by John Farrow
Father Bernard was beginning to sweat. How he was supposed to acquire such a dagger went beyond his devising, although it would probably come down to a significant exchange of money or a tribute of lands, more than even the well-to-do Sulpicians would want to manage.
A year earlier, the chief explained, twin girls had become lost in a forest in Boston, in the land known as Massachusetts.
“Lost?” Father Bernard sought to clarify. “In Boston? In the woods?”
“Lost in the forest in Boston, Massachusetts,” the chief repeated.
“Boston’s a big city,” the priest began to protest, but Sarah interrupted him. “Young girls often wander away from home and become lost,” she reminded him. “It happened to me.”
“I see,” the priest said, and fell silent.
“A Mohawk band from this place found them, and brought them here, so that they would be safe until their father came here to take them back.”
“That was,” Father Bernard began, hesitated, then continued, “that was very good of you, Chief.”
“Their father did not come here. Instead, very soon, the uncle of the twin girls, the man whose sister was their mother, he came here instead.”
“Why did the uncle come?” Sarah asked.
“He came because he lived not so far away. This white man, he was the ruler of the Hudson’s Bay Company. He took the girls back to Boston himself. He was very happy to have the girls looked after so well. To show his gratitude, he gave to me this magic knife, what he calls the Cartier Dagger.”
The chief removed the instrument from a wooden box, and Sarah Hanson and Father Bernard leaned forward to gaze upon it.
“It’s beautiful,” Sarah said.
“A wonder,” the priest agreed.
“As a sign of our friendship, as an agreement that French farmers will stay away from this place because the priests have taken the free land for themselves and leave the rest only to the Mohawk, I give this gift to you, Father Bernard.”
The priest was overcome. He had hoped for only the most rudimentary of tacit agreements, and now understood that he was binding his community to generations of trust and fellowship.
“My chief, thank you for your extraordinary gesture of peace. May our peoples know endless days of harmony. As you may know, we priests have taken vows of perpetual poverty—we cannot acquire riches, and your dagger is composed of diamonds and gold.”
“Father Bernard—” Sarah tried to interrupt him, concerned where he might be going. The priests may have taken vows of perpetual poverty, but the order itself was not poor. Surely they could accommodate this gift. Yet she stopped, for the priest had raised a hand to silence her.
“I offer a proposal, Chief. Allow me to accept this present in the spirit in which it is given, as a grand tribute of Mohawk friendship for their Sulpician brothers.”
The chief nodded, well pleased.
“Then understand that I receive this Cartier Dagger into the heart of my community, and with the blessing and goodwill that is part of this gift, I grant it to our mutual friend, the one who has brought us together and made this possible, Sarah Hanson Sabourin. So that the gift is from you, great chief, to myself and the Sulpicians, and together we are joined as one as we confer it upon Sarah.”
The chief was well pleased with this proposal as well, and pleased with the wisdom of his new neighbour.
Sarah Hanson took the dagger back across the river to her cabin, where she showed it to her husband. He had been busy in recent years cutting wood for Ville-Marie, which had an insatiable demand for timber after its old section had burned to the ground. Jean-Baptiste Sabourin, more than a decade older than his wife, tucked her into his side as he admired her present.
“What do you think it means?” she asked him. “Such a knife?”
He had married a woman wiser than himself, and loved her for her acumen. He also knew that, as her husband, he could not always be concerned with harvesting trees and riding them downriver to market. The gold and diamonds embedded in the handle were more than he’d seen of precious stones in his lifetime, yet compared with what had transpired, they were rendered without significant value.
“It means,” he said, and kissed her forehead, “that this must be a good place to live.”
Sarah hugged him back.
And so the Cartier Dagger remained in the home of Sarah Hanson. As babies were born into the home, the relic was put away, stored deeply and safely in a closet, where it would remain both safe and neglected through the passage of generations.
CHAPTER 15
1968
ACCOMPANIED BY AN EXPLETIVE LOST INSTANTLY UNDER AN ONSLAUGHT of trombones, pipes, drums and a crash of cymbals, the first rock arched gently above the heads of an astonished crowd. The granite chunk cleared the sidewalk before it ricocheted off the fourth step of the broad stairwell to the Municipal Library, where a reviewing stand had been erected. At the bounce, people in all directions ducked, then leaped for cover. The athletic form of the combatant who had darted off the sidewalk into the path of the parade appeared exemplary, the throw adroit, the effect of its relative accuracy electric. Suddenly, a barrage of rocks and bottles flew from the hands of an agitated portion of the throng. Startled dignitaries, including the mayor of Montreal, held up their hands for protection or cowered behind policemen, assistants, chairs and the tall Doric columns.
A security detail sprang forward. The prime minister of Canada, the primary target, did not seek shelter. Defiantly, he stood up for a better view. Young men and women wasted no time in answering the unspoken challenge. On cue, the next volleys rained down upon the reviewing stand, thrown less in anger, perhaps, than in a swift, unbridled release, an enthusiasm for the rambunctious sport of rioting and for the pleasure of endeavouring to strike a foe smack on the noggin.
Yet all their fierce throws missed.
On crowd-control duty that night, a strapping young officer had no specific orders to follow in this circumstance, nor was he experienced at events that deteriorated so swiftly into violence. Insults had been directed his way all evening as the parade moved into the vicinity of his post by the stand. As a rookie cop, he was proud of his blue uniform, and he enjoyed wearing the badge. He stood his ground and let the foul words nick him then fall to the pavement. Establishment pig! If absorbing the taunts of young people high on rage, politics and beer was the price of wearing the uniform, he’d pay it, suffering their abuse without being provoked. Fascist!
The tall, well-built youth was no older than most of them. Traitor! Twenty-four. His detractors, long-haired boys and wildly dressed girls, had attempted little in their lives, or so he contended in a private debate with himself, and had accomplished less. “Do something with your life,” he whispered under his breath, “before you tell me what to think.” Never did he let on that the heckling young women managed to get his goat, especially the more attractive ones. Redneck! To stand at his station like a statue and endure rhetoric from pretty girls was not a favourite detail, yet he remained determined to endure it, to not lose his cool.
Power to the people! Fuck the police!
Words. He didn’t respond.
Then the first rock was thrown, and instantly he reacted.
Other cops were ducking tomatoes and eggs and bottles, even the ingredients of sandwiches, as people who had intended to enjoy a parade now chose to hurl the contents of their picnic hampers, but Constable Émile Cinq-Mars had caught sight of the one who’d thrown the first missile and he would not permit the miscreant to elude his capture. This arrest would make the abuse he’d endured all evening moderately worthwhile.
He charged after the culprit who had retreated into the apparent safety of the crowd, while on the reviewing stand Pierre Elliott Trudeau, now the prime minister of Canada, who faced an election the very next day, watched him go, disappearing into the impressive mob.
Auspicious times these, Pierre Elliott Trudeau believed.
Rarely was his life his own anymo
re. In a vague sense, he belonged to the people—words his friends were fond of dispensing—and while he disputed the severity of that limitation, the people clearly held his fate in their hands. Now a contingent loudly brayed that they more properly represented the people than he did, and to drive that point home they were doing their best to stone him. This did not bode well for the next day’s election, nor did it augur well for his health if a missile should strike the mark, given that his forehead was their principal target.
He knew what his confreres were thinking, and the security detail in particular. This could be a calculated attack. Trudeau stood upright, calm enough, his weight imperceptibly forward on the balls of his feet, as he had learned to do slipping punches as a boy boxer. He bobbed when he had to and dodged an occasional beer bottle or a chunk of brick clawed out of a building and thrown in anger from the darkness. The fury of the streets convulsed before him, worsening, police and ambulance sirens wailing now, debris clattering around him as though the sky itself caved in before his eyes.
Mounties in plain clothes urged him to come away, but he shoved them aside. He didn’t want them blocking his view. Had he not been invited to this parade? He was not going to be driven off by packs of wild ruffians—elections in Quebec had known too much of that. Pierre Elliott Trudeau, the youthful prime minister of Canada, the upper-class drifter, the man who had failed to do much with his life except read and travel a lot and talk to a few people—on occasion, he’d encourage a strike, or scribble an essay, or teach a few classes in constitutional law—had found his true vocation, to represent the pinnacle of power in the land and be prime minister. Now those who would remove him sought to do so through thuggery. He declined to depart the reviewing stand, and permitted the rioters—for the actions on the streets were rapidly escalating to that level of furore—to try to pelt him with hard objects.
He stood fairly still—reserved, defiant—as they continued to miss.
She loved it, and never felt scared. The adrenaline rush was intoxicating. She leapfrogged startled couples who had brought little stools to sit on and spread a picnic of wine and cheese across their knees, and she cut through throngs of people moving towards and away from the commotion of the riot. Other police officers, seeing that she was being chased by one of their own, entered the fray, but she made quick cuts to elude them and they became embroiled with others, who shouted insults or intruded upon their path. She’d brake, shoot a glance around, choose her next destination, and take off. Yet always that one cop pursued her. What was the matter with him? Why was he so obsessed? Because she had thrown the first stone? Hey, buddy, a thousand bottles are flying through the air right now. Get over it! I’m not the only one out here who’s angry. He kept running after her.
She thought she could rely upon her youth and endurance, but after a while she supposed that her pursuer was around the same age as her and equally fit, so that wasn’t going to work. She pulled her cap off, letting her long hair fly loose. See, Mr. Policeman? I’m a woman. You’re going to all this trouble to catch a woman. What are you, too chickenshit to go after a guy? Young people in the crowd thought so, and as she cut back through the crowd, a few blocked the cop’s access and some tried to trip him. One man succeeded, and the cop went down. The cop picked himself up, grabbed his cap and carried on after the girl.
Jesus, mister. What’s with you anyway?
The young constable, Émile Cinq-Mars, controlled his breathing to conserve energy. This was the culprit who had instigated the disturbance, and he wanted him in custody. Her, he discovered along the way. That was a revelation. With her long locks flowing behind her, it occurred to him that he was vaguely attracted to the woman—to this arrest, in any case. She was lithe, she could move, she ran like a fawn, with beautiful, long strides and then, when necessary, she eluded him with skittish counter-steps that left him half out of his shoes.
He wanted this girl caught. Too many pretty girls had taunted him, not just insulting the uniform but wounding his feelings. Girls shouldn’t be immune from prosecution, especially the one who had started the whole thing. Young men were being rounded up. Paddy wagons had been brought in. He could see two vehicles waiting to be filled. Here and there, cops had their nightsticks out, beating heads. He didn’t want to beat heads. But if he could bring this girl in, he’d be doing his job. He wanted to lay claim to the riot’s instigator.
Golly, she was lovely, the way she ran. Limber, swift. Vaulting bushes and people, cutting on a dime. She was cheered on, he was booed—reason enough to maintain the pursuit. Failure would only egg everybody on, give the rioters confidence. Success might help subdue them.
Émile Cinq-Mars caught her by the hair, but instantly let go. He could tell that if she didn’t stop in her tracks, he might snap her head back more violently than she would expect, and she could be injured. He ran harder, knowing that he was losing his breath, that he had to catch her soon. He was probably half in love with her, he was thinking, almost giddy, laughing to himself, he so admired her form and grit and physical grace. Maybe he would have to just let her go.
The young woman circled behind a cluster of a dozen people, slowing a little to catch her breath. She couldn’t run forever. This was nuts. The cop was a maniac. And yet, he had caught her by the hair, briefly, she had felt his grip, and then he’d let go. Thank God for that. She’d thought her neck would snap. Maybe, if she was to be caught, this guy deserved to be the cop to do it. Clearly, he had a conscience. He probably wouldn’t drag her to a paddy wagon by the hair, as some cops were doing to both men and women.
Breathe, breathe, she had to breathe and keep running.
Émile Cinq-Mars was thinking the same thing: breathe and keep running.
The times had changed so rapidly. Friends and foes alike had believed that Pierre Trudeau would find himself with the socialists, but he considered their party to be colossally ignorant of Quebec. Instead, he founded the Union des forces démocratiques, with which he intended to unite opposition groups in advance of the provincial election of 1960. Defeating Duplessis was his priority. Yet le Chef outfoxed his brilliant young antagonist with a simple and elegant ruse. He died.
Le Chef was dead.
Which killed Trudeau’s party.
Everything changed. Without him, Duplessis’s own party disintegrated. The Church, its friend gone, found itself bereft of moral authority as well as power. The ecclesiastical voice became a decayed echo from dusty statuary, the pale words falling upon empty pews. Outspoken political thinkers were brought into the new provincial government, and the fiery, popular René Lévesque accepted a cabinet post. He agitated from within to take the government to a position that favoured independence, and constantly pressed Ottawa to surrender more of its influence and treasure. In short order, Trudeau went from being an out-of-work teacher, to part-time lecturing, to becoming a member of Parliament, to being the minister of justice. With the retirement of the prime minister, he ran for the party’s leadership. A rank outsider, yet he won. Such was the shock of his rapid ascent that he had become unbeatable at the polls, yet rocks now rained down upon him and the police were attacking the rioters even as the protesters fought back.
He would not stand down. This was the fight of his lifetime, between those who believed that Quebec rightfully belonged in Canada—the elegant destiny that he believed the country had prepared for itself—and those who vied for an independent state dressed in its full, mythic glory. His astonishing rise to power, his unprecedented popularity, had led to this moment and this conflict. The history of the Quebec nation had moved inexorably towards this quarrel. Trudeau’s words and position provoked rocks and bottles, and now he would stand and see if such actions could break him.
On television, the country watched.
She kicked, and flailed her legs. He had her, the bastard, and God, he was strong. Then she was free again. The young rock-thrower didn’t know how it had happened. She was running again. She looked back. Bystanders had jumped in, taki
ng the side of the girl against the cop, and now he fought off those who’d jumped him, but instead of arresting the ruffians, he was running after her once more.
He’d catch her, too.
In the end, she didn’t want to be caught. So she surrendered. The better option. Her lungs were desperate for air, her whole body was rebelling. She slumped to her knees and waited. Momentarily, the cop was upon her, locking her hands behind her back.
“You got me,” she said, breathing heavily.
“Piece of cake,” he said, and they both laughed lightly.
Both of them needed a respite, and once she was cuffed, Cinq-Mars put his hands on his knees and caught his breath. He looked at her, and she returned his gaze. Captor and captive, each curious about the other. She seemed stretched to him, her neck elongated, her nose as slender as a knife. Her brown eyes were wide-set, but the face itself seemed pinched, so that her eyes stood out all the more. Her eyebrows, light and gently curved, were the most perfect of angel wings. She was so pretty, he wanted to stop all this and let her go. He wanted to run after her again. To look at her eyes was easier, and more polite, but he wanted to observe her mouth, and, pretending to breathe extra heavily, he looked down between his feet, then back up again, his glance crossing her lips. Slender also, not the full lips of so-called great beauties but he found her lips inviting. Under the left side of her mouth, a quartet of faint spots. A sprinkle of fine freckles across her nose, falling slightly onto the soft rise of her cheeks.
He was the captor, but he knew that he had been disarmed.
She was just so pretty.
“Do you know Captain Armand Touton?” she asked as he pulled her up to her feet.
He was thinking of her legs. They were beautifully long. He was looking forward to the walk in search of a paddy wagon. He reached out to guide her away and was astonished at how easily his fingers encircled her wrist.