River City

by John Farrow

  In Ville-Marie, the citizens fell to another winter of despair.

  In Michigan, the chief who had been named The Rat preached on Sunday mornings, for through his admiration for the Jesuits, and in particular Dulhut, he had come to embrace Christianity. When he spoke in church, his words were received with gravity and thoughtfulness. Learning of the massacre, he grieved for the lives lost, yet also welcomed the safety this would mean for his own community. If the French wanted peace as he wanted peace, he deliberated during the winter months, they would have to learn how to make that peace. Clearly, they did not know how to do it on their own. He, Kondiaronk, the chief of the Huron at Michilimackinac, who signed his name by drawing a rat—he would be the one to teach them.

  For there could not be a peace, he preached, if one tribe was left vulnerable to destruction. The peace that was required must exist in a way that all tribes, and the French, and the English in New York and Boston, might prosper. He, Kondiaronk, The Rat, contemplated these things and talked of what he dared to imagine the long winter through, and in the spring he hoed the soil he believed might assist the seed of his vision to finally take root.

  On the feast day of Our Lady of the Snows, August 5, 1695, François Dollier de Casson, a mountain of a man and the superior of the Sulpicians in Montreal, concluded the vespers’ chants in his parish church. With magisterial élan, he departed down the centre aisle. Clergy fell in behind him. Ville-Marie’s administrative officials stepped in behind them, followed by the great spiritual women of the colony, led by Marguerite Bourgeoys and a gathering of nuns from the Congregation of Notre Dame. Representatives of the military came next, marching, then citizens prominent in the fur trade and other mercantile affairs, and finally settlers noted for their devotions. The procession moved outside into the warm night and continued to grow as ordinary folk also traipsed down the centre of Notre Dame Street, bound for the home of the fur baron Jacques Le Ber.

  Upon arriving, Dollier de Casson knocked upon the door.

  His knock was severe, hard, final, like a judge’s gavel. He stood back from the door and waited with an expression that was formally grave. He was a unique man among the Sulpicians, one the Indians especially admired for his exceptional size and strength. He had entered the priesthood after a distinguished career in the military, and loved to tell the story of spotting an enemy igniting the wick of a cannon at short range. The cannonball had been aimed precisely at his head, yet, bound by a French officer’s code, he was forbidden to duck. As the wick burned down, Dollier took out his handkerchief and let it drop. As the cannon roared, he was bending over to pick it up. He heard the ball whoosh above him. Then he straightened himself up and carried on the fight.

  Such stories were accepted due to the native integrity of the man, as well as to the manner in which he had equipped himself, since his arrival in France, in battle against the Iroquois. A story was told of him at prayer one evening, deep in his beloved forests, which he much preferred to the seminary. A young Indian youth tormented him with obscene gestures. The youth grew too bold, coming too close, and Dollier, still on his knees, dropped him with a single stupendous punch. While the young man moaned and tried to regain his senses, stopping up the blood from his nose, the priest carried on praying.

  He was a man who had built the first modest church of Notre Dame, and the Sulpician Seminary, and he had half-dug the Lachine Canal before his superiors in Paris, mindful of the cost, ordered the project halted. For all his physical might and energy, he was a devout man and a careful chronicler of the history of the community, recording stories from out of the mouths of Jeanne Mance and others among the first settlers.

  So as he knocked upon the door of Jacques Le Ber, he did so with authority, and with deep appreciation of the occasion.

  The merchant emerged. He was sixty-one years old, an ancient age for their community. The people called him Abraham, as a tribute to his years but also in deference to this ceremony, for would he not be leading his daughter to become a victim of sacrifice?

  Jeanne Le Ber stepped out from the house behind him. Thirty-three years old, she wore a long, grey woollen gown cinched by a black belt. With her father at her side, she joined the procession, taking her place behind only Dollier de Casson, and the great devout tribe walked back through the streets the way they had come, returning to the chapel.

  Where they prayed.

  Jacques Le Ber was overcome, his anguish too grave for him to endure any more, and he departed the service before its conclusion. An Abraham, then, who could not bring his sword down upon the neck of his only surviving child. He had become one of the wealthiest fur barons, a man who had broken the rules by not waiting for the return of the coureurs in Montreal, but by travelling farther and farther west to intercept them, to garner the best pelts. While he was respected as a pious man, his daughter’s passion extended far beyond mere piety and he could not sustain himself through to the ceremony’s conclusion. The words that broke his endurance were spoken by his last remaining child’s spiritual advisor, who declared, “You are dead. You are enshrouded in your solitude as in a tomb. The dead do not speak, nor are they spoken to.”

  Following the prayers and dedication, Dollier led Jeanne Le Ber to her new home. According to her precise plans, a cell, composed of three rooms, one above the other, had been constructed behind the altar at the Convent of Notre Dame. Jeanne Le Ber had financed the project through her own impressive dowry, and had donated a large sum to the convent as well and would continue to pay an annual tribute. She had used her influence to have the dwelling built to her exact specifications, and had managed to replicate the chapel at Loretto in Italy, which legend held to be the actual home of the Virgin Mary, transported there by a company of angels. Here, she would be locked inside for the remainder of her life, speaking to rare visitors only through a grille, addressing the convent sisters through it from time to time as though hers was a voice from the grave. She’d take her meals upon the floor, sleep upon a straw mat that would harden over time to the composition of rock and which she would not allow to be replaced, and she’d emerge only after dusk, once the chapel door had been locked, to prostrate herself before the cross.

  When not at prayer or reading religious books, Jeanne Le Ber would busy herself with needlepoint, making sacerdotal vestments for the churches in the vicinity. Her silk embroidery, pleasing in design, the details eminent and lovingly rendered, worked against the circumference of her drab solitude and her denial of earthly comfort, giving expression to her love of God. She still kept her maid. Indeed, her contract with the convent demanded a substitute whenever her own lady-in-waiting was absent. While she had a private garden outside her lower door, she would not use it, and many would whisper that she never glanced out a window again. As her spiritual advisor had informed her, “Even the ascetics of old would permit themselves a walk in the woods, to commune with God.” But not Jeanne Le Ber.

  … and then, at my Lord’s bidding, the door is shut, and I am at last more fully alone. No longer in my father’s house, but in my cell, a final seclusion from which there can be no release but death, no expectation of life or variance or possibility. I lie prone upon the floor, alone. Dead, yet not dead. Still abject, for my joy surrounds me and overtakes me, and my aloneness—this, too, is a blessing. My very solitude is a pleasure I must defeat, for I must overcome even the slightest attachment to this world. If I am pleased by my suffering, then my suffering becomes my joy and what is real becomes illusion, and I am defeated. All becomes naught. For I know nothing of the joy of death, only its replication, and I must not be pleased with the artifice. The voyageurs would beat one another before they embarked into the wilderness to prepare themselves for the struggles and the reality of that realm. So must I be dead, but to truly suffer while alive, I must acknowledge that I am not dead, nor can I strain for the glory of death before its time, for I must allow my suffering to linger, yet draw no sweetness from the lingering. I must permit even my glorious solitude i
ntermittently to be broken. For I am dead, but not dead. That is how my life is broken. That is how I will truly suffer for my Lord.

  Three historic visits to the little grille through which she spoke gave evidence of her life and spiritual responsibility. The first startled her, yet she was prepared for the task by her days as a small child watching the voyageurs punch one another senseless. When she was told that the Huron chief Kondiaronk had requested an audience with Sister Jeanne Le Ber, the mother superior assumed that she would decline, yet the recluse promptly agreed, for she believed that the meeting had been ordained by God. Wobbly on his feet, accompanied to the Congregation of Notre Dame by sixteen Huron warriors, the chief, in his finery and elegant countenance, was guided to the rear of the chapel alone. He sat on the small stool before the scant opening and adjusted his attire, waiting. He had been informed that the sister would respond to him only when her prayers had properly concluded, that he was not to knock or cough to announce his presence. Yet he was troubled, for a cough had indeed seized his diaphragm, and to suppress it took immense will. Then the port was slid away, and while he could not see her, he was aware of the breathing of Jeanne Le Ber, then he heard her voice, distinct and low, in frail greeting. Rather than say hello, he released his pent-up cough, and the frail woman returned one of her own. The Indian’s own breathing proved difficult, and he often had to interrupt himself to cough again, to which Jeanne Le Ber would cough in return, for both were feeling unwell.

  “Do you know who I am?” The Rat asked the ascetic.

  “I have heard of you. Yet not for some time. News from the outside rarely extends to me. I remember that you are called The Rat. I remember also that you were a Christian. Are you still?”

  “I am, Sister.” Part of her contract called for her to be admitted to the Order of the Congregation of Notre Dame, and referred to as Sister, although she would never be obliged to participate in the life of the convent. Then the chief surprised her by asking, “Are you?”

  “Has my solitude claimed my spirit, you’re asking? Chief Kondiaronk, my spirit is ever the more fervently committed to the Blessed Sacrement.”

  “And are you comfortable in there, are you happy, are you content?”

  “I must dissuade you from this discourse. My happiness, my contentment, my comforts, are of no interest to me and should be of no concern to anyone. I will permit no such indulgence. Now, if you have come seeking help for yourself, or for your people, then that is a matter we might discuss.”

  He had wanted to speak to this saintly creature, this prisoner of God, who had removed her beauty from the world of men and her intelligence from the affairs of her colony to devote herself to life’s mysteries and to the command of God. What did she learn from the experience, or was learning in itself an excitement to the senses she had vowed to decline? He had been close to shamans who had delivered themselves to personal cleansing in the forests and a solitude of the spirit, yet they would return and dwell among their people. This refusal to walk under the sky, to be brightened by the sun, this repudiation of human contact, was a fanaticism that he wanted to witness before he died. “There is one thing,” The Rat confided.

  He told her then of his predicament. Of how he had been working to create a peace among all the Indian tribes, that one thousand and three hundred peace delegates had arrived to represent them. From Wisconsin to the west, and Acadia to the east, the Indians had come, an occasion that was grand and festive. The Montagnais and Assiniboine from the north were there, as were the Sioux, Cree, Saulteurs and his own Huron nation from the west. Indians had arrived even from Florida. The Iroquois had also paddled to the meeting.

  “The Iroquois are here, in Ville-Marie, to make peace?” She had difficulty suffocating her enthusiasm, for she forbade herself such interests in any form.

  “Yes, the Iroquois are here. If you heard guns firing in recent weeks, they were fired to honour the arrival of delegates. We have a rather new governor in New France, Louis-Hector de Callières. He’s been here for a couple of years now. A nice man. Together, with great difficulty, we have fabricated this peace. The Indians agree that we shall never again war with one another. We agree also that if the English and the French make war upon one another, all the Indian tribes shall remain neutral. This will allow the French to control the lands to the west and down the Mississippi. The English will lose their allies, and therefore their power. But they will not be attacked, either—not by the French, who do not have enough warriors. The only difficulty may be that the English have the power to attack the French on their own. This may yet occur, and it disturbs me, Sister.”

  News of the outside world was not unwelcome. She had to moderate the pleasure this conversation had provided, and terminate it quickly. Still, she needed to know if she could be of service. “Is there something, Chief Kondiaronk, that I may do for you, under the eyes of God?”

  The Rat leaned in more closely to the grille. “Sister, part of the agreement requires that each tribe bring its prisoners and its slaves here to the island of Montreal. Here, they will be returned to their tribes, or, if they are French, to the French. If they are English, we will send them home.”

  The scratchy, coughing voice behind the grille praised him. “You have created a wonderful peace.”

  “Yet there is a problem. The Iroquois have arrived, and they have not brought their slaves with them, nor have they brought any prisoners. We know they have more than anyone. What shall I do, Sister? I need to be guided on this matter by one so close to God as you.”

  Jeanne Le Ber pondered the problem awhile. “In this life, I hope that I am the furthest soul from God in all the world. To be close to God is to know His comfort, and I wish no such relief in this life, lest that gift separate me from the Blessed Sacrament.”

  “I am sorry for my words, Sister,” The Rat told her.

  “The Iroquois,” Jeanne Le Ber continued, “accept that they are the most hated ones. They have given you a reason to hate them more. If you are to break the peace, then break the peace over this issue, Chief Kondiaronk. If you are not to break the peace, then ignore this matter, and the Iroquois will then know that you do not intend to break the peace. For if you do not do it when they give you a reason, they know that you will not do it when they give you none. Now, I must retire. The time has come to recite my prayers.”

  Kondiaronk thanked her, but the grille plate had already slid shut.

  The Rat did as Jeanne Le Ber suggested. He oversaw the transfer of prisoners, including Iroquois prisoners back to the Iroquois, and made no mention to them that their own account was in deficit. Many of the other tribes saw this as a humiliation directed at Kondiaronk, and they wondered how he might respond. If the peace were broken here, each man knew, it would never be regained.

  His cough had progressed to a fever, and he felt too weak to stand when the time came for him to address the sacred gathering. Thirteen hundred warriors, delegates from all the tribes, and the French governor and the governors of the largest French towns, were waiting, but he could not stand. The French brought him a stool. He did not have the strength to sit upon it, and swayed in his fever. Out of the home of a merchant, a large and imposing armchair was brought to him, a rich man’s extravagance, and this satisfied his posture, his dizziness and his weakened knees. All looked upon the Huron chief in the sumptuous chair and waited for him to speak. Still, his voice was weak, his throat parched. Kondiaronk was offered wine. He stated a preference for the syrup of the maidenhair fern. After considerable delay, this was brought to him, and at last The Rat began to speak.

  Though his voice was scarcely audible, so anxious was everyone to hear his words that the silence of the gathering was complete. Everyone leaned in to hear. Would Kondiaronk bring peace or war?

  Humbly, yet comprehensively, he described the steps that he had undertaken to bring a lasting peace to the Indian nations. He counselled them on the necessity of peace, and reiterated the prosperity and benefits that it might bring.
Then, still in his big armchair, he turned toward Governor Callières. “Act,” he told him, “in a manner that no man can accuse you of betraying the trust we place in you today.”

  At that, his voice failed. He was done. The great throng of French and Indians applauded and whooped. Indians beat their drums. He was carried, still in the armchair, to the Hôtel-Dieu. Early the next morning, having offered his prayers to God and received the sacraments, Kondiaronk died.

  The French carried his body from the Hôtel-Dieu to his tepee, where they laid him upon beaver skins. His gun and his sword were placed by his side, and a kettle, for his use in the spirit world. Sixty Iroquois moved in solemn procession towards him, and they, his most vicious enemies in life, paid tribute to him in death. Their chief declared the day to be devoted to grieving, and the Iroquois themselves were the ones who covered the body in sorrow and in dignity.

  Not since the procession of Jeanne Le Ber to her chapel had Ville-Marie seen one that matched The Rat’s funeral. Sixty military men led the entourage, followed by sixteen Huron warriors, four abreast. Wearing beaver skins, the natives had painted their faces black in mourning, and they held their guns with the barrels pointed down. The clergy followed in their black robes, genuflecting and carrying their Bibles. Six war chiefs from six different tribes bore the body. The corpse was covered in flowers, and upon his stomach The Rat held a plumed hat, a gorget over his throat, and, at his side, a sword. His brothers and children followed immediately behind the body, then the remaining chiefs of the tribes and the leaders of the tribal councils. Then came the wife of the intendant of New France, the governor of Montreal, and the governor of New France, who had worked so closely with him to create the peace. Like a Moses of old, Kondiaronk had been allowed to see the paradise of his vision, but he would not be permitted to inhabit the realm. As his body was buried in the crypt at Notre Dame, muskets—military and Indian—fired in his honour.