“To do what service?” Maisonneuve was skeptical. He felt that he had his full complement in place, and while women were unquestionably necessary to a new colony, for the time being he’d prefer those who accompanied their husbands.
“She’s a nurse. Experienced. She’s been on the battlefield, Paul, perhaps as often as yourself. She comes from Langres, a town stricken by plague, and she nursed the sick there, and the dying.”
Maisonneuve was impressed. Anyone who could offer the twin virtues of youth and experience might prove essential to the enterprise. “Show her in.”
“One thing you should know first—”
“Let me meet her, Jérôme, before you divulge her liabilities,” he instructed, for he could tell that his friend had left something unspoken. “Let me see for myself.”
The woman who sat before him tendered a slight smile, and a casual jut to her chin that Maisonneuve admired. She was a proud woman, forthright, and fervent in her love of God. After a few minutes in her company, Maisonneuve knew that she could be more than a nurse in their work together, for she also possessed the ability to administrate. She could organize and direct many projects when not busy at the hospital, and thereby ameliorate his own burdens. He saw that he could immediately use her help with the current preparations. He also noticed the issue that Dauversière had been intent on raising.
“Mademoiselle Jeanne Mance,” he stated, “the voyage, and life on the island of Montreal, will require great fortitude. A hearty constitution. I am afraid that I must decline your gracious offer to accompany us. Yours is a frail nature, is it not?”
“Sieur de Maisonneuve,” the young woman replied, “have you never been struck by a blow, or received a wound in battle?”
He was surprised by this riposte. “Yes, of course. I’ve been in many battles.”
“Did the infliction of wounds cause you to be less of a soldier? Once wounded, some men remain fearful evermore, while others, the wiser, hone their skills.”
Put in such a way, Maisonneuve had no choice but to suggest that the worst of his experiences had aided him to become a more adroit soldier.
“As have I, as a nurse, been made more effective, more caring and more diligent in my calling, thanks to my infirmities. My fragile nature is a great blessing bestowed upon me, I daresay, by God. My frailty, as you call it, sir, will never be cause for your concern. Better that you mind the ways of the strong, for they may turn fearful when first attacked, or surrender when first weakened by hunger or fatigue. They. Not I.”
Dauversière returned upon the departure of Jeanne Mance. “Well?” he asked.
Maisonneuve felt that he had been in the presence of an extraordinary being. He breathed out heavily, which Dauversière interpreted as rejection.
“Paul, please, I didn’t want to bring this up. But she comes here under the sponsorship of Madame de Bullion—”
“Who might that be?”
“A woman who will undertake the cost of the hospital. Please, reconsider—”
“I will not reconsider,” Maisonneuve informed him bluntly. “Jeanne Mance will be our company nurse, and she will also serve as my second-in-command. You cannot persuade me otherwise.”
Recognizing that he’d been duped, Dauversière clapped his hands once and smiled broadly. “Madame de la Peltrie!” he announced.
“Now who’s this?”
“She will also be joining you on the voyage.”
“Another angel? How many can there be? What does she do?”
“Nothing.” Dauversière shrugged. He had the upper hand now.
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t think she’ll get in the way. I’m sure of it.”
“That is the woman’s only virtue, that she won’t get in the way?” He was about to rant about the task at hand, the dangers, the deprivation, the toil.
“She has money,” Dauversière mentioned. “She’s paying the voyage for the entire company. The least we can do is accede to her request to go along.”
“That’s it? She has money?”
Dauversière offered his palms in a gesture of conciliation. “And she is a most pious woman. Therefore, she goes. All I can promise is that she won’t get in the way. She will be accompanied by Mademoiselle Charlotte Barré.”
“What? Who is she?”
“Her servant.”
“What does she do for our mission?” He had rigorously selected candidates based on their piety and capabilities. Now it seemed that women without appreciable worth were appearing out of thin air.
“She serves Madame de la Peltrie. Who has money. Trouble yourself no further, Paul. What’s done is done.”
Maisonneuve capitulated. He complimented Dauversière on being sly, for had he arranged an interview with Madame de la Peltrie and her servant before he had met Jeanne Mance, he would not have stood for these unnecessary developments. Heartened by the arrival of Mademoiselle Mance, his colleague had taken advantage of his accommodating mood.
“What’s next?” he asked his friend. He had little time for idle chat.
“Jean-Jacques is here, with news from across the sea. Prepare yourself. His disposition seemed grave.”
Olier, a short-haired man with a sharply receding hairline—in contrast to the flowing locks of the other two—did indeed appear before them in a sombre mood. Sitting beside Dauversière, he faced Maisonneuve, and such was the nature of his communication that he chose to clasp a hand of the other man in both of his.
“What news? From whom?” Maisonneuve pressed him.
“Montmagny.” The governor at Quebec. Maisonneuve already knew that the governor did not welcome his arrival, largely because the new colony would exist outside his immediate control. For services rendered to the king, title to the island of Montreal and been vested in Jean de Lauzon, who, unknown to the king, was a member of St. Sacrement. He had passed on the title to Dauversière’s company of gentlemen, and so the colonists were not crossing the ocean under the governance of France, but under the governance of God, to do God’s work. The number of French who had survived or been born into the New World or had travelled there since the time of Champlain
was about 340, with about 150 at Quebec, 60 at Trois-Rivières, less than that number each at the communities of Beauport and Beaupré, while the rest had scattered along the St. Lawrence, clinging to the land and the river while managing a scant trade in furs. Of these, it was said, many ran with the Indians and had surrendered the Frenchman’s natural attributes for civilized life. They were thought to be in greater need of redemption than any Indian. Lalemant had warned Maisonneuve of this occurrence, for the New World could compel a man to live on the rivers and in the woods where he might lose his moral and spiritual compass. No one lived on the island of Montreal anymore, Indian or French, and Montmagny had already stated that he saw no value to the project there. He preferred that all new arrivals settle in Quebec, where he could observe them personally.
“What does the good governor have to say now?” Maisonneuve inquired.
“The Iroquois have broken the eternal peace that they made with Champlain. They’ve attacked.”
Sobering news indeed.
“Montmagny has been strengthening the fortifications at Quebec,” Olier continued, “and at the mouth of the River of the Iroquois. He states that he is fearful for all those who dwell along the St. Lawrence or in isolation. These men and women he cannot protect.”
“Montreal?” Dauversière asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.
“He cannot, and perhaps I should say he
will
not, protect Montreal,” Olier confirmed. “Of course, no one is there at the moment, but his opinion will not change with your arrival.”
Maisonneuve received the news and let it settle with him. This was not good. Their mission was exceptionally difficult, pitting a few stubborn French against the wilderness. Add to their woes the prospect of war, and the magnitude of their struggle had just been increased tenfold.
Olier limited the volume of his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s possible,” he suggested, “that Montmagny instigated the war with the Iroquois to coax new funds for fortifications and other projects. It’s a rumour that arrived on the same ship as the messenger to the king.”
Troubling news. If the governor at Quebec was willing to compromise the security of his people as a political gambit, then the new colony would be more vulnerable than Maisonneuve had imagined. He could envisage the possibility that Montmagny would benefit from seeing them sacrificed.
“We can withhold … delay … the voyage,” Dauversière whispered.
Maisonneuve gazed upon both men before speaking, and measured his tone so that there could be no doubting his resolve. “If all the trees on the island of Montreal turn into Iroquois warriors, my duty and honour require that I establish a colony there. I will speak these same words to Montmagny before I sail from Quebec to our island home.”
They were quiet at the table awhile, as though the words echoed among them.
“Well and good,” Olier concurred, although the gravity of his mood had not been displaced.
Dauversière, fearfully, for this mission had begun with his vision while he himself would be staying home, nodded his consent.
Just then, a lad burst around the corner of grain sacks, full of unabashed excitement. “Monsieur! Monsieur! It’s the cardinal! The cardinal is here!”
“What cardinal?” Olier chastised him. He held spiritual sway in this region, and was unimpressed by the interferences of Church officials.
“Richelieu!” the boy exclaimed.
For a man perhaps more powerful than the king to visit their endeavour so close to departure caused Olier to stand immediately and press his garments with both hands. Dauversière’s eyes went round and panicky, for he envisioned the entire project imperilled, if not doomed. Maisonneuve alone exercised guidance, cautioning his colleagues to relax.
“The court does not favour our enterprise!” Dauversière complained.
“Nor does the court fear it,” Maisonneuve pointed out. “Richelieu and the king are agreed on one salient point: they believe we are crossing the sea to our imminent demise. That being so, they perceive no reason to impede our progress. Our peril is of no concern to the king, and he may welcome it as much as Montmagny.”
Olier agreed. “You’re right, Paul. But then why is he here?”
“To wish us bon voyage, what else?”
Richelieu sought to do exactly that. Jeanne Mance had shown him into a further chamber in the warehouse where the group was stocking supplies, and she made him reasonably comfortable upon a chair. He wore the vestments of his office, appearing in a red and black cape. Obliged to remain standing, each of the courtiers in his entourage made it obvious that the quaint, humble surroundings remained unappreciated, even odious. The cardinal adjusted his arms to indicate the irritation of his hard and narrow seat.
Olier led his group in, kneeled and kissed the cardinal’s ring. Dauversière followed. Both men had met with him before, Olier as a religious leader, Dauversière as a tax collector. Maisonneuve, now, was the man Richelieu had come to see, and he accepted the humility of the soldier’s bow as he proffered his ring to be kissed. Maisonneuve attended to the obligation, then rose before the power of France.
“Sieur de Maisonneuve. So. You are the man for this task.”
“With God’s favour, Your Grace. We expect to embark in a week’s time, when wind and tide are favourable.”
“May you enjoy fair winds. Godspeed, Maisonneuve, to your destination.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. Your words are most heartening.”
Richelieu nodded, never removing his eyes from the man. “Yes. Yes,” he said. “I bring, gentlemen, greetings from the king. Everyone accepts that your … excursion … is born of religious zeal, and the king honours your fervour and wishes you well.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the three men repeated, almost in unison.
The cardinal lowered his voice a notch. “So that no misunderstanding should arise, the king has sent a gift to commemorate your voyage, to sanctify your travels with a token of his generosity.”
Raising a hand to draw the attention of an assistant, Richelieu received a wooden box onto his lap. The three pious men shared glances among themselves, curious that the cardinal had raised the issue of the king’s generosity when they had previously encountered only his parsimony with respect to this project. Richelieu opened the box, and before them lay a knife.
“This is the Dagger of Cartier,” he explained. “Given to Jacques Cartier by the Iroquois, and carried back to New France by Champlain. He lost the
weapon to English pirates, but it was returned as part of a dowry paid by the king of England to the Holy Monarchy of France. Now it is the king’s wish that you receive the dagger from New France and carry it back with you to the New World, and he would bid you go in God’s grace.”
Their visitor resisted all requests that he remain to dine with his petitioners, or that they be permitted to see to his accommodation. While he protested that he had other men to visit in La Rochelle, that he was expected at the cathedral shortly, it was clear that he feared that the cuisine might not be to his standard and that any bed offered might prove insufficient for his rest.
“There is one more matter we should discuss,” Richelieu intimated. He was looking at Paul de Chomedey, Sieur de Maisonneuve, in particular.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Montmagny. He has built fortifications at the head of River of the Iroquois.”
“So I understand, Your Grace.”
“This name, River of the Iroquois, strikes me as inappropriate, given that the Indians have turned against us and instituted a war. Have you heard of this peril?”
“I have, Your Grace,” Maisonneuve admitted.
“Are you not deterred?”
“With the love of God, and the blessing of our king, we are each of us the more determined, Your Grace.”
“Well spoken.” He extended a hand for Dauversière, then Olier, to kiss his ring, not taking his eyes from Maisonneuve’s. “I will have you inform Montmagny that the River of the Iroquois shall be renamed. Do you have a suggestion?” Although he continued to gaze upon Maisonneuve, he asked, “Anyone?”
The others were flummoxed, but Maisonneuve, knowing that he required the acquiescence of this man if his party was to embark without impediment, suggested, “I believe, Your Grace, that the river shall be called, henceforth, the Richelieu.”