Takanissorens wanted to be sure. He suggested going inside to look around the fort. He put together a makeshift ladder, scaled to the top of the palisade, swung one leg over the spiked posts, and got a foothold on the parapet. He took a good, long look around, but there was no one to be seen. Not a sound to be heard, not a mark on the melting snow. Fear gripped him in the face of the inexplicable. He motioned to those waiting below to walk over to the main gate and he would let them in. Ever so carefully, he climbed back down from the parapet and walked over to the gate, which he hurriedly opened. A pig was tied up right beside it, a string of little bells around its neck.
Dozens of Iroquois poured into the fort, every one of them on high alert. They split into groups of ten or fifteen to inspect their surroundings. There was no sign of the French, not the slightest trace of them having been there. The canoes had disappeared into thin air. Takanissorens consulted Ononta the shaman about this marvel. How could the French have vanished? Where could they be?
“The Great Spirit of the French is more powerful than it seems I believed,” concluded Ononta. “They have gone. They have escaped.”
***
The French at last reached the river that led out of the great lake of the Iroquois. The tension came down a notch. Some set up a temporary camp, while others explored the maze of beautiful islands to find the best way to the St. Lawrence. The current was so powerful that it would be hard to come back in the flat-bottomed boats if they lost their way. A few Frenchmen stood watch in the evergreens that hid their camp. The others prepared something to eat and made provisions for the next part of the trip. It took them two days to find their way. They left at dawn with shouts of joy. This time, there was no way the Iroquois could catch them. They had shaken them off. They had gotten the better of them. The river in full spate was all that stood between them and Montréal.
***
“And that wasn’t counting the ice and the awful rapids we had to cross,” said Radisson. “The closer we got to Montréal, the less progress spring had made. We even had to break the ice with an axe at one point, the river was so frozen. Then the sun came out, it warmed up, and the ice suddenly fell away in great chunks. It was breaking up all around us, with a terrible cracking sound. Huge chunks of it floated past us in the current, banging against our boats, crashing into us. Any one of them might have crushed us, but God was with us. We made it home.
“We couldn’t ever stop because the shore was still covered in ice. We had to push on. Ever onward. The water was so high that we floated over the rapids. The canoes had a rough time of it. One day, my boat got beached on a sandbank and filled with water. We managed to empty it and press on. A canoe capsized the very next day. Three men tried to swim to shore, but the waves and current were too strong… they drowned. God rest their souls. We saved the other two men, who had managed to cling to the canoe.
“They were the only men we lost. When we reached the Lachine rapids, we decided to stay in our boats and run the rapids. The day before, the rapids were still covered in ice, the people in Montréal told us. A day earlier and we’d all still be there, drowned beneath the ice. It was written in the stars that we would get away.”
They had all gathered in Marguerite’s house to listen to the story: Françoise and her husband, Claude Volant, Pierre Godefroy and his wife, the neighbour Lajeunesse, Marguerite and her new husband, Médard Chouart. Radisson had rested for a few days in Montréal, before going on to Trois-Rivières. He had arrived the day before. He was savouring his victory over the cunning Iroquois and the adversity they had faced. He couldn’t have been happier as he recounted his adventure in the comfort and safety of the house he knew well, before an audience that was fascinated by the dangers he had overcome through his courage and skill.
Médard Chouart listened most attentively of all. He was also the man Radisson spoke to most enthusiastically. He was now known as Médard Chouart dit Des Groseilliers since returning from his perilous two-year journey to the Great Lakes. The governor himself had honoured him for saving the colony; heading three hundred Indians working with the French, both old and new allies, he had brought back more pelts than any man had ever set eyes on. He was rich now, and respected, and married to Marguerite, who had waited so long for him.
“Just as well we didn’t massacre the Iroquois who took part in the Easter celebrations or else an army would be hot on our heels by now. We killed no one and will have time to organize our defences. Peace might even still stand a chance. Either way, our top priority was getting everyone back to the colony alive. And that’s what we managed to do,” Radisson concluded, eager to impress his new brother-in-law.
Pregnant with her third child, Marguerite was worried by the bad news Radisson brought with him. What Médard had seen in the Great Lakes painted the same picture. Tensions were threatening to boil over everywhere. War was likely going to start up again, with all the suffering that entailed. She went back to stirring the soup simmering over the fire, preferring not to think about Trois-Rivières once again being under siege, about the loss of her first husband to the fighting, and how so many others might once again have to pay the price.
Françoise couldn’t help shedding a tear or two as she listened to her brother recount the dangers he had once again escaped. Claude Volant and Dandonneau dit Lajeunesse looked disheartened. They were thinking of the clashes that lay ahead. Pierre Godefroy could also see dark days to come. What he had warned of had happened more quickly than he would have thought possible. It didn’t bode well for the French. Only Médard Chouart had a strange smile on his face. He had very much enjoyed the story told by his new brother-in-law. He liked hearing of Radisson’s skill, his sang-froid, his cunning. Not just anyone could get the better of the Iroquois like he had. He was already fond of the young man.
On the other hand, he didn’t understand how Radisson could still hope for peace. That seemed crazy to him. The very thought had made him laugh nervously. How would peace be possible in the topsy-turvy world he knew? Among the Hurons where he had served the Jesuits? In Trois-Rivières where he had fought the Iroquois? Or in the Great Lakes where dozens of nations watched each other like cats and dogs, ready to pounce and destroy each other?
He suddenly burst out laughing. All eyes turned to him in surprise. Radisson had the unpleasant feeling he was being laughed at. After the success he had known and the dangers he had overcome, he wasn’t going to put up with being ridiculed, especially not from within his own family, not by a man he thought he had impressed.
“What’s so funny?” he said, a threat more than a question.
But Des Groseilliers laughed all the more. The table was shaking.
“Stop it!”
Marguerite didn’t have time to step in to reassure her brother. Radisson had already unsheathed his knife and was brandishing it at a giant of a man who knew no fear.
“I said STOP!” he cried, leaping to his feet.
But Des Groseilliers had seized Radisson by the wrist and was squeezing it so hard that Radisson could no longer move a muscle, let alone hold his knife. It clattered back down onto the table. Radisson fought hard not to cry out in pain. No one moved. Des Groseilliers had stopped laughing.
“I like you, dear brother-in-law,” Médard told him.
Radisson hadn’t seen it coming. Des Groseilliers stood up too, towering over the young man by a good head.
“I’m not laughing at you,” explained the great brute. “I just think it’s funny that you still believe in peace. If you’d seen what I’ve seen in the Great Lakes, you’d be less sure of yourself.”
The two men sat back down. Pierre Godefroy, who had readily given up his position as captain of the militia to Des Groseilliers, knew just how much he’d proved his worth in many a clash. The Indians saw him as a great war chief, and the people of Trois-Rivières admired him for the feats of arms they had heard about him.
“It’s the Iroquois offensive that made all our former allies flee to the Great Lakes,
” said Des Groseilliers. “And it was war again that made all these Indians return to the colony with me. They came looking for weapons to take their revenge. They want to fight the Iroquois, beat them, and return to the land of their ancestors. Everywhere I travelled, just one spark would be enough to set everything off. The Indians love war. The French, too... So that’s what I think of your peace. It’s laughable!”
“It takes courage to fight for peace,” Radisson replied with conviction. “And I have that courage! We have to believe. Peace is worth more to anyone than war will ever be.”
Des Groseilliers sized up the young, resourceful man who had just appeared in his life.
“You’re not wrong, Radisson. For trade, peace is better than war. And trade is my life. Does the fur trade mean anything to you?”
“Of course. It’s the reason I came to New France! Trade is my life, too.”
“What were you doing with the Jesuits then?
“That was just circumstances. A setback along the way. But that’s behind me now. I don’t owe the Jesuits a thing.”
Des Groseilliers ran a hand as broad as a paddle through his thick beard and looked Radisson square in the eyes, his gaze as piercing as any arrow.
“If I gave you the chance to go back to the Great Lakes with me to trade, what would you say?”
“I’d say I’m ready to leave tomorrow morning!”
Des Groseilliers nodded slowly.
“You and me are going to get along like a house on fire, Radisson. We’re going to get along just fine.”
AUTHOR’S AFTERWOOD
Historian Turned Novelist
The first time I read the six accounts of Radisson’s travels, written by Radisson himself, I was studying history at university… and I couldn’t get enough of them. I spent five years of my life studying the background of this exceptional man: his writing, the places he lived, the people he met. The findings of my research for my master’s and PhD have been presented many times at science conferences and published in various forms. The resulting PhD thesis was published as Pierre-Esprit Radisson, aventurier et commerçant, 1636-1710, by Les éditions du Septentrion in 2001, and translated by Mary E. Brennan-Ricard as Pierre-Esprit Radisson: Merchant, Adventurer, 1636-1710, for McGill-Queen’s University Press, in 2002. In other words, I am a historian, a specialist recognized by my peers on the life of Radisson.
When I began to write this series of adventure novels some years later (the first volume was published by Septentrion in 2011, then translated by Peter McCambridge for Baraka Books in 2012), I was careful to respect what I knew of Radisson as a professional historian. Even though my main aim is to write exciting novels, I sprinkle them liberally with accurate historical information, working these details into the social and cultural backdrop to Radisson’s life. The series therefore aims to entertain younger readers, all while broadening their knowledge and understanding of seventeenth-century history.
The man of flesh and blood who features in these novels, brought to life by dreams, emotions, and very precise tastes, naturally goes beyond what history can tell us about the real Radisson who lived from 1636 to 1710. Here, the novelist takes over from the historian and has to come up with what Radisson might have thought, said, and felt on a daily basis. The novelist must also create secondary characters—some of whom appear in Radisson’s own writing—and have them interact with each other. To do this, I base my stories on what history knows of the people Radisson rubbed shoulders with—like the Jesuit missionaries—as well as prevailing seventeenth-century thinking, values, and behaviour in France, New France, and among the First Nations.
In Volume 1 of The Adventures of Radisson, I faithfully followed the first account Radisson left us. It describes in detail his experience living among the Mohawk nation of the Iroquois people. I added a few episodes of my own, particularly during the war expedition, which Radisson recounts rather briefly, and I completed a number of other scenes using research undertaken during my studies.
Volumes 2 and 3 were more problematic since Radisson had written nothing of his time in France or his life in New France. I chose to introduce readers to this ill-known part of his life by imagining it for myself in order to better understand how this extraordinary character developed and the reasons that might have driven him to work for the austere Jesuits after having led a much freer and very different life among the Iroquois.
Volume 2, then, is a realistic (and thoroughly researched) depiction of how Radisson might have developed as an individual, as well as a precise overview of France and New France in the 1650s. These additions allowed me to examine the issues of the day in a period that determined the future of dozens of First Nations, and the future of New France. The Iroquois changing from war to peace and from peace to war again, for example, actually happened and is backed by solid documentary evidence.
Volume 3 is based on Radisson’s second account of his travels. From here on in, the novel is again based on his writing, although the second travel diary is less complete than the first. This explains why, as an author, I had to take a few more liberties in Volumes 2 and 3 than I had in Volume 1. I emphasized Radisson’s real-life inclination to work toward peace, for example, and I gave him the starring role in coming up with the strategy that led to the French fleeing Iroquois country. While he no doubt contributed to this strategy (documents from the time confirm this), he wasn’t necessarily the driving force behind it.
In Volume 4, I’ll be sticking closely to Radisson’s very detailed account of his extraordinary journey to Lake Superior with Des Groseilliers. Radisson’s peaceful tendencies will be tested to the limit when confrontation puts his life in danger.
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