|
| Captivating! A great read for anyone but of particular importance for those studying early Canadian history. This 346 page paperback is a fascinating mixture of documented, genealogical and historical research and an imaginative re-creation of events set in 17th century France and North America. The novel follows the life of Antoine Leduc, native of Normandy, who arrived in New France (now Canada) in 1656. Read about his adventures as a coureur de bois, travelling by canoe to explore the vast, unknown regions of North American wilderness and making them and all they entailed his home. PROLOGUE New France: 1674 Antoine hurried along the Grande Allée towards the town of Québec. His fifty-mile walk over the level snow on the frozen Saint-Laurent River had taken him two days. Even the night spent at the home of his friend, Nicolas Lachapelle, had not allowed him respite from the question nagging on his mind. Why had Father Dablon sent for him? The message from the Jesuit had been urgent: "Come at once." At Sillery, some four miles behind him, he had visited the Jesuit House hoping to find a clue to the reason for his summons. But the Fathers there could not help him. Now, before turning from the Grande Allée onto the partially cleared path in front of the Community Office, he halted. Breathless and eager, he pried loose the strapping of his snowshoes. Balancing his pack, his feet slipping on the irregular ground, he walked carefully on the heavy frost that glazed the mud. A stab of cold thrust through the thin soles of his moccasins and up his legs. Darkness descended on him, not from the grey sky, but from the corners of the houses where shadows grew thicker. He slipped as he crossed the incline in front of the Jesuit College, waving one helpless leg in the air. At the thick stone wall, which surrounded the College, a sentry opened the gate. Antoine entered and walked across the square formed by the two main buildings of the College. Wisps of blue-white smoke rose from the chimneys of the peaked slate roofs and wafted gently upward in the motionless air. The stone buildings always struck Antoine as one of the most impressive structures in Québec. He felt a rich wash of nostalgia at the sight of them. The inscription "I H S" below the peak of the main entrance, and the missing stone in the steps still threatening the unwary foot, gave him a feeling of coming home. In one of the upstairs windows a lamp shone invitingly, melting yellow circles in the frozen panes. Minutes later he found himself in Father Dablon’s study. The fifty-six-year-old Superior, clad in a black lint-marked clerical gown, greeted him warmly. "An-toine! You’re here!" "As quickly as I could." Antoine replied. "You’re looking well, Father." The kettle in the hearth was hot, and Dablon gingerly poured some of the sweet-smelling content into a pewter mug, using the hem of his gown to protect his fingers. "Take off your coat, this will warm you," he said. He watched Antoine drink, noting that he wore the same buckskin coat that had covered his broad shoulders at his wedding. And his toque, the Jesuit thought, was at the same precise angle above the auburn hair. Antoine was not a big man, but Dablon could sense his strength. Those shoulders and upper arms were great knots of muscle made powerful by years of paddling the waterways of the wilderness. He could paddle fifteen hours a day and carry more than his weight over a portage. Indeed, Antoine had matured immensely since their first meeting almost seventeen years ago. "You must wonder why I have asked you to come?" Dablon said. "Yes." Antoine put down his mug and flexed his fingers. "Take a seat." Dablon gestured towards the bench near the hearth and made himself comfortable at his worktable. When he spoke again he emphasized each word. "Your maps have been stolen!" Antoine’s face turned white. Dablon waited. "Which? How many?" asked Antoine, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Those of your voyage south—all four—including the reports which I so carefully wrote down." "Who . . .?" Antoine felt his anger mounting. "We have no idea how it happened—or even when. The locks on my study were replaced a few years ago. They were new when you came that last time to work on your maps. Remember? The same week we had locks made for the doors of the armoire—and even for the drawers." Antoine stood up and began pacing the hardwood floor of the small study, from hearth to window, back and forth. Father Dablon sipped from his drink. "All four canvas maps and the reports were rolled together in birch bark. The thief left behind the roll of bark to mislead us." Antoine grabbed the poker and began furiously stabbing at the burning logs. Who could have taken the maps? The sketches showed only the places with which he, Antoine, was personally acquainted. Who was so interested in the routes he had travelled? "Antoine?" "Sorry, Father." "Do you think you could redraw the maps from memory? Earlier reports about your voyage were sent to Minister Colbert, but we must have concrete evidence of the areas you claimed for France," Dablon said. "We must stand firm against the impudent denials and challenges by lay and clerical pamphleteers. Some still do not believe you actually made that voyage." He paused. "I realize it might be difficult to remember things that happened nine, ten years ago." Antoine stood at the window, weighing his reply. The window was frozen into a solid pattern of white ferns that sparkled softly. He knew he would have no trouble remembering most of the geography, especially the fourth map that had depicted the Michi-sipi. What he dreaded was recalling every incident of the journey. There had been too much heartbreak overshadowing the triumphs. "I can do it, Father," Antoine said in a quiet voice. He sat down again. "When did you first realize the maps were missing?" "Only last week when we took out the sketches of your exploratory voyage to Hudson Bay." Dablon said, lowering his voice somewhat. "Governor Frontenac’s indifference to the presence of the English at the bay causes us great concern." Antoine frowned. "He doesn’t see the threat?" Dablon shrugged. "Apparently not. The English settlement at the head of the Bay does not give them title." Dablon’s agitation increased. "We French were in possession of that area, we were the first to trade with the natives." The Jesuit stood up and went to refill the mugs. "But why do I tell you this? It was your discovery—you traded there." "Minister Colbert could take a stand." Dablon shook his head. "In France they are preoccupied with the war against the Dutch." He sat down near the hearth and leaned towards Antoine. "As you know, apart from our regularly published Relations, we have sent confidential letters which gave our Jesuit Superiors detailed knowledge of what was transpiring—more information that the ministers of the state could obtain from their officials." "Surely the Society of Jesus could convince Minister Colbert to defend our cause?" "It seems not." Dablon put his mug down and sighed. "Besides, Frontenac has Colbert’s ear, or rather his eye." The Jesuit attempted to laugh, but his face drew into a grimace. "We know that Frontenac constantly accuses us of wrongdoing—even though his letters to France are usually written in cipher." He sighed again. "It is very important that we have the maps." "I’ll get started in the morning, Father. If it’s all right with you?" "Certainly, certainly." The priest quickly rose and motioned with his hands. "Your usual sleeping cell has been prepared." Early the next morning Antoine went directly to father Dablon’s study. The Jesuit had already laid out canvas and the various furnishings for mapmaking. "I suggest you start from where you left Lake Superior," he said. Antoine drew a rough outline of Lake Superior’s south shore and the river, which had carried him southwest. As he drew he explained the journey to Dablon. His voice gradually grew more intense as he told how their little group of nine had paddled around hills and through valleys until they’d approached bright lowlands. "Slowly, slowly, Antoine. I need more time to write the details." Antoine remembered the various locations and how he had, along the route, claimed several places for France—how he had taken possession of them—his speech reinforced by a blast from his arquebus. Concentrating on the canvas, he was startled by fragments of buried memories. He saw the Od-jib-wäg camp, smelled the aroma of wood fires burning, rice drying and the dewy fresh air drifting in from the lake. There was Tehya as he had first seen her. It was odd how the sketch plunged him into the past. He could see her sitting in the canoe . . . with the baby—his son. "Maps," Dablon was saying, as he watched Antoine caught up in his memories. "The draughtsman sees more than lines and colour . . .." Antoine returned to his narrative. "Often we crossed invisible borders of areas belonging to one tribe or another, then we dismissed our Indian guides and hired those whom were familiar with the territory. One particular guide led us across a broad expanse of dry, rolling plains with a few streams . . . I think." Antoine stopped drawing; he looked at father Dablon. "I have difficulty recalling that area in detail." "That’s all right—it will come to you later." The Jesuit wiped his quill. "I have to attend to other matters. We will continue this tomorrow." Dablon left the study. Antoine began scribbling on a small strip of birch bark to remove most of the paint from his drawing sticks before cleaning them. A face began to emerge from the lines. This was Tehya’s face he was trying to draw, but the loving expressiveness of her features eluded him. There was a knock at the door. "Yes." The door opened and a young student came in. "Father Dablon asked would you take the sleigh and get a load of wood?" During the intense cold theJesuits burned two sleigh-loads of wood each day. "I’ll be right out," Antoine replied. That afternoon, tired from concentrating on his sketches all morning, Antoine took a walk down the road that led from the College to the Hôtel-Dieu. His progress on the slippery downhill path was a succession of near falls, each one arrested just before he hit the ground—he should have wound some rags over his moccasins! Since his last visit to the hospital, Mother Agnes had grown plump. Her plumpness was accentuated by her nun’s habit, but the grey colour flattered her rosy cheeks. She must be nearly fifty years old, Antoine thought as he watched her come into the parlour. Still, her smile was like the afterglow of a dream. "So good to see you again," she beamed. Suppressing the impulse to hug him, she extended her hand. For a moment she held his hand, squeezing it. She loved this man. Over the years she had come to think of him as a son. "How are you?" she asked warmly. "I’m very well, thank you." He smiled at her, feeling immediately at ease. "You’re looking well yourself." His eyes scanned the parlour, admiring the new furniture. "It looks betterevery time I come here," he said. "Yes. We’ve placed the old furniture in our new ward. We now have fourty-five beds," she said with pride. She gestured toward a bench, inviting him to sit. "Tell me, what brings you to Québec this time?" "Father Dablon asked me to come." His voice was almost a whisper. He got up to shut the door, sat down again, and told her about the stolen maps. "I heard nothing about that." Shaking her head, her mouth puckered in thought, she added, "Since last autumn, when the last ships sailed for France, it has been very quiet here, almost boring." She leaned forward, her worried brown eyes searching his. Then she tossed her head as if to shake off her concern for him, after all he was a grown man—with a full beard. "I like your beard," she chuckled. "You know, when I met you your chin reminded me of a granite cliff—just like the cliff here, in Québec." He laughed. "That’s quartz, not granite!" "You know what I mean," she chided. "That’s what you looked like, way back then." His fingers combed the thick growth—slightly darker than the auburn tresses falling over his shoulders. "Imagine! I was only thirteen when we met aboard Le Saint-Sebastien." * * * Steadily, with few interruptions, Antoine worked on the maps. He related his journey to Dablon as his fingers sketched each area he was talking about. "We had entered the river Ne-sout-che-bra-ra. That was what the natives called it. We were told that it would bring us to its source in the mountains. I hoped and believed that it would be the passage to the Western Sea. As you’ll recall, Father, from this river I brought samples of gypsum, red sandstone and rock salt." Dablon nodded. "Yet," Antoine continued, "what I remember best was the view of the snow-capped mountains—tall peaks soaring into the sky." He continued to draw the outline of the river to a fork where it had proven too shallow for travel. They had set out on foot and two days later the small group had arrived at Santa Fe. Now, three of the maps had been completed. Dablon was delighted with Antoine’s work. "One more to go," the Jesuit said enthusiastically, rubbing his hands in anticipation. One by one Antoine lined up the paint sticks. One by one he picked them up again. Dablon didn’t look at Antoine’s face but watched his hands, the way the fingers turned and felt each stick for a moment. The Jesuit waited, quill in hand, while Antoine unfolded the canvas. "Your maps are some of our most important documents on the discovery and exploration of these rivers," Dablon said. "Thanks to my Indian friends, Father. I could never have travelled so far without them. Torotati was indispensable." Dablon agreed. "This map of the Gulf of Mexico shows the details more clearly than could be written in any report. Maps like these can save us an infinite number of words." The Jesuit’s face showed his pleasure. "Maps are the keys which unlock the secrets of an undiscovered world." "That’s why they were stolen," Antoine said with bitterness. "Yes. Of course. Still, we French outsmarted England by getting there first." Antoine walked over to the armoire. He took out the latest map by Nicolas Sanson, France’s royal mapmaker, and laid it in front of Dablon. "Let’s look at this again, Father. Sanson’s map of the Gulf is different from mine." He placed his own map next to Sanson’s. They compared the drawings. "As you can see, Father, I have drawn the tributaries and the main rivers as I have described them to you. But I have not attempted to trace them back to imaginary sources or decorate them with ornate cartouches." Comparing distances and directions, they hung over the maps so long that Dablon, too, could imagine he was there and saw curled waves and trees all around him. The Jesuit leaned back against the wall. "Let’s continue, Antoine. One more map . . . ." "At Santa Fe I had been told to look for a cape of mud, a cabo de lodo they called it," Antoine explained. "It was the delta of a great river which would bring us north again." He paused. Only the scratching of Dablon’s quill could be heard. Frowning at his sketch, Antoine smoothed the cloth: the delta, the Michi-sipi... He went to the window and, thawing a clear place in the frosted pane with his breath, stood looking at the building across the snow-swept square. Dablon coughed. It was a tragic tale Antoine had brought back from the Gulf. Antoine suppressed his feelings, returned to his map and carefully led Dablon along the route of his return from the Gulf and up the Michi-sipi. It would take a long time to complete this map. Daily now the temperature rose. The snow had turned to rain, leaving dirty paths and dingy fields. In his study Dablon spread Antoine’s jus-completed fourth map, embellished with the sketch of a miniature alligator. The Jesuit was pleased. "These maps are even an improvement over the ones which were stolen—although the alligator is identical!" "Yes Father, I think these are a lot better. Some of my previous sketcheswere done in Indian camps, amid chaos and distractions," Antoine said, as he began to clear off the worktable. Dablon picked up the roll of birch bark which held the other maps and reports, spread it on the table and weighed it down with the statues of Saint-Joseph and the Blessed Virgin. Antoine took a clean cloth and wiped the soot-smudged edges of the bark, then aligned the sheets of canvas before rolling them into a tight roll. Satisfied, he carried them to the armoire, followed by Dablon with the key. "Father Dablon, I want to ask you a favour." "By all means. What is it?" "I need to get back home to Grondines, to help Torotati finish tilling my land; but I would like to remain in Québec till the first ship arrives. May I stay at the College?" "Of course, of course," Dablon replied. Then he added, "Perhaps, in the meantime you could help with our tilling." * * * The first ship, in more than seven months, had arrived from France. Antoine hoped for some news from his parents. If there was a message it would be delivered to the Hôtel-Dieu, and Mother Agnes would read it to him. It was a gorgeous morning, the sun was bright and the promise of a warm spring day hung in the air. The giant elm tree near the church was filling out. He found Mother Agnes in the kitchen. Her expression was strained and distracted. Her hands plucked at each other. What was wrong? Quickly she straightened her stiff white guimpe and preceded him into the parlour. The click of her wooden beads accompanied each step. "May I smoke?" he asked uneasily. She nodded and he reached for his tobacco pouch. She moved closer, her hand touching his arm. "I received a letter from France, from your brother Jean," she said softly. "It’s your mother . . . .She died." Antoine opened his pouch. His hand was inside before he understood the meaning of her words. His fingers, divorced from his mind, went on groping for the tobacco. "Maman?" He sat down. "Maman . . . ." "I’m sorry, Antoine." He tried to picture his mother’s face. How long had it been? He did a quick calculation—eighteen years. "When did she die?" he asked. Mother Agnes bent over him. "It was last year . . . ." He got up and went out to the garden. For along while, through the open door, she could see him, hunched stiffly into his coat. She knew he would come in again and ask her to read the letter. She had grown close to this man—remembered the optimistic and inexperienced boy who had befriended her the moment they left Dieppe . . . . What People Are Saying About Antoine: coureur de bois "impressively researched and vividly written."
"All those who read the manuscript enjoyed it immensely and were captivated by the style and content. Antoine is a huge novel of epic proportions."
"It is an ideal book for students to read. The author obviously enjoyed researching and bringing Canadian history to life."
"A remarkable journey for both the protagonist and the reader."
"Exciting to the end - which I thought came too soon!"
"An interesting historical narrative, dilligently researched, convincingly presented, a great pleasure to read."
"It was easy to identify with Antoine and through his experiences participate in the events of the time." -Kay van Zonneveld
TO ORDER The Book "ANTOINE: coureur de bois" Send a cheque or money order for $30.00 (including postage and handling) to: Mazarin Publications 2710 Crescentview Drive North Vancouver, B.C. Canada V7R 2V1 (Allow 3 weeks for delivery) |
