He is wearing a broad hat with a white feather, which shakes precariously with every nod of approval.
De La Salle is at least forty years old. He is of average size, but his proud manner and the authority emanating from him make him seem taller to me. I am very impressed. If ever he deigned to look down at me, you can be sure I would look away.
Mom can’t stop staring at him. I’m surprised because I’ve never caught her showing any interest in a man before. It’s fun to try to figure out what she finds most attractive: his tiny chin with a discreet dimple at its centre? His fleshy mouth? His nose that sticks out? His blue-green eyes that seem to take in every detail of the bustling wharfs? (Eyes that bulge a little, if you ask me.) His long curly hair, a wig just as in court?
“And him?”
My mom looks away from Cavelier de La Salle to answer the great bear of a man signing up the volunteers on a makeshift trestle table.
“Eustache Bréman.”
The secretary’s black beard covers his whole face and runs so far down his chest that it gets lost somewhere in the middle of his open shirt. He has enough body hair to make men of five boys like me.
“How old is he?”
“Twelve,” says my mother before I can open my mouth.
The bear looks me up and down, one huge eyebrow hoisted above the other.
“The kid barely looks eight.”
“And I’m telling you he’s twelve,” my mom retorts, sounding irritated. “I should know! I spent thirty hours giving birth to him.”
“That’s fine, little lady. No need to get all worked up.”
He mutters to himself while he writes down my details. “As if I care whether he’s eight or twelve or twenty…”
Clearly this bear with a sore head doesn’t just look like a bear.
Beside us, Lucien Talon and his two oldest sons—Pierre and Jean-Baptiste—are bringing over a trunk. It doesn’t seem particularly heavy.
“That’s everything we have, Stache,” Marie-Élisabeth tells me proudly, pointing at it with her little white finger. “It’s a lot to carry, isn’t it? But there are seven of us.”
I bite my tongue. I’ve already seen Mr. De La Salle’s officers and first mates with four or five heavier trunks each. Mom and I are happy enough to be carrying a bag on our backs, bags into which we have fastened the few possessions we have. For me: a spare pair of pants (too short), two odd shoes (that might still come in handy someday), a pocket knife whose blade is broken (in the middle), a handkerchief with a hole in it (something to remember my little brother by), a terracotta bowl whose sides are so beaten up that I often have to hold it at an angle so as not to spill its contents. For Mom: a worn-out skirt given her by Mrs. Talon, a man’s shirt that has come unstitched given her by Mr. Talon, the spoils of the last few times we went begging in La Rochelle, a scrap from a mantilla scarf that has become a handkerchief, a wooden comb made by my father (the only keepsake she has of his), and a cherrywood rabbit that looks like a dog turd big enough to hold in one hand, sculpted by Armand back when he would play with my pocket knife (the only thing she has to remember him by).
“So, my boy? Ready for the big adventure?”
I give a start.
Mr. Cavelier de La Salle’s heavy hand is on my shoulder. I scramble for a brilliant reply, but by the time I come up with anything our leader is busy talking to Mr. Talon.
“Good to see you again, Lucien. And to see that your courage has not waned.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, sir.”
The first mates surround the expedition leader, saying hello, left and right. Members of the Cavelier family are there, among them a priest who is our leader’s brother and a soldier who is his nephew.
“And you, Mrs. Talon,” De La Salle continues, bowing slightly. “Your beauty and audacity are an example for all. The sea holds no fears for you, by the look of things.”
“No more than the ten other women on the mission, sir,” coos Mrs. Talon. She gives what to me looks like an awkward curtsey but, well, what do I know? “In fact, one of them is my good friend: Mrs. Delphine Bréman, a widow, if I may introduce her.”
De La Salle removes his hat before my mom, exposing the powdered locks of his wig to the sun and the wind.
“I bow down before the wonderful spirit of adventure that is alive and well in you, ma’am.”
My mother turns bright red and gives a curtsey that is even more awkward than Mrs. Talon’s. Both women are keen to bow and scrape before him, it seems.
I look to the side and see Marie-Élisabeth teaching Madeleine, the youngest at four years old, how to gently raise the bottom of her skirt and lower her head.
* * *
Four ships await our expedition, their yards bobbing up and down at the quays in La Rochelle. I try to commit their names and details to heart. I want to look as though I know what I’m talking about when I talk to the adults later.
First there’s a huge warship with forty cannons—yes, forty!—under the orders of the captain of the navy, Tanguy Le Gallois de Beaujeu. He’s a gruff, austere man, who doesn’t seem at all nice, if you ask me. He has a way of looking at you that…
Anyway, back to the ships. The warship has a name that doesn’t seem to fit at all: Le Joly. Although it is very beautiful, with its polished masts, gleaming deck, and scrubbed hull.
Next is the ship Mr. De La Salle will be boarding with the top brass: a three-master by the name of La Belle. It is smaller than the others and has few cannons. Then comes a three-hundred-ton supply ship with L’Aimable written large on its stern. Let’s hope it lives up to its name and will bring us to our destination amiably enough.
And, to finish, a ketch—a ship with two masts, weighing I don’t know how many tons, but smaller than the others—transporting all Mr. De La Salle’s possessions (implements, tools, and other items required to establish the colony). Its name is the Saint-François.
The king himself—our beloved Louis XIV—provided Le Joly and La Belle. Mr. De La Salle rented the other two ships from French merchants. The king also supplied one hundred soldiers, the ships’ crews, and skilled workers for the colony. But Mr. De La Salle must pay for the goods to trade with the Natives out of his own pocket.
That’s all I’ve learned for the time being. We’ll see what else I can find out.
On the morning of July 24, 1684, there are just under three hundred of us setting sail aboard the ships I have just described, including one hundred soldiers, artisans, six Recollect missionaries, and fewer than ten women with their children.
PART II
At Sea
4
WORK FOR PIGS
The sailors are used to the sea, the ships, and the strange rocking motion atop the waves. They don’t bat an eyelid at the objects that are moving about, the people losing their balance, the creaking of the rigging, the wheezing of the ropes, the squeaking of the sails.
The same can’t be said for us, the passengers aboard L’Aimable, nor for the hundred soldiers on board Le Joly. We need time to get used to these noises and movements before we can sleep, eat, or use the bathroom, perched above a hole in the ship’s bow. Hats off to anyone who manages it without making a mess.
I also discover that among the travellers—and among the soldiers, I’ve heard the sailors say as they roar with laughter—many just can’t bear the floor swaying beneath them. Some keep to the back of the hold, throwing up the little they manage to swallow. Once they get used to things after a few days, they are so thin that it’s hard to look at.
And now the quarters where we live stink! They can barely walk—which means they do their business all around them. The wood is covered with vomit and excrement… much to the delight of the pigs we have on board. Aside from pigs, we’re also bringing chickens, sheep, turkeys, rabbits, and dogs with us. All of whom also relieve them
selves where they lay. It drains away to the depths of the ship into a kind of gutter called the bilge. And that’s not to mention the rats. No one invited them on board, but the ship is swarming with them, just like the lice on our heads.
All of which means that, weather permitting, my mom, the Talons, and I go out to the deck of L’Aimable every chance we get for some fresh air. Like just now, when, along with Pierre and Jean-Baptiste, Marie-Élisabeth and I are dozing off in the midday sun.
“Darnation and tarnation!”
Marie-Élisabeth cries out in pain as a passenger, who wasn’t looking where he was going, walks right into her. He drops the leather bag he was carrying and then bumps into a pump lever. A new string of curses ensues, while the two men accompanying him rush to help.
“What in tarnation are these darned children doing on the expedition? And what are they doing on deck?”
Marie-Élisabeth moans as she rubs her ribs and picks herself up. I scramble to my feet as well, glancing over at Mr. Talon who is at the other railing with his wife and the younger children. Mom is at the head, where we go to the bathroom.
“You little cretin! Couldn’t you loll around somewhere else than right in the middle of the passage?”
I don’t like the look of him. Because he’s insulting Marie-Élisabeth. He must be twenty-two, twenty-five.
“I’ve had lice bigger than you! Just stick close to the railing, idiot!”
He lifts his hand to strike Marie-Élisabeth. “Maybe this’ll help you remember!”
In a fraction of a second I can see Mr. Talon stand up and get ready to come over, but he’s too far away and too slow to prevent the angry man from striking his little girl.
I don’t think. I’ve been playing with a piece of rope that has a pulley at one end. I don’t take a run-up. I throw the whole thing as hard as I can, without bothering to aim. The wooden pulley—which is fairly heavy—hits the man on the shoulder just as his arm comes crashing down.
“Ouch! Why you little…”
Instinctively, he not only stops what he was doing, but half turns to protect his face. He brings his left hand to the spot where the pulley hit him. I don’t think I really hurt him, but the element of surprise worked like a charm.
“The nasty little brat… the nasty little brat…”
He looks at me more in surprise than anger. Or for the first second at least, because it quickly gives way to a death stare. At least I’ve chalked up an initial success: he’s turned his attention away from Marie-Élisabeth. Now I just need to come up with a second brilliant idea to escape his wrath.
As his companions hold the angry man back, Mr. Talon finally reaches us.
“What’s going on here?” he asks in a voice that seems a little too soft to me. He saw the whole thing! He saw his daughter come within a whisker of being struck by this individual. Surely he should be more fired-up!
“And who are you?”
“I’m this little girl’s father. If she has done you any harm, sir, then she will apologize.”
“So you’re her old man, are you? Well then, you can give her a good hiding right here in front of us. That’ll teach her not to get in the way of merchants doing an honest trade.”
“My name is Lucien Talon, at your service, sir. I will not hit my child, but I will be sure to give her a stern talking to so that she…”
“A ‘stern talking to’? Are you kidding, Talon? And look at me when I’m talking to you. I am Pierre Duhaut. And this is my brother, Dominique Duhaut. And our partner, Jean L’Archevêque. We’re no peasants like you! We’re merchants with money and power. So now that you know who you’re dealing with, you’re going to do as I say. You’re going to give her a good slap right—”
“No, I don’t think so, Mr. Duhaut.”
We turn around as one and see a man we hadn’t noticed walk up to us. I have already seen him before. Crevel de Moranget is his name. He is Mr. De La Salle’s nephew, a member of the navy. He wears his sword by his side and a pistol on his belt. He walks with a swagger and isn’t always very polite to those around him, but right now I’m glad to see him.
“I don’t think that Mr. Talon is going to beat the child.”
“Mr. Moranget, this is none of your—”
“And why not, Mr. Duhaut?” the soldier interrupts, going face to face with him, which gives me the chance to see that he’s taller by at least half a head. “As nephew to the leader of our expedition, it is my responsibility to maintain order aboard L’Aimable. It seems apparent to me that at this very moment, order has been a touch disrupted by all your shouting and waving.”
“Come with me!” Marie-Élisabeth’s father tells us.
To avoid us witnessing a quarrel that might well get out of hand, Mr. Talon gathers me, his daughter, Pierre, and Jean-Baptiste around him. He ushers us towards the opposite railing. As we walk, I look back to see what’s happening between the two men.
“Very well,” Pierre Duhaut grumbles at last. He makes the concession through gritted teeth, keeping his eyes locked on Moranget’s. “Since you are the representative of order, sir, I cannot help but comply.”
“A wise decision.”
“But we’ll meet again.”
“No doubt, sir. We will be together for years to come.”
“They’re leaving, Mr. Talon,” I murmur as we reach a very jittery Isabelle Talon on the other side of the boat. “There won’t be a fight.”
“That’s something at least.”
“We can thank Mr. Moranget for that,” I add gratefully.
“Yes. Every pig has to work to keep this ship clean.”
5
SPEAKING OF
MR. DE LASALLE
“What a wind!” I say to Marie-Élisabeth.
“Tell me about it!” replies Mr. Henri Joutel, Mr. De La Salle’s lieutenant. “We are sailing large. In other words, the breeze is coming at an angle from behind us and seems slower due to the ship’s speed. You’ll see if we have to sail against a headwind or lie to in a storm.”
Headwind? Lie to? It sounds like I still have plenty to learn. Not just about the wind, but about how sailors talk!
I liked the officer as soon as I saw him. He’s a nice man, who’s also fair and to the point, if you ask me.
“Excited by the voyage, big man?”
He just called me “big man”!
“Very, sir.”
“That your little sister?”
Little? That’s the very first time anyone has thought Marie-Élisabeth was younger than me.
“No, sir. She’s my girl… my friend. Her name’s Marie-Élisabeth Talon.”
“My humble respects, miss,” Mr. Joutel says to her, bowing his head.
“Sir,” she whispers simply, repeating her mom’s awkward curtsey.
The gentleman purses his lips and it seems to me that he’s trying hard not to look amused. Henri Joutel must be older than twenty-five, but younger than thirty, I’d say. He’s wearing a long, stylish pelt coat that shields him from the wind. His hat is even broader and has more feathers than Mr. De La Salle’s. It adds a touch of class that only reinforces his authority. He smiles often, to everyone and anyone. He smiles no matter if you’re an officer of the navy—or the son of a beggar woman like me.
Which is why he’s often surrounded by sailors who enjoy making conversation with him.
“Were you with him, sir, when he discovered the Mississippi?” someone asks him. He’s so short and stout he looks like a barrel.
“Mr. De La Salle, you mean?” says Henri Joutel, answering a question with a question. “No, I did not accompany him, but I have spoken with those who were there so often that I could tell you every last detail.”
“Didn’t he think that the river led on to India and China?”
“That’s right! Only once he followed the Mississippi
down to its mouth, Mr. De La Salle realized that the river flowed into Spanish waters: the Caribbean Sea. A discovery not to be sniffed at, let’s be honest. That’s something I bet even the Spanish didn’t know. It was a huge victory for Mr. De La Salle and for our king to take possession of the whole territory on the kingdom’s behalf. Louisiana will be French, not Spanish!”
A sickly-looking man, who fiddles nervously with his belt, risks a remark without daring to look Joutel in the eye.
“With all due respect, sir, I heard it said that many poked fun at Mr. De La Salle when he returned to his estate in Canada.”
“And you are right,” Joutel replies without a moment’s hesitation, as though expecting the remark. “Derisively—and out of jealousy—a few comedians had great fun calling members of the Louisiana expedition the ‘Chinese.’ And today some still find it amusing to call De La Salle’s estate on Saint-Sulpice, near Montréal, ‘La Chine.’”
“Jealous, the lot of them!” says the sickly man. “Especially since Mr. De La Salle has the ear of the king.”
“Well said, young man. His Majesty has granted titles and funds to our leader so that he might establish a colony near land claimed by our Spanish enemies. Proof indeed of the significance of his discovery.”
“So that’s why there was so much mystery surrounding our departure!” guffaws the sailor that looks like a barrel. “That’s why we were told so often and so clearly not to say where we were off to. We’re going to meet the source of the Mississippi and travel down the river to its mouth in Louisiana.”
Hunting for the Mississippi Page 2