Order of Good Cheer

by Bill Gaston

  LUCIEN HAS LITTLE to do but stare at the lantern’s flame, just out of arm’s reach. They have trimmed the wick to almost nothing, so the flame is as weak as he is himself, and urine-coloured. He feels a kinship with the dirty little light.

  He has heard he is the seventh. The first, Gascon, died, as has the second, Vermoulu the priest. A single cannon shot marked both funerals. Though the earth is too hard for burial. Lucien has heard that Poutrincourt’s boy will be next. He has heard nothing about any one of them growing better.

  He knows only that he is the seventh. Men come and stand over him as if he cannot hear and they say, “There, the seventh of us.” In their voices he hears less of pity for him than fear for themselves.

  Lucien was astonished that the scurve took hold of him so quickly. However, even his astonishment then became sluggish, for that is the nature of the disease. Lucien has hardly the vigour to be properly appalled at what, it seems, his body has chosen for itself.

  He does think it began by entering his spirit on the long night of the natives’ conversion. Following that affair there was the long walk in the snow with Ndene, and their making love, and Lucien walking back alone, tired and, for some reason, in low humour. Then arriving at the open gate, to be confronted by Samuel Champlain, no longer his democratic friend and ally, but a monster.

  Champlain’s face had spoken of surprise; that is, he was not lying in wait but merely passing near. It was as if, having been surprised by Lucien, he now had to respond, and he responded with an anger that Lucien could not help but make his own and carry during his entire walk. The words would not leave his ears: “Go back out and walk off your bestial heat for one hour more. Two hours more.”

  Lucien had thought the mapmaker a reasonable man, and also a friend. He does not know which of the two betrayals gives him more pain.

  But so he had gone out, and walked two hours more. He walked to Ndene’s encampment, saw their fire-smoke rising hardly at all, mere wisps as they weakened, untended. He had the queer suspicion she knew he was without, but because he knew this might just be his hope, and conceit, he did not wake her. And then he walked back. He felt foul, cold and ghostlike. He had no heat, none whatsoever, bestial or otherwise, to walk off. He was cold to the bone the entire time, and of spirit colder still, for Ndene was not happy he had left her, and neither Champlain, Poutrincourt, the King of France, nor God was happy he had gone to her at all. He was angered by a question that would not leave him: why weren’t all the men doing as he was, that is, loving, if love presented itself? Was love not the most natural course a man could take? Didn’t God grace a man with the heartiest urge to know a woman and explore her, and in the end plant his seed? Any men who would deny this are angry at themselves, and over-married to philosophy. Lucien hoped it wasn’t pride telling him that, of all the men, he alone was respecting his time here.

  Unfortunately, the scowling thoughts that grew in him while walking were not themselves a source of heat either. They were only right and logical and all told, they amounted less to anger than a frowning wonder at the opacity of his brothers. Perhaps he could ask Monsieur Champlain his thoughts on this night. The mapmaker had till then seemed reasonable, had seemed less bound by . . . certain maps. And, saddest, he had had in his eye the welcoming light of friendship, not too tainted by his rank.

  No. How would such a topic be broached? This thing would never be spoken of.

  Finally, l’Habitation came to view. Lucien leaned upon and spoke lightly to the gate, a growling dog and sleepy sentry let him in, he strode cold and empty through the quiet compound and fell into a cold bed that seemed to stay cold. And then he was astonished — though somehow not surprised — to wake in the morning with an ache to his legs that felt like the Devil himself had made his new home there. By evening, confirming his ailment, here was this loose flesh in his mouth and some blood in his spit.

  Since that time, no one has smiled at him. Nor has he smiled himself. He knows he is likely to die.

  At night, he can hear incessant moans coming from the death-boxes, as he thinks of them. They loom as large shadows at either ends of the room, impinging on the space, for they are small rooms in themselves, chambers that hold three beds apiece, built around the chimney stones in order to catch their scant warmth. It is surely God’s jest that he fell sick not two days after completing their construction. It is a further jest, though not God’s, that since becoming barely able to walk he has been “confined to quarters” by the Sieur Poutrincourt, for “conjugal visits with a savage.” Though it has also been called other things.

  So far, he has asked for and been given extra blankets. He has refused to enter either of the chimney boxes, though he knows they are warmer. Simply, no one has come out of them, save the luckless boy who bears out the chamber pots and takes the sick their scorned food, the same beef and biscuit that has been smashed fine by Bonneville’s cleaver so they can mouthe and tongue it, like babies just off the breast.

  He has not even the strength to read. He can perform the motions of working a book, yes, but there is no strength of interest. There is no pleasure in taking the words from off the page and making them his own.

  14 janvier 1607

  SAMUEL WATCHES THE painful march of the lame as they emerge down their staircase.

  Neither apothecary nor surgeon enjoys even a dream of how to ease the sufferings of the stricken, and so in the belief that exercise is what they need, and at Lescarbot’s supercilious urging, Poutrincourt ushers the sick men, those of them who can walk, out of their foul beds and close dwellings to take the air and engage in — a snowball-throwing fight! Neither good Poutrincourt nor Lescarbot has seen the scurve before now, and while Poutrincourt looks appalled and turns greyer of face, Lescarbot keeps up a light sporting banter, hiding his own horror.

  Perhaps the news of their enforced play gives them some hope, or confuses them, or they are simply too tired to groan as they slowly cloak and muffle themselves, then lurch and limp out of doors, through the courtyard, and now out from the gate and into the abundant plains of snow. Samuel follows. There is Lucien the carpenter, and Goddard, and Ricolet, and others. Samuel had hoped to see Poutrincourt’s boy, but apparently he no longer can walk. As Lescarbot dances nimbly around and cajoles and pretends fun, and now dips to prepare snow for hurling, the sick dutifully bend to find snow as well. Samuel can tell they do not like the touch of it, and he can also see that their legs hurt all the more from having to step high. A few begin to toss their missiles. There are no smiles. No one responds when Lescarbot suggests they choose up sides.

  One man, poor thin Boyer — having only just ventured out from the gate and pausing to squint up into what for him is a blinding light — takes a solid ball on the mouth. As snow chunks drop away, bloodied, from his face, he moves nothing of his body, not even to bring his hands to his face, and his expression changes not at all. He gathers with his tongue some dark and bad flesh that has become dislodged within his cheeks and he coughs it onto the ground, and Samuel thinks he sees some yellow teeth in his mess. He cannot look away fast enough — it is man’s nature not to look closely upon sickness.

  As if his duty to play is now done, and risking insubordination, poor Boyer turns tiredly away and tries to find a path back to his bed, stepping carefully in the reverse of his own two deep footprints, but then bumping the gate’s post with his thin shoulder so that he almost falls and must stop and hold on to keep his feet and gain his bearings. Samuel can see that Boyer will be another to die.

  When God is at His fatal work, it is not wise to find favourites, but Samuel is especially saddened to see Lucien fading so quickly. Poutrincourt has declared that wantonness has proved his undoing, for upon discovery, when he was confined to quarters, he immediately fell ill. But Samuel thinks that for the carpenter the scurve seems almost an afterthought, a kind of ornament to his captivity, which has insulted him greatly. It appears that the Sieur may wish to exercise the King’s will in this case and that doe
s not bode well for Lucien. Three winters ago, in Hochelaga, when Samuel was there, they had to hang a man (a foulest man, but a man) for forcing relations on a girl and, with a stealth known only to the most wicked, killing the brother who had not yet tried to avenge her. The hanging was necessary to keep the peace — indeed, it may have saved all of their lives, for the savage encampment that surrounded them, waiting for favours or barter, had grown into the several hundreds.

  Samuel’s fear is that Poutrincourt might see a similar example here, and he may well be searching for a way to free his own pent-up humours; just as, desperately tired of the wrong wind, the sea captain will slap his cabin boy or, failing that, kick the freeboard of his own good ship. It is how men manage. Though Samuel will try to speak wisely to him.

  But, from the weak look of Lucien’s face, freedom may not matter.

  So far Samuel’s own body is strong, and he gives thanks to God. Yet he grows sicker of heart at the state of l’Habitation and now must act. He is glad to have secured promises from Membertou — he will not call him Henri! — and his sons that a grand sturgeon-fish has been successfully roped ashore and well butchered and that they will have its salted eggs, and its freshly smoked flesh, as well as the head, from which the good Bonneville can extract its essence for a good Midi fisherman’s stew. They have nuggets of beaver tail, which some of the men savour and others abhor, but that in itself will give rise to eating contests and perhaps a song. In the morning Samuel himself will supervise the prune and marzipan tart— beside his work desk, the prunes have bathed in Armagnac two full days.

  Yes, he will harden his countenance and simply tell Sieur Poutrincourt, and Lescarbot, and whoever else has an ear, that their humour is bad and their world too dark and close, and that he fears the many corpses of St-Croix will reproduce themselves here in this spot, unless measures are taken. Namely, they will form a society of stewards, and will each take their turn provisioning a feast and providing entertainment. They must celebrate New France, and celebrate their lives here, not just on holidays but on every day. For there is the greatest need to come to see as especial, and precious, the very day they live in, now, while they still live.

  Because he has whimpered certain thoughts to them at other times to no avail, he will not add that the food and drink itself might be the right tonic, for he has no science, and little proof. So he will entice them by appealing to the Sieur’s vanity as a musician, and to the lawyer’s as a poet.

  THE NEXT DAY, he begins.

  While Samuel doesn’t argue with the necessity of having a man guard the wine, he does not appreciate the man’s — isn’t this fellow’s name André? André deTou?— gaze of suspicious wonderment as Samuel secures the several gallons he needs. It is not even the good, let alone the best, vintage, and it is not Poutrincourt’s own, which stands behind its own keyed gate. But the man’s royal glare makes Samuel want to break Poutrincourt’s lock and tilt his barrel into his mouth — just to see what this man would do.

  Instead he asks, “Have you ever had hypocras, man?” He positions his first pail and then pulls the bung from the cask above.

  André — tall, but with some stomach, and a poor beard — looks within, then sideways and up, and finally shrugs.

  “It is wine”— Samuel gestures down to this pail that, slosh, slosh, fills up —“and it needn’t be good wine. For into the wine, that is, into this vessel alone, I will put twenty-four dried cloves. And in this wine they will sit, reluctant. And then sometime in the dark of the night they will swell up, and gently be coaxed out, and release themselves into it.” He gestures with his hand as a flower opens.

  The guard looks fixedly at Champlain’s hand, unsure as to how to respond.

  “And I will also put in ten black peppercorns, enough to bring some water to your eyes and sweat to your nose. And I will put in enough ginger powder to cover a large sardine. And then also a full stick of cinnamon, but if the apothecary lets me, two. And then I will dump in enough sugar to make you laugh like a five-year-old. And there you have it — the recipe.”

  At this the guard André tosses his head a little back and snorts. But keeps his smile.

  “I have not had hypocas, sir. Though maybe one Christmas at home.”

  “Hypocras. You will taste it tomorrow night and it will make you glad. And then if you are as lucky as I am you will have bright blue and yellow dreams.”

  André laughs some more. Samuel hasn’t recently felt so cheered and poetic. He groans happily to lift the two full pails. It’s as if he’s under their influence already — the twined spirits of vine and spices.

  IN THE AFTERNOON, while in his rooms the wine sits gently coaxing the spice, Samuel ventures out for pine needles to dry. It is a way of cooking mussels that he saw amongst the Penobscots to the south, and so in this way he will surprise Membertou as well. In truth he enjoys the prospect of surprising not only the sagamore but also his people, whom he intends to invite. These will be men who would by nature tear into a creature uncooked, or even alive, if their fire was too far off and their hunger too great.

  But as Samuel leaves the gate and turns the southeast corner of their outer wall, as if to supply more proof that some fine thing needs must be done, and soon, he encounters a clutch of men locked in violence. He approaches and sees a ring of them, six or seven keeping the two combatants within and fighting. And fighting they are: it seems the rules of sport are ignored or forgotten, for one man has the other from behind and while one arm girdles his neck the other fist pounds with near impunity on the other’s face. It is hard to know whose blood is whose. They are both tired and breathing like beasts, steam and breath rising in the falling light. The various men shout encouragement, and from the supporters’ eager postures Samuel can almost see the size of wager about to be won or lost. So it is sport after all. But Satan’s own. When it looks like they are going to topple, the clutched fighters are given a communal shove to help them right themselves.

  Samuel stops unseen and wonders what action to take. It is within his power not only to have them halt but also to see the two worst of these men in chains. The man who has the other, weaker man locked, and appears about to win, growls deeply. Two or three of his betting friends growl with him in excited unison, not even knowing that they do, or that they sound like the most automatic of beasts.

  An even sadder sight presents itself over at the edge of forest. There stands the large Dédé, alone, leaning forward and gazing back upon the group with the oddest face. Samuel has heard, by turns, how the rest of the men did finally gather together in fear and disgust to shun the man or, contrarily, how Dédé has done this to himself by his own choice. But whatever the case, it seems that the brute has spoken to no one, not for some weeks, finishing his labours and then keeping his own company. And there he stands now, leaning forward, the look on his face not unlike an open-mouthed baby’s, and there is clearly envy and bloodlust in it too.

  Samuel backtracks softly and retakes the corner of their compound. He knows of another close stand of pine. The needles need but dry a single day. Any more and their savoury resin is lost into the ether, and not into the orange flesh of that strangest of clams.

  HE KNOWS SHE IS there because he can smell her, her fur wet from snowmelt, his favourite dog, the brown and blonde bitch. She lies just below his bed frame and he has only to let his arm hang down and it rests on her neck. She comes here most days and it seems she has learned to set herself in the spot most advantageous for a scratch. Which Lucien does, though it’s sometimes only a bare spasm of a squeeze. When he scratches her, though, he feels the smallest tide, a rise in his heart, that he’s giving pleasure. He knows why so many keep dogs, beyond the practical purposes, and it is that one can give the beast so small a treat as a scratch and yet fill the creature’s need and be blessed by its adoration.

  He scratches her almost vigorously and can hear her tail tap the bed leg. Would that be heresy, to claim one can be blessed by a dog?

  But he c
an feel the cure in it too. He knows he isn’t in his ordinary mind, but in giving the beast pleasure and being blessed by it in return he can feel lifted up, and he knows that if he stays lifted up, and is lifted up again and again and always, he would stay this high, and as long as he stays this high, he will stay cured, and not die.

  NOW FRANÇOIS, THE rough carpenter, comes with the day’s wine and some news. He sits on the edge of Lucien’s bed frame, and Lucien wonders if the unlucky man can smell him. He knows it is poor François’s assigned duty to help Lucien up to toilet and to ensure he is clean at the end of it, and these crimes against Lucien’s modesty are what most make him see death as a route one might choose as the most reasonable path left to him. He sees that with a secretive foot Francois has pushed Lucien’s chamber pot well away from them and more over into the centre of the room.

  François proffers the cup of watered wine and the reed through which Lucien can more ably drink it, and Lucien sucks — he thinks of the word suckles — as heartily as he can, for he would like to make himself drunk, if only he had the energy, and if only the wine weren’t watered. And something in the wine tastes strangely excellent, if only because strange. He can taste pepper, and fruit.