Pillars of Avalon
Canadian Historical Brides
Book 5 Newfoundland
By Katherine Pym
with Jude Pittman
Digital ISBNs
EPUB 978-1-77299-439-1
Kindle 978-1-77299-438-4
WEB/PDF 978-1-77299-437-7
Print ISBNs
Print ISBN 978-1-77299-436-0
Amazon Print ISBN 978-1-77299-435-3
Copyright 2017 by Katherine Berryman
Series Copyright 2017 BWL Publishing Inc.
Cover art by Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Dedication
Books We Love Dedicates the Canadian Historical Brides series to the immigrants, male and female, who left their homes and families, crossed oceans and endured unimaginable hardships in order to settle the Canadian wilderness and build new lives in a rough and untamed country.
Acknowledgement
Books We Love acknowledges the Government of Canada and the Canada Book Fund for its financial support in creating the Historical Brides of Canada series.
Chapter One
Fort Québec, July 1628
Samuel de Champlain walked through a cold rain to the edge of the cliff that overlooked the St. Lawrence River. He waited for the French fleet to bring them badly needed supplies. While fishing along the inlet, one of his men thought he’d seen the rigging of tall ships in the canopy near Tadoussac. It would be a godsend if they had arrived.
Breezes plied up the river, bringing the heady smells of high summer as Champlain searched for furled sails among the treetops. His gaze scoured the water, the thick foliage that lined the riverbanks. He looked inland to the forest and searched for anything out of the ordinary. He huffed a sigh. Nothing.
Last year’s harsh winter had been difficult. Many died of scurvy. Unfriendly Aboriginals lurked in the forest, ready to kill or maim them. Less than a hundred souls remained within the weakening walls of Québec. Already, he’d given the order to build a stout vessel that would take them upriver more than a hundred leagues to open water, to the fisheries along Newfoundland or down the seacoast to a better established settlement.
Those deeply Protestant places may not accept Catholics but he must take the risk. He could not go through another icy season where he expected most, if not all of his remaining men, his wife and daughters, would die.
Anxiety riddled through him. Something must have happened to the fleet. Pirates haunted the waters and pestered merchantmen. With tempers running high between nations, France could very well be at war again with England or Spain.
He wished survival wasn’t so difficult in this magnificent place. Sea otters frolicked with their families in the cold water. High in the fir trees, bald eagles watched the progress of man or beast as they plied up and down the river. Champlain sent his gaze to the farthest visible edge of the inlet where he’d seen whales soar in the air then plunge deep into the water. Today, the beautiful expanse lay empty.
Last autumn he’d been promised several ships loaded with families and goods that would breathe new life into Québec. At night, he dreamed of these vessels sailing toward his small fort, their holds filled with wine, sugar and spices, seedlings that would no longer reach harvest this late in the season.
If the fleet arrived, he’d make strides to turn the fort into a self-sustaining community. Now, they must rely on pelts as barter for food, powder and shot.
One of his men came to stand beside him. “Do you see anything?”
“Non, it is as if the inlet waits with dread in its heart.” He turned away from the empty river and headed back to his lodgings.
His fort was barely serviceable with breaches in the walls. He had no allies to come to their aid should the tribes rise against them. The friendlier Indians had changed their alliance to the few Dutch in the area and he could not rely on the Iroquois, who considered him their lifelong enemy.
His heel scraped against the planks of wood that kept their boots from sinking ankle deep in mud. He opened the door to his lodgings, a large building that had been taken over by his family. Immediately comforted by their presence, he breathed deeply of the familiar household’s scents.
Helene, his wife, Espérance and Charité, their Indian daughters, sat on stools near the hearth, plying their needles. Fish and maize simmered in a cast iron pot. Deadly tired of the mash, it tasted vile even as his wife tried to dress it up with their dwindling spices.
“How does it go, Helene?” He forced a smile and kissed her forehead.
She frowned. “Monsieur, we are down to a sprinkling of weevilled flour and hardened maize. We need wool to replace tattered clothing and new linens for our beds.”
“Oui Madame, our munitions stores hold one full barrel of gunpowder and two small barrels of shot. If we want this settlement to continue, we are in need of building and farming implements. Do you want me to continue?”
“I think our daughters and I will search for berries, and we will fish this afternoon.”
“I shall send some men with you.”
Helene folded his shirt she was mending and stuffed it into a basket. “Do you have men to spare?” She stood and stirred the maize and fish. “This is done, if you can bear it.” She pushed the pot down the lug-pole and off the flames.
His annoyance gone, Samuel grinned. “Tired of the fare, are we?”
She sniffed, turned away with a smile then cuffed him gently on the arm.
“I’m sure Michel will find a few men to accompany you.”
“I would like red meat, the marrow and fat it brings,” Helene confessed. “Surely we can snare a squirrel or a deer or some such beast.”
“A few men are hunting. With so little gunpowder and shot, they must trap their catch. Tomas has even shown us how to kill with a slingshot.” He frowned. “The others are busy counting pelts or with the boat.” He needed a smoke and searched for his pipe.
Michel, his personal aide approached him. He stood tall and at the ready, always aiming to please.
Champlain tried to smile but failed. “How are you this afternoon?”
“Some of the men are still counting beaver pelts. So far, not much damage to the hides. We’ve about two thousand.”
That should partially repay the investors for equipping the fleet of ships. “Has Auguste returned yet?”
Michel shrugged. “Non Monsieur.”
The damned Huguenot had gone off again, presumably to collect marten pelts from one of the Algonquin villages. Champlain expected his real intent was to visit one of his native wives. The man could not contain his passion and had been gone for nearly two weeks.
He seized his pipe from the mantelpiece. With an ember tong, he retrieved a hot coal. He lit his pipe, sucking the sweet herb into his lungs.
Suddenly, heels clattered on the wooden planks. The door burst open with Claude Brucette, his face in sheen of sweat. “We have visitors.”
“Do you recognize them?”
Claude shook his head. “Non Monsieur, but we shall soon see. They’ve landed their canoe below the cliff.” Beyond his shoulders, two men came into view. They near staggered and were out of breath from trudging up the hill.
Champlain smiled. “llo, welcome.”
Without preamble, one held up his hand. “I am Croucher and this is Duprés. We come from Cape Tourmente. An Aboriginal brought news large ships have laid anchor in the harbour of
Tadoussac.”
“Is it the fleet?” Champlain’s heart filled with hope.
“Non Monsieur. They are English.” He snarled. “A Captain David Kirke, who thinks nothing of destroying what we’ve worked so hard to build.”
Champlain’s soul shrivelled with disappointment and dread, for Québec fort was at a terrible disadvantage if the English wanted war. They could never withstand a siege. “What of Tadoussac?”
Croucher’s brown eyes filled with sadness. “The English spread like a plague over the area. They have taken prisoners and killed cattle. They warned they will burn our villages, the fisheries.”
Champlain puffed on his pipe. France and England must be at war, again. “Come in, come in. Michel, pour the men some water. I apologize we have nothing else to drink. If you are hungry, we have some maize and fish.” He suppressed a grimace.
They each took a wooden cup. “This is good,” Duprés saluted him and they drank.
“Will you stay?” Claude asked.
Duprés shook his head. “We must find others and warn them.”
Champlain gestured with his pipe. “We must prepare for when the English come this way.”
As dusk darkened the damp skies, mosquitoes came out in full. Champlain hastily raised his neckerchief to protect his face and ears and directed his men to their posts. “Pile rocks and stones, and use them to kill if you must. We will protect our home with everything we’ve got.”
“Monsieur,” Claude shouted.
Champlain turned to him, already dreading what the man would impart. “Oui?”
“It is Foucher.”
Mon Dieu, he had thought his herdsman had been killed. He dropped his shovel where he’d been trying to form a stone and gravel barrier and slapped his hands of dirt. “Send him to me. I will be in my chamber.”
Foucher entered, smelling of bear grease and sweat. He wore a soiled leather tunic and fur hat that seemed too hot in this warm season. He pulled off his hat and kneaded it with his hands.
“What do you have?” Champlain demanded.
“I escaped, Monsieur. The English intend mischief. They’ve killed and eaten our cattle, then set fire to the stables where more beasts rested, burnt houses and pillaged what they could.” He woefully shook his head. “They want to scatter us, break our spirits.”
“A calumny.”
Foucher’s shoulders slumped. “They took men, a woman and a little girl prisoner. I could do nothing to stop them.”
“Where were you when this took place?”
“I’d come from looking for a stray cow. I had no powder or shot, nothing to fight them with. I took a canoe and came to you as fast as I could.”
Champlain fought anger and sought his pipe. “Go then. Get something to eat, such as it is, and join the others in preparation for battle.”
Foucher replaced his hat on his head. “Oui, Monsieur, at once.”
* * *
The next day, Champlain stood on the cliff with Claude and watched a gaff-rigged vessel sail toward their rock. As it neared, the sails dropped and the shallop slowed. Champlain turned away. He would meet the English and find out what they wanted.
They walked to his lodgings. Champlain’s heels scuffed against the wooden planks. “Order the men to load as many guns as they can and use all the powder and shot. Send three men with harquebuses down to meet our guests. We don’t want to take any chances, and have Tomas assist with the slingshots. We will do what we must to protect our home.”
Champlain knew they would fail.
Claude bowed. “Oui Monsieur.”
Samuel hugged his wife and three daughters. “Go upstairs. I will come for you.”
Helene’s eyes filled with tears. She nodded as Espérance and Charité threw their arms around him. He swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat and gently pushed his family toward the stairs. “We will know soon enough.”
He listened until their footsteps subsided; then he went to his pipe, lit it and puffed until a great cloud of smoke made his eyes water. Champlain primed his Wheelock pistol, set it on the table and waited.
Claude entered the chamber. “Monsieur, our guests; six Basque fishermen, a woman and child.”
They came in single file, the woman and girl trailing behind. Their leader, a very short, dark bearded fellow with bright black eyes, smiled. “Monsieur de Champlain, we bring a dispatch from the English.”
“Why do you come and not the English?” It annoyed him to the bones they would send fishermen to do their business.
The Basque shrugged. “We fished as we always do, and upon our way home we were met by the upstart English. They captured us, punctured holes in our bateau where it sank before our eyes, our catch lost.” His eyes glittered. “Today, they send us to you with this dispatch.” He extended a folded, sealed letter.
“Merci.” Champlain cracked the seal.
The Basque fisherman nodded. “We have a side of beef in the boat and we are hungry. We are willing to share.” He smiled.
Champlain frowned. “Our meat slaughtered by the English, no doubt. Oui, we will share it with you. My wife will be pleased.”
They shuffled from the chamber, Claude and Michel remaining. He unfolded the leaf and began to read. “It is in French. This Englishman knows our language,” he said with surprise, “but he has the arrogance of a marquis. His name is Captain David Kirke.”
“What does he say?” Michel stepped closer. “What do they want from us?”
“Monsieur Kirke has a letter of marque in the name of their king to seize all settlements in New France. He kindly requests us to surrender Québec into their hands.”
Hot anger seized Champlain. “Those English devils!” He slapped the letter against the table top. “Should we remain, he will block us from receiving victuals. He says if we go peacefully, bloodshed will be avoided. Then he says.” He raised the letter to his good eye. “Make no mistake, for sooner or later, I shall have your fort.”
Samuel de Champlain waved the letter in the air. “Get me paper and quill!”
Chapter Two
Near Tadoussac, July 19, 1628
Captain David Kirke paced the deck of his man-of-war, the Abigail, while he waited for a response from Champlain. Filled with nervous energy, his footsteps took him from larboard to starboard, poop deck to the bow. Everything depended on Champlain’s response. Where is that messenger?
The letter of marque given to him by King Charles I allowed David to plunder, destroy and kill if need be, but he did not want to take another’s life. To do so would send his soul to the papist bowels of hell, an unpleasant thought.
He fully expected a like response to his courteous request for Fort Québec’s surrender. David knew Champlain was in dire straits. If the poor wretch resisted, he would force the man to his knees.
David’s fleet of six ships lay near the shores of Rivière Saguenay and the St. Lawrence River, a hilly place thick with trees. Since they’d harassed the French so well, raising their wrath, he anchored around a bend and out of sight of Tadoussac.
His brother, Lewis, stood at the rail and scanned this new land. “Do calm thyself,” he chided, “afore you work yourself into a delirium.”
“Where is our brother, Thomas? I would have a word with him.”
Lewis shrugged. “I know not. Mayhap, he’s run off with a native woman.” He waggled his brows.
David laughed. “I would like to see him do such a thing. It would lighten his too dour spirit.”
In truth, his younger brother was an obstinate arse, unfriendly and mean-spirited but Maman loved him greatly. It was as if he could do no wrong.
David sniffed. He would prefer his other brothers, John or James, but John was on the Continent, and James studied at Eton, a sweet lad and far too young for this type of adventure.
A large bird with a white head and black body flew overhead, its wingspan beyond words. A seaman cried mightily out. “Look! What is it but a flying monster that will claw us dead?”
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“Do heave it over,” another derided. “’Tis but a bird of prey they call an eagle. There are many here, on this land.”
“This is beautiful country, but wild,” Lewis said when David stepped beside him. “Once this land is tamed, I can imagine it giving us a good life.”
David gripped the rail with both hands, thinking this venture was the start of something extraordinary. It gave him great hope.
Raised by an English Protestant and a Frenchwoman in Dieppe, France, he understood God and destiny. One was cruel, the other unshakable. Fate was the lady he could not avoid. This expedition to the new world would bind him to Lady Fate and shape his future.
“Aye, ‘tis beautiful.” He slapped a biting insect. They swarmed thickly and sucked too much blood. “But there are hidden means of torture one must evade.”
Lewis laughed. “If not the biting flies, the mosquitoes will drive you mad. Why do you think the Aboriginals cover themselves in bear fat?”
“Where did you hear that? Sounds horrid.”
Lewis winked. “Yesterday whilst ashore, I saw them apply it to their arms and faces, the backs of their hands. They mix the fat with local spices.”
He scowled. “Methinks it would stink to the very devil, even with spices.”
Lewis smiled. “It does.”
When he and his brothers had fitted their vessels for this journey, rumours from Portsmouth had swirled up and down the wharves of London and Gravesend. The French were putting together a fleet of twenty ships, filled to the teeth with armaments, ordnance and supplies for a beleaguered Québec and other forts along the coast.
David leaned over the rail. The water was so very still, he could see his reflection. “Smooth as a looking glass.” Fish nibbling at the surface formed ripples that moved toward shore.
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