating on the south edge of campus. It was all pleasant, but it was all also intended to promote the university to me.

  Eventually the men had to return to their offices, and Elise and I were left alone.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” was her first comment.

  “No, it was kind of you to set up the meeting.” Rather than walk back to the heart of campus, I led Elise toward the Bay. She held my hand and leaned her shoulder on me as we walked. But she said nothing. It was a nice day, but I have to admit I wasn’t noticing much of it. I was thinking about the two offers I had just received. There was much in both that was troubling. As we approached the shoreline, I found a park bench and led Elise to it. It was actually a very nice spot. There was a flower bed near by and the first marigolds of the spring were up. Past the flower bed the green lawn gradually flowed down
to the Bay.

  “I don’t know if having two publishing houses work on my book is possible, but it is certainly an interesting idea to have both English and French editions. Although I have to say this is getting way ahead of things since no book even exists yet. As for teaching, that came as a complete surprise. You do have a prominent university, and anyone would be honored to teach here.”

  “But…” Elise added. “I know you Shawn Murphy. The next word out of your mouth will be ‘but.’ Something is bothering you.”

  “A three-year contract seems a very long time.”

  “You have already been in Green Bay two years. Would three more be so terrible?”

  It was at that moment that I knew I would ask the question. The place was wrong, I didn’t have a ring, I hadn’t rehearsed what I wanted to say, nothing was as it should have been, but now was the time. The issue was not whether I dodged blizzards in Green Bay for three more years, the issue was Elise. Now was the time to say so. “Three years, or thirty years, or a thousand year would be perfect if you were with me. I love you, and I would like to marry you.” The kiss that followed was very long. I enjoyed it, but I was also aware that she had not said anything. Was the kiss her answer? I held her and waited.

  “Thank you, Shawn,” was her answer. Thank you? I was a bit confused. “You are a beautiful man, and I love you too.”

  “So you will marry me?”

  “Shawn, there has never been a divorce in our family. Not one in the three centuries we can trace our heritage. We marry for life. And we marry slowly. I love you Shawn, but we have just known each other eight months. You know me as a student, but soon I will be a government official. You know some of my family, but not all, and I know none of your family.”

  “So you want more time.”

  “I want more time, and I want a graduation present.”

  “Presents are easy. What would you like?”

  “I want you to take me on a trip.”

  “That’s a great idea. We could be together, and we could see some of the world. Where would you like to go?”

  “I would like to see the Liberty Bell, and Independence Hall, and I would like to meet the Murphy family. I want you to take me to Philadelphia.” It occurred to me that a trip to Paris, Cairo, and Mars would be less stressful, but she was right. It was time for her to meet my family. We sat on that bench the rest of the afternoon and talked about the trip and about many things. And there were long silences. We both had much to assimilate.

  In the weeks that followed, we planned the trip east. We decided to drive rather than fly. It would give us more time together, it would let me see the Ohio Valley, and it would be a slower transition from Green Bay to Philadelphia. I needed the time.

  Meanwhile, Picard called me the first week of May and scheduled another interview with the President. But this one was to be odd. I was to wear old clothes and bring a pair of boots. Picard would not tell me more than that, but assured me I would enjoy the visit.

  I showed up as instructed, two afternoons later. Security seemed a bit more relaxed. Maybe it was the pair of boots I carried to the house that made them smile. In any case, they let me through somewhat faster than normal. Picard met me and led me straight through the house to the back door. The minute we were there I could see what the plan for the day was. The President and about a dozen youngsters were out in the vineyard.

  “You know I have never worked in a vineyard before,” I said to Picard.

  “That is all right. Neither have some of these kids. But you’ll have fun just as they are.”

  I left my shoes by the door, put on my boots, and walked back to where the President stood.

  “Hello.” The President shouted when he saw me. He was obviously in a good mood. He looked several inches taller than usual and was talking at the top of his lungs. “Come on down and join the fun.” He was about five rows down from the house. It appeared he and the children were slowly working their way down the hill, doing something to the vines. “I thought you might enjoy this.” I descended the hill to where he was standing with two of the young men.

  “Doctor Murphy, I would like you to meet Henri and Jean. They are agriculture students at Fond du Lac High School. In May they get afternoons away from school to visit farms and orchards and vineyards to see the many forms farming takes. And they help poor old men like me prepare the vines.” Both boys bowed slightly and shook my hand. They still had the limp handshake of boys, but it looked like they knew what they were doing with the vines.

  “Henri,” the President continued, “Would you show Doctor Murphy how we prepare the vines in the spring?”

  “Sure.” Henri knelt by one of the vines to begin his lecture. The strength in his voice said he was enjoying this opportunity to show off. “The vines have to be cut back each fall. In the spring the vines send out new canes. Usually there are three or four, but I have seen as many as six. The problem is that the more canes there are, the more grapes will be grown by this one vine. If there are too many grapes, they have less flavor. So we always cut off all canes but two. Then we tie the two canes to this wire support so that the grapes will not drag on the ground and will be easier to pick in the fall.”

  “Great job, Henri.” The President added. “Now Jean, tell him the hard part.”

  “Well, we will only keep two canes out of the ones coming out of the vine stem, and they all look alike. Our job is to find the best two that will be preserved.”

  “Excellent. I will have to tell Monsieur Fayette you both deserve an A.” With that he left the boys to their work and took me a couple more rows down the hill. “Would you like to try it?”

  “Yes.” I took a pruning shears from him and took a close look at the first vine in the row. There were three canes. I decided I liked the longest ones best, and held the shears by the shorter cane. “This one?” I asked.

  “Yes, that will do fine.” With his permission, I made the cut, and then took a ball of string from him and tied the two canes to the wire support. “Actually grapes are very hardy and will recover from most of the mistakes we might make out here. If anything, they are too strong. Left wild, they will produce huge harvests of grapes, especially if they get enough rain. Most of our job is to stunt them in several ways so that we get fewer, but better, grapes.”

  “The boys seemed sharp.” I said as I finished tying the canes and moved on to the next vine. “I suppose they grow up around grapes.”

  “They grow up, and I enjoy seeing that. You see those boys in the top row?” I looked up to see several boys near the top of the hill who seemed to be roughhousing. “They are out here because they get an afternoon out of school and a few dollars and a chance to be with their friends. And all of those are good reasons to enjoy an afternoon. But everything they do, they do for their friends. They see themselves in their friends’ eyes. Am I interesting? Am I pleasingly naughty? At the end of the day they won’t remember one vine or one cane. But that is this year. Next year they will pay at least some attention to what they are doing. Their world will grow to include more than their friends. Each year they let themselves become part of a larger world.”

  “I can’t tell you how pleased I am, “I replied. “That after sixty years in politics you still think people grow and want to see a larger world. I find that incredibly reassuring.”

  “Ah, I know you feel the same way.” With that he started work on the vine next to me, and we both worked in silence as we pruned and tied the vines. I noticed the boys were much faster than we were, but I didn’t feel the need to hurry. The sun was warm, the work was interesting, and I got some satisfaction from looking back at a row of vines now prepared for the summer’s growth.

  After two hours I was beginning to feel the strain in my lower back, but it was time for the boys to catch their bus back to school, and when they quit so did we. The rest of the vineyard would be done a
nother day. Jolliet led the way back into the house and sat at the kitchen table. I had never been in the kitchen before. Somehow it seemed more personal. But we were just in from the fields, we were both a bit dirty, and it seemed right to sit in the kitchen like a couple of farmers. Of course farmers seldom have maids, and Jolliet had several who brought us a large pitcher of water, a larger pitcher of wine, and some cheese and crackers.

  “Days like today are worth everything, don’t you agree?” He asked.

  “Yes. The work is satisfying since you can see what you have accomplished. And after a long winter I feel like a cat that wants to absorb all the sun I can. Such days are special.”

  “I hear you may be joining the university faculty.”

  “They have offered me a temporary appointment. I am considering it.” And Elise? Would he ask about her next? No, he moved on.

  “Shall we talk about Father Marquette? His last years are sad, but they are also inspiring. He truly was a holy man.”

  “I have this vision of him,” I replied. “Sitting alone in a bark hut on the shores of the Fox, all alone. I can’t find anything in the historical record about anyone being with him before Allouez returns in the spring. Essentially he is isolated in that hut for six months. Could that be?”

  “No, he would have starved. Missionaries relied on the charity of the Indians. He had some food left him by Louis and the others, but not enough to last six months. We have no written record of how he spent that winter, other than the knowledge that he spent a great deal of time rewriting and clarifying his journal of the voyage, but we know a tribe of Potawatamis was just up the Fox a few miles, and there was regular traffic up and down the Fox with French traders and local Indians going both ways. This was an important waterway, and it would have been used almost constantly while he was there.”

  “The bigger mystery is how he got ill, and that mystery may be unsolvable. We forget that Louis Pasteur didn’t prove the connection between germs and disease until the 1870s – two hundred years after poor Father Jacques was bled and fed odd potions, and generally hurt more by medical treatment than helped. We know his symptoms well enough. He had fever, chills, and diarrhea. Those are classic symptoms of food poisoning. But those are common symptoms that every one of his contemporaries would have had on occasion – and for the same reasons – they ate bad food and drank bad water. You may recall that well into the 1800s residents of Paris and London drank water straight out of the rivers there without making any connection to the diseases that were sure to follow.”

  “So we assume that sometime during the winter Marquette ate some bad food. That is not too surprising. Winters were rough, food ran short, people ate things they would not eat in better times. But where he had probably fought off food parasites hundreds of times earlier in his life, this time he could not. He got sick and stayed sick for months. And that was the condition Allouez and Andre found him in when they returned to Green Bay in the spring. Too sick to eat, too tired to get out of bed, their young friend who had once been the most vigorous among them, was not capable of walking, much less taking the lengthy voyage back to the Illinois.”

  “They stayed with him and tried to nurse him back to health, but progress was slow. For May, June, and July, he could not eat and so could not regain his strength. Allouez sent a message up to the mission in Sault St. Marie explaining that Marquette was ill, they were tending to him, but the mission to the Illinois was not presently possible. The summer faded away, and with it the best weather for traveling.”

  “Meanwhile, Marquette lived with the promise he had made to the Illinois. He would return to them this year he had said. Fevers troubled his sleep, as did his promise. He had waited so many years for a mission to the Illinois, and now he was too sick to take the opportunity. It must have been a long, sad summer for him.”

  “In late summer he seemed to get better. In August he could eat a little, in September he could walk a bit, his strength was starting to come back. Had he stayed right where he was until he had put some meat back on his bones, who knows how things would have turned out? But he had made a promise, and every day got shorter and every night got colder. If he was going to go to the Illinois, he needed to go now.”

  “I take it you think he should have postponed the trip,” I asked.

  “He was a man of God, and he had given his word, but I think the sacrifice was too great. Had he waited just six more months he would have traveled in better weather and he would have traveled in better health. But how do you question a holy man? He put his faith in God, and maybe he assumed the voyage south would be as uneventful as the voyage north had been the previous September.”

  “For his part, Allouez notified his superior at the Sault that Marquette was getting ready to take the voyage, and he was able to get some help for Marquette. Father Superior sent down two lay assistants to help with the voyage and with the new mission. Jacques Largillier had gone with Marquette on the voyage down the Mississippi. Pierre Porteret, the second man, was unknown to Marquette but was a faithful servant of the church and would prove himself many times over during the next year. But sending the men south took time. By the time they reached Green Bay and had prepared for the voyage to the Illinois, it was October 25. Standing on the sheltered shore of Green Bay they could see the water was being whipped up by icy winds, and it was only going to get worse. This was no time to be on Lake Michigan in a canoe.”

  “As you know, once the three men started their voyage, things just kept getting worse. Given how quickly the weather deteriorates along the Lake, it was crucial that the men move as quickly as possible. If they moved fast, they might be able to make it to the Chicago River before the deep cold and snows of winter struck. As it turned out, anything that could delay them did.”

  “The weather was one problem. High winds created huge waves on the Bay, and kept them ashore for hours. Remember also that the days were getting shorter, so they had to quit earlier than they would have wished to. While it had taken them one day to get from Sturgeon Bay to Green Bay when they had returned last fall, now it took them three days to get to Sturgeon Bay. There they met a group of Indians who were also headed to the Illinois. It would be good to have company, but the Indians moved far more slowly than the Frenchmen. Where Marquette and his men portaged across Sturgeon Bay in one day, the Indians took three. The Indians begged the French to wait for them, and Marquette complied, but the result was that October had ended before the men had even begun their travels south down the shore of the lake.”

  “Progress down the western shore of Lake Michigan was slow. At one point the Indians saw some footprints on the shore and feared they might be from a Sioux war party. That caused them to hide for three days. Another time the waves on the lake were so bad they had to stay on shore for two days. On a good day, and there were a few of them, the group was able to cover twenty five miles. But there were so many bad days, they barely averaged eight miles a day, and took the entire month of November to make it to the southern end of the lake. Most of the time they were cold, wet, and hungry. Hunting was poor, and rain and snow kept them all wet and shivering.”

  “By the time they reached the Chicago River, it was December 4th. The river was frozen more than a foot thick, there was another foot of snow on the ground, and Marquette was sick again. His stomach was acting up and he suffered from diarrhea. They built a simple hut on the banks of the river and stayed there eight days while all of them rested up from the trip. Sometime during that eight day period they came to realize that getting the many miles down to the Illinois village would be impossible before spring.”

  “Their solution was to move up the river to a point of portage. Here shelter from the wind was somewhat better, but more importantly there were more people about. They built a small cabin to use for the winter, did some hunting, and received many visitors. The Indians who had traveled down the lake with Marquette had gone on ahe
ad, and word quickly spread that Marquette was back. Small delegations arrived with gifts of food, and Marquette gave gifts of beads and tobacco in return. When he was well enough, he performed mass and preached the Gospel. But he was often too sick to leave his bed.”

  “When he was able, he wrote a description of his journey which has survived to this day, and he wrote letters back to his father superior. I suspect you have seen many of them. There is one passage that seems to me to best describe his temperament.” Jolliet pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and read:

  ‘The Blessed Virgin Immaculate has obtained for me the favor of reaching this place in good health.’ “Can you imagine? The man is freezing from cold while his guts rot away, and he tells his superior that he is in good health! But let me continue. ‘I dread nothing – neither the Nadoissis, nor the reception awaiting me among the nations dismay me. One of two things will happen: either God will punish me for my crimes and cowardice, or else he will give me a share of his Cross, which I have yet carried since my arrival in this country. But this cross has been, perhaps, obtained for me by the Blessed Virgin Immaculate, or it may be death itself, that I may cease to offend God. It is that for which I try to hold myself in readiness, surrendering myself altogether into his hands.’

  “He sounds like a man ready to die,” I offered.

  “He certainly wasn’t afraid of it. He felt the presence of God and the Virgin and he was completely at peace with whatever they had planned for him.”

  “Winter began to ease up in late March. There were more people passing through their camps. Some were headed north to trade with the French, and Marquette entrusted his letters to them. More people visited to see how he was doing. Even Pierre Moreau came to visit. He was now trading in the area – the first of the men Louis had hoped would create a large settlement in the area. Moreau brought blueberries and corn, both important additions to a diet that had been almost exclusively meat for the past months.”

  “Marquette’s health was somewhat improved, but he was still very weak. A physician would have ordered him to stay and convalesce longer, but I suspect he would have ignored his doctor. The ice broke up on the rivers and Marquette’s men portaged over to the Des Plains River, one of the tributaries of the Illinois. With the ice gone, they could paddle with the current down to the Illinois Village. The air was still cold, and the water was like ice. You can imagine what their knees must have felt like as they rested on the bottom of the canoes, but at least they were traveling with the current.”

  “In eleven days they reached the Illinois village. Five thousand men, women, and children lived there, a huge village for its time. It seemed like all of them wanted to be around Marquette. It was the practice of missionaries to visit every home of the villages where they preached. Marquette couldn’t – such a throng followed him everywhere, that he couldn’t enter one home without bringing scores of people with him. The village elders responded by creating a meeting place for him on the outskirts of the village. They put up poles and hung bear skins as a back drop. Largillier and Porteret brought out the rolls of cloth they had brought down the river with them, and a stage was set up unlike anything the Indians had seen before.”

  “On Holy Thursday Marquette preached for the first time. The area was so crowded that only five hundred chiefs and elders were able to be seated. Younger men and all the women stood on the outer edge, straining to be close to the service. Marquette presented his service as ten messages, each of which he acted out. Each of the ten was one of the mysteries of Christianity, the miracles, the basic tenets of the faith, building up to the two miracles that would impress the Illinois most – the miracle of Christ’s sacrifice on the cross and his resurrection. He explained how Christ’s sacrifice saved all the peoples of the world, even the Indians of Illinois from death and damnation if they would but believe in him. Marquette acted out the death on the cross, the agony of it, the sacrifice, the pain, all of which must have been fully experienced by Marquette who was wracked with fever and pain.”

  “And then the resurrection. Here Marquette rose from the stage, explaining that Christ had risen from the dead and all who believed in him would do so as well. That was the great gift he had brought – eternal life. The Indians were astonished. First, they had never seen such a theater production, and of course the message was totally new to them as well. We have no record of how Marquette felt that evening, but we can certainly hope he was pleased with the success he was having. His time was almost at an end.”

  “On Good Friday and Holy Saturday he repeated his liturgical performance to crowds that were even larger and more receptive. Just as he had noted the previous year, it took several repetitions of the liturgy before the Indians began to understand something so foreign. What did it cost Marquette to give those demonstrations? We know Easter Sunday he was hard pressed to get out of bed. He was very sick and almost exhausted.”

  “Easter Sunday he gave the last mass of his life. He served communion to four Frenchmen, his two companions and two other traders who happened to be in the area and wanted to attend mass. He met with the tribal chiefs one more time to explain the blessings of Christ again, and to explain why he had to leave. There was a meeting he had to attend of all missionaries, he said. In truth, he was going off to die. The Illinois were loath to let him leave. They tried to give him gifts, all of which he refused. The whole village was there to say goodbye. He blessed them one more time, settled into his canoe, and started north.”

  “Some of the Illinois were so impressed with him they followed his canoe for days, helping him at each camp. While they surely provided some help around the camp, they also forced Marquette to maintain a level of attention he could barely muster. He was wasting away and the act of staying alert and conversant with the Indians was an enormous effort for him. It would have been so much easier if he could just lie down in the canoe and sleep while his friends paddled him north, but he wanted to hide his illness from the Illinois. They were not to see him as sick to the point of dying; they were to remember him as the missionary who had acted out the life of Christ.”

  “Finally, at the portage of Des Plains, the last of the Illinois turned back to their village. Marquette had completed his mission then. As soon as the last of the Illinois were out of sight, Marquette collapsed. His men put him in the canoe and paddled down the Chicago River to the lake. Marquette would never walk again. He lay unconscious on the bottom of the canoe while Largillier and Porteret determined what to do next. Their hope was to get Marquette back to a Jesuit mission. It was clear he was going to die. What they wanted was for a priest to be at hand to deliver Last Rites.”

  “In their hurry to get him back north to his brethren, they decided to take a short-cut. Rather than paddle up the western shore of the lake, they would go up the eastern shore, hoping that it was a shorter route to St Ignace and Sault St. Marie. It was a risk to try the eastern shore since neither of them had traveled that way before, but they were desperate. As it turned out they were right in their geography. They saved nearly two hundred miles by following that route. Unfortunately, Marquette had too few days left to make it north by any route. His time was up.”

  “Largillier and Porteret paddled like demons. It was now the end of April, so the days were getting longer, and they used every hour available to them. For the first few days the route lay east, and then it began to turn north. They had been right – this route would take them north far faster. At breaks and during the evening they tried to make Marquette comfortable. But he was too weak to move himself and could take no food. His digestive system had completely shut down. The biggest comfort they could give him was to read to him from his Bible. Each morning they carried him back to the canoe and tried to make him as comfortable as possible. Each morning they hoped that some miracle would occur and they would find themselves at St. Ignace. They were still over two hundred and fifty miles short of their goa
l when Marquette died.”

  “Father Marquette died on Friday, May 17, 1675, two years to the day after he had started on his voyage of discovery. The night before he died, he called Largillier and Porteret to him and explained that he would die the next morning. He was still their priest, and he felt he needed to educate them on how to perform the burial. He told them where to put his grave, how to arrange his body in the grave, even where to find a bell in his belongings. They were to ring the bell while he was being buried. He was perfectly lucid during this lecture and seemed perfectly at peace. In fact he became so concerned with the tears he saw in his companions’ faces, that he told them to go and rest. He would call them when the final moment came.”

  Three hours later he called them. The time had come. He asked Largiller to take the crucifix from around his neck and hold it before his eyes so he could see it as he died. He then prayed his final prayers. He gave thanks for dying in the Society of Jesus, for dying a missionary, and for dying in the country. His last words were, “Mother of God, remember me.” Largillier and Porteret buried him in the manner he had requested, and then they began paddling north, now to deliver the terrible news to his brethren in St. Ignace. Father Jacques Marquette was dead.”

  “He was thirty seven, if I recall,” I added.

  “Yes, and even in those years such an early death was a shock. Many men did die young, but others seemed to go on forever. Claude Allouez was the next priest assigned to the Illinois mission, and he was sixty three. He lived on for years. Largillier was assigned to paddle to Quebec to pick up supplies for the mission at Sault St. Marie and to tell the story of Marquette’s death. Largillier later became a Jesuit brother, and worked in the Illinois mission until he died – at age eighty. Death at thirty seven was a tragedy then as it is now.”

  “But he was right,” I added. “As he lay dying, he had accomplished the goals he had set out for his life. He wanted to be a Jesuit, he wanted to be a missionary, and he wanted to discover new parts of the world. He did all three, possibly better than any other man of his time.”

  “I agree. I believe the stories of his death – that he was at peace and grateful for his fate. He was truly a holy man.” Neither of us had much to say after that, so I started putting away my notebooks and unplugging my tape recorder.

  “I hear you and Elise will be taking a trip is a couple weeks.” Jolliet said as I finished putting my materials into my briefcase.

  “Yes, we are going to Philadelphia so she can meet my family.”

  “I am very pleased to hear that.” He got up and walked with me to the front door. “She smiles when she is around you. I like that.” We shook hands and I walked out the door under the careful scrutiny of two security guards. I waved and he weaved, neither of us knowing that our smiles were about to vanish for a very long time.

  Chapter 17

  The Bombing