River City

by John Farrow

  His neighbours would be shocked to know that, in his day, he had retrieved the bodies of his fellow priests from the stakes on which they’d been tortured and slain, and that in modest numbers—some would say unsuccessfully—he had converted warring Huron.

  A story told about him, one he forever declined to repeat, maintained that he had, on one occasion, converted an Indian who had been torturing him, thus sparing both his own life and the immortal soul of the native.

  News had arrived by dispatch a week earlier, so that Lalemant was not surprised when a horseman approached his cottage, which was painted the colour of a daffodil freshly in bloom. He put out an array of cheese upon the pear-wood table, sliced cooked bull’s liver and duck’s breast, and decanted a bottle of red wine into a jug before stepping outside to greet his guest.

  The traveller, arriving all the way from the northwest seaport of La Rochelle, represented the Order of St. Sacrement, a secret society to which Lalemant himself adhered. Members held social and political position, they might be men of commerce or belong to the Church, but they were uniformly pious, and held in contempt Cardinal Richelieu’s policies of the day. As first minister, Richelieu conducted the European wars and sought the enrichment of France. Piety was a word he might speak on public occasion, but a personal discipline he had failed to undertake. Hence the need for a society, independent of Church and king, devoted to the propagation of the faith. The need for secrecy, a nuisance, had been determined by the cardinal’s spies, who were everywhere as he sought to consolidate power. Peacefully, diligently, members of the Order of St. Sacrement undertook what they considered to be the true work of France, to herald the spiritual sovereignty of their Lord.

  The visitor slid down from his horse, doffed his plumed hat to bow formally, and introduced himself as Jérôme le Royer de la Dauversière.

  “Welcome, welcome!” Lalemant greeted him. He clutched onto him and clasped his hand, eager, in the manner of lonely men, for the company. “Please. Come inside. We shall break bread. You must be weary, famished from your journey.”

  After they had feasted, and were indulging their second carafe of wine, the guest revealed himself.

  Six years earlier, he had experienced a vision. Lalemant shifted around in his chair. From experience, he knew that visions had a tendency to be compelling, but were difficult to accommodate. A man’s own visions were a sufficient hardship with which to contend or validate—another’s, more so.

  “In my vision, I learned that I was to help establish a settlement on the island of Montreal, from where the faithful might convert les sauvages, and where a hospital might be constructed to attend equally to Indian and French patients.”

  A good vision, and Lalemant was intrigued. Not knowing Dauversière, neither through personal experience nor reputation, he did not encourage him with any facial expression other than restrained respect. His visitor did not strike him as one fit for the wilderness. His hair flowed in great waves, finishing in tight brown curls near his shoulders. Hours had been invested to keep his white moustache and miniature goatee trimmed to such perfection. His clothing was ornamental in the style of a nobleman, rendered in a forest green the priest found pleasing. Capes and waistcoat, collars and pantaloons all bulged and hung about him with the excess of the day, and his boots flopped forward just below the knees. The shining brace for his sword highlighted his chest, a parade of bright stones and intricate designs embedded in the fabric, and the sheath for his sword was embossed with finely wrought filigrees in steel. The man’s skin—the softness of his right hand when Father Lalemant had shaken it—and bearing spoke well of a man in court or in commerce, yet such skin was indicative of men ill suited to the hair-raising, demanding wildness of the New World. How would this man respond, for instance, to butchery? How would he adapt to air so cold it burned the skin and stiffened the joints? And why was he here? If all he sought was priestly advice, then this he could freely dispense, for surely Dauversière could see that he was an old, old man now, too decrepit to undertake another mission to New France. At least, on most days, he thought so.

  “A few years later,” Dauversière stated, “I knelt at prayer at La Rochelle.”

  “I know the cathedral there well,” Lalemant recalled. “I prayed there before embarking to the New World for the last time. Did you experience another vision?”

  Dauversière smiled, lowering his eyes a moment. Even among pious men, he knew, suspicions would encroach upon the conversation. Lalemant, in effect, was inquiring if he was a man of feeble mind, who at random would gaze upon the unseen, or in a moment’s wonder concoct a scattering of angels in the midst of dancing flames. He was here, of course, to convince Lalemant that his great vision belonged to God, not to himself and certainly not to a man of frail character, and that he was a practical individual who lived to serve others and had already done so with some success, according to God’s will.

  “Emerging from my prayer, which had been fervent in its moment, I met another man, quite by accident, who had also been upon his knees at prayer beside me. We engaged one another in conversation. I believe you know him, Father. Jean-Jacques Olier, the founder of the Order of St. Sulpice.”

  Lalemant knew Olier to be a man of piety and substance.

  “Through that grand accident,” Dauversière pressed on, “although I might suggest that our meeting had been preordained by the grace of God, he and I have formed a company, an association that works through the good graces of the Order of St. Sacrement.”

  “Its name?” the priest inquired. Dauversière’s friendship with Olier obliged him to hear the visitor out.

  “The Association of Gentlemen for the Conversion of Savages in New France on the Island of Montreal.”

  Father Charles Lalemant rubbed his chin. “That’s a long breath,” he stated.

  “For a shorter version, we call ourselves the Society of Our Lady of Montreal.”

  Lalemant was impressed, and duly excited. That New France had been so neglected by the French grieved him, and often he had prayed for the few who had remained behind, prayed that they might be joined by their countrymen to create a new nation under God. Yet a question remained to be broached in the discussion at hand, for still he did not know why this man had chosen to address him. If the visitor wished to be informed on the ways of the Indians, on the nature of the challenge, he would enjoy sharing whatever expertise his memories might divulge. If, on the other hand, Dauversière intended that he personally participate in an association of gentlemen and embark for the island of Montreal himself, then he would have no option but to denounce him as a raving lunatic. He asked the pertinent question: “What would you have of me, sir?”

  Dauversière leaned forward and spoke in a quiet, sure voice. “God gave me a vision. God guided me into the Order of St. Sacrement and into the company of Jean-Jacques Olier. And God has led me here, Father, to the last surviving priest to have converted the tribes in Huronia. My question is this: given your expertise and your experience in New France, do you know of anyone who possesses the remarkable capability, the soldierly aspect, the qualities of leadership, and above all the appropriate piety, to successfully conduct this mission on our behalf?”

  Lalemant remained quiet, his eyes askance. After a long pause, Dauversière noticed that the right hand of his host appeared to tremble, and when he looked up he saw that a tear had formed and soon dribbled upon his right cheek. The old man rubbed it from his rough whiskers. Then he, too, looked up, and gazed into the eyes of Dauversière. The old priest knew, at that moment, that God had sanctioned this mission, for he, Lalemant, happened to know the one man in France more capable of the task than any. He believed that no one to whom Dauversière might speak could produce a man better suited. What made the situation more remarkable was that, as a retired priest, he had few friends, and yet he had just happened to have made the acquaintance of a soldier retired from the army, close to forty, who lived now in Champagne. Pious, brilliant, a leader, fearless, and ab
ove all an adventurer, for no man could go to the New World and survive without possessing the apposite adventuring spirit, he was the one man for the task. Indeed, this soldier had also sought him out, and had visited him in this house, so intrigued had he been to hear the stories of life among the Indians, so disappointed had he been, in his marrow, to have lacked similar opportunity to have been there himself.

  “Yes,” Lalemant announced, ending the suspense for his guest in a scratchy, God-fearing voice, “surely God has sent you here. I do know the gentleman you seek, for I have met the very man whom God has set upon this earth to conduct your enterprise.”

  In the dark of late evening, Dauversière arrived at an inn on the main street of the town of Champagne. He unsaddled his horse, then passed the reins to a liveryman to tend to the animal’s feeding and watering before he entered the vine-covered stone house to arrange for his own nourishment and rest. A lively place, he saw, with men and women and restrained merriment about the room, yet it did not seem a dwelling for drunkards, nor did the premises invite licentious behaviour. As a pious man, he was unlikely to be compromised by the establishment, and having taken a rest from his dusty travels and bathed in the communal tub, he returned downstairs for a repast by the light of the moon.

  In the time that had lapsed, merrymakers had gone on their way and only the inn’s residents remained. Road weary, Dauversière ordered pork loin and the region’s most celebrated red wine.

  Couples were present, relaxing in the midst of their journeys. Men of court on their way to or from Paris quietly sipped wine. Three tax collectors huddled by the fire, separated only by the masses of cloth that hung upon each of them. Their conversation was hushed, as though conspiratorial. Dauversière recognized them at a glance, for their profession was his own. He collected the king’s taxes from the wealthy landowners of his region, funds to sustain the wars and Richelieu’s gambits. Funds to seal cracks in the king’s palaces with gold. While he laboured as a tax collector in the king’s service, in his own estimation he was also a visionary who travelled from town to town in the service of his Lord. A misspent youth long behind him, he had done much work to create hospitals and to assist the endeavours of nuns administering to the poor. Among friends, he liked to say that while his right hand collected the king’s tax, his left begged on behalf of the poor. He accomplished both tasks well.

  On this evening, he eschewed the company of his fellow tribe, preferring to tip his glass in the direction of a man who also drank and ate alone, for they were united as fellow travellers upon the road. The man nodded politely in return, but offered no further courtesy.

  Dauversière noticed the lone gentleman again the next morning, strolling in the gardens before breakfast, at times lifting the petals of a blossom to admire it more closely. The man patted the noses of curious horses whose heads jutted from their stalls and stroked the snout of Dauversière’s pale mare. He examined her flanks and haunches and sad sway-back before he moved along to the next animal. Like a thief, thought Dauversière, as he secretly observed from his bedroom aerie. He next spotted the man after breakfast as he moved through a riverside market in crisp air, speaking to farmers and patrons alike. They deferred to him—perhaps to his intelligence, perhaps according to his reputation, perhaps because he was a swarthy, handsome man adorned in the extravagant clothing of a nobleman. Cheerfully, he moved along to subsequent encounters after a few minutes’ respite. When the stranger stooped to present alms to a beggar, he doffed his cap and bowed.

  The gentleman from the inn passed a portion of his morning in prayer, first in the damp parish church, again back at the inn’s gardens. Following lunch, consumed quietly, he saddled up and rode into the countryside. Seeing him go, and bereft of ambition for the day, Dauversière chose to mount his own mare and follow along at a secure distance.

  The rider ambled through the fragrant orchards, then dug in his heels upon gaining a slope and galloped over the ridge, vanishing from Dauversière’s view. Dust hung in the air, and the visitor from La Rochelle wandered through it, wondering where the path might lead, what indiscretion he might idly traipse upon. More than an hour later, he pulled in his reins, dismounted and let his horse water by a stream. He listened. The brook’s babble. An exchange of birdsong. A breeze momentarily rustled leaves. Then he heard a horse snort, and spun in surprise. The equestrian he had trailed had apparently been trailing him, and had dismounted also, standing now before him with one hand crossed over his body to grip his sheathed sword, a bold, warlike stance.

  “Your sword, sir,” the stranger commanded quietly, firmly.

  “Pardon me, sir?” Dauversière inquired.

  “Surely a Richelieu spy is prepared for the consequence of his occupation.”

  Dauversière knew he had indeed located his man, and found him as Lalemant had promised. “I am not a Richelieu spy, sir, although I do exist in his employ and I am, undoubtedly, a spy.”

  “Then, sir, your sword.”

  “For I am a spy sent by God.” As though to seal the proclamation, he removed his plumed hat and provided a deep bow, the right hand, with the chapeau, fully extended outward, the left above his heart in a gesture of trust and humility. He held his left leg forward and rigid, waiting.

  “Blasphemy, sir. Your sword!”

  Dauversière stood, smiled and failed to clasp his sword. “If you prefer, sir, let us say that I have been sent to you by Father Charles Lalemant. I have come to collect you for your next mission. From among the pious, you are to gather worthy Frenchmen, farmers and soldiers, carpenters and priests, and lead them to settle upon the island of Montreal in New France, from where your company shall convert our Indian brothers. Paul de Chomedey, Sieur de Maisonneuve, I am Jérôme le Royer de la Dauversière, and I ask a question: are you prepared today to accept your destiny, and undertake this valiant service in the name of Almighty God?”

  In the full regalia of amazement and wonder, Maisonneuve stood stock-still a moment before permitting his hand to fall from his sword. He gazed upon the elegant, yet peculiar man by the stream, then he too doffed his hat and struck a deep bow. When he arose, the strangers closed the short distance between themselves and, as though as friends, heartily embraced.

  Three ships were destined to embark from La Rochelle and Dieppe. Supplying the vessels with everything the migrants might possibly require—yet manage to afford—had been an all-consuming project for the leadership. The ocean was unforgiving and they had to travel by summer, so the arrivals would have no time to put in a crop their first year. Arriving late in the season, they would have to struggle through a winter at Quebec, then make for Montreal early the following spring. Anything left behind now could not be recovered in less than a year, so every contingency had to be foreseen.

  In the midst of the hectic preparations, where it seemed that any problem solved led directly to another, Maisonneuve had set aside a morning for urgent discussions with Dauversière. Entering the makeshift enclave, his new friend greeted him with unrestrained enthusiasm, perhaps glad for the respite. “Jérôme!”

  “Paul! How are you? You look so weary.”

  “What is weariness? Time enough on the voyage to rest. What news?”

  The two settled onto chairs on opposite sides of a table that Maisonneuve utilized as his headquarters. Bags of seed and boxes of carpentry tools and farming implements were stacked as tall walls around them.

  “I’ve brought along a young woman I’d like you to meet. She heard about us in Paris and made her way here on her own. She waits outside. I’ve decided, Paul, that she must go with you. Sent by God, I should say.”

  “To do what service?” Maisonneuve was skeptical. He felt that he had his full complement in place, and while women were unquestionably necessary to a new colony, for the time being he’d prefer those who accompanied their husbands.

  “She’s a nurse. Experienced. She’s been on the battlefield, Paul, perhaps as often as yourself. She comes from Langres, a town stricken by p
lague, and she nursed the sick there, and the dying.”

  Maisonneuve was impressed. Anyone who could offer the twin virtues of youth and experience might prove essential to the enterprise. “Show her in.”

  “One thing you should know first—”

  “Let me meet her, Jérôme, before you divulge her liabilities,” he instructed, for he could tell that his friend had left something unspoken. “Let me see for myself.”

  The woman who sat before him tendered a slight smile, and a casual jut to her chin that Maisonneuve admired. She was a proud woman, forthright, and fervent in her love of God. After a few minutes in her company, Maisonneuve knew that she could be more than a nurse in their work together, for she also possessed the ability to administrate. She could organize and direct many projects when not busy at the hospital, and thereby ameliorate his own burdens. He saw that he could immediately use her help with the current preparations. He also noticed the issue that Dauversière had been intent on raising.

  “Mademoiselle Jeanne Mance,” he stated, “the voyage, and life on the island of Montreal, will require great fortitude. A hearty constitution. I am afraid that I must decline your gracious offer to accompany us. Yours is a frail nature, is it not?”

  “Sieur de Maisonneuve,” the young woman replied, “have you never been struck by a blow, or received a wound in battle?”