CHAPTER 1

RADISSON KNOWS NO FEAR

EYES BURSTING with energy, mouth stuffed full of moose, head spinning with the thirst for life that devoured him, Radisson found it hard to pay attention as his brother-in-law Jean Véron retold his favourite story for the twentieth time.

“You should’ve seen our twelve canoes weighted down with all those furs!” he roared. “When we got within sight of Trois-Rivières, with Saint-Claude and the three Huron chiefs in the first canoe, I was so happy I fired my musket into the air! Everyone ran out to the shore to meet us. We beached the canoes, climbed out, and hugged each other heartily. The men couldn’t believe all the fur we brought back and my beautiful Marguerite kissed me all over, tears of joy streaming down her face…”

Radisson pictured himself travelling the length and breadth of the endless expanses he’d heard about from the men who’d returned from the lands to the west. He dreamed of reaching the ends of the earth, and finding great riches and happiness. He felt prepared for adventure.

“The Jesuit missionaries who had come back with us embraced those who stayed behind. Then Father Le Mercier, the Superior, thanked the Hurons for once again coming from so far to trade their furs, despite the dangers of the journey. They’d be more than happy with what the French would give them in exchange, he promised. Then we sat down and the feasting began. Our beaver pelts turned more heads than even the eau-de-vie…”

Outside a ferocious snowstorm was beating down on the tiny settlement of Trois-Rivières. Radisson had never seen anything like it. From time to time he paused between mouthfuls to listen to the jets of snow rattling against the windowpanes like sand thrown by a giant hand. With each terrible gust of wind the fire flared up, swallowing the logs Marguerite kept feeding the hearth to fight off the cold. The wind blew through the village, howled in the woods, veered out over the frozen St. Lawrence as the snow piled up around the houses as they struggled to resist the storm and cling to their heat, huddled tight up against one another, protected by the stockade that blunted the worst of the icy squalls. Noticing that his sister and brother-in-law seemed unconcerned, Radisson went on eating.

“That’s the trade that made us rich,” Véron continued. “Not as rich as the merchants in Québec now, not that rich! But for people like us, here in Trois-Rivières we can’t complain, can we, Marguerite? Can’t complain at all! From that day on the governor of Québec has had complete confidence in me— even writes to me for advice!”

Marguerite had finished tidying the kitchen. Carefully she cast another log onto the hearth through the flames, and then sat down with her husband and Radisson at the table. Her belly had begun to swell with the child that would be born in the summer. Seeing that her brother was devouring her moose stew, she asked, “Another plate, Radisson? It sure looks like you’re enjoying it!”

Radisson nodded enthusiastically, a smile dancing across his lips, delighted to discover meat he had never tasted before. Back from their great winter hunt, the Algonquins who lived no more than fifty feet away from the fort had traded some to Véron and Marguerite in return for flour and peas. Radisson had never heard of the Algonquins before, but he soon learned they were indispensable allies of the French against the Iroquois. Like everyone who lived in Trois-Rivières, he encountered them nearly every day. Their complicated language, the clothing they made from animal skins, and their strange ways all fascinated him.

Jean Véron finished his story. He fell silent for a moment, lost in thought, then changed tone and turned to his wife.

“Ah Marguerite, those were the days,” he sighed.

“Don’t worry, my love. They’ll return soon enough,” she replied. “Trade will pick up again, just like before. It’s only a bad patch.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear, woman! If things keep on like this, it’ll be the end of trade in the Great Lakes! As long as the Iroquois are at war with us, we won’t be going back there in a hurry, that’s for sure.”

Gloomily Jean Véron returned to his thoughts, as though talk of the war against the Iroquois had robbed him of his voice, his hope. Meanwhile Radisson finished off his stew without batting an eyelid. The whole household could hear him slurping away each time the wind died down and the crackling of the fire subsided. He had never seen an Iroquois in his life and didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. Marguerite put a firm, reassuring hand on her husband’s shoulder and some of his energy returned. He looked at Radisson again:

“Lads like you are going to help us get through,” he said. “When spring comes, you’ll come to Québec with me to take orders from the governor. Then, if you like, you’ll come to Montréal with the men who are prepared to go with us and we’ll find a way to resist the Iroquois and, above all else, replace the Hurons and find new trading partners for our furs. We can’t give up, lad. The colony may be collapsing around us, but we have to pick ourselves back up! We have to fight! Otherwise everyone is going to run off back to France. Is that what you want, lad? To run right back where you came from? No, eh? Well, then you’ll do your bit! I bet you’re all set to help us. What do you think, Marguerite?”

“Of course my brother’s going to help!” she said confidently. “I’d even go so far as to say that he wants nothing more than to help us. Isn’t that right, Radisson?”

“That’s for sure!” the young Frenchman exclaimed, nodding emphatically, his mouth still full of the bread he’d sopped up the gravy with.

PIERRE GODEFROY, the most experienced man in all of Trois-Rivières, had just been chosen by the habitants to captain the militia. From then on, he would lead the fight against the Iroquois. For fifteen years he’d travelled everywhere with the Indians; he knew their languages, their ruses and customs. Like them, he knew how to hunt, fish, repair a canoe, and find his way through the woods. He knew the ways of the animals, the wild plants that healed and nourished, and the dangers that winter and spring could bring. He was tall, strapping, and strong as an ox, with hands as broad as paddles. Around him he gathered all the men who could bear arms outside the fort, within sight of the Saint-Maurice and St. Lawrence rivers. Speaking for the first time as captain, he addressed them in a booming voice. The three officers of the militia, his assistants, stood by his side.

Radisson was one of the youngest members in the group, along with his friend François Godefroy— the captain’s son —and Mathurin Lesueur, a beanpole of a lad who’d arrived in Trois-Rivières a few weeks after Radisson the previous summer.

Instead of listening to Pierre Godefroy, Radisson let his eyes wander to the bright horizon. He could see exactly the passageway, along the St. Lawrence, to the far-off lands he dreamed of. The bright sunshine warmed his face. Spring was in the air, his friend François told him. Even though Paris was already warm at this time of year, Radisson couldn’t have been happier to be in New France, a good distance from the village stockade that no longer blocked his gaze, or curbed his imagination. Here he was, happy to stare off into the wide-open spaces that beckoned to him irresistibly.

“The Iroquois are bound to attack us,” said Godefroy. “So we will have to ready ourselves. We have nothing to fear so long as we fight together. That’s why it’s vital to do what I and my officers tell you.”

Looking toward the steeple atop the Jesuit chapel and the smoking chimneys that peeked above the stockade, Radisson told himself that he was an apprentice no more. No more comments about his lack of experience and the country’s many dangers. Soon it would be his turn to step out into the world. He was ready.

“You know your officers as well as I do,” Godefroy continued. “I have appointed Jean Véron dit Grandmesnil…”

Radisson’s ears pricked up at the sound of his brother-in-law’s name. How proud he was that his sister’s husband had been named first officer of the militia after Godefroy. Véron had taught him how to fire a musket, an unthinkable privilege in France for anyone not a soldier or a nobleman.

“…Claude Volant dit Saint-Claude,” shouted Godefroy, “and Gabriel Dandonneau. These will be my three right-hand men. But we’re also counting on each and every one of you! From now on you will go on daily patrols around the fort, in groups of five or six in Indian file. And you will practice your shooting. Radisson. Come here!”

The young Frenchman couldn’t believe his ears. He didn’t dare move. Why was Godefroy calling him forward? What had he done wrong, especially now that he was listening to the captain’s every word?

“Radisson!” Godefroy shouted again. “Come here, I said!”

His friend François motioned for him to step forward and be quick about it. Radisson walked over to his captain, impressed by the strength that emanated from his broad belly.

“Stand here,” Godefroy told him. “Show them how to shoot. Now listen: when I throw this piece of wood up into the air and shout ‘Fire!’ you open fire. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Radisson.

A lump in his throat, legs slightly bent for greater balance, feet planted firmly on his snowshoes, and musket level with his chest, Radisson steadied himself. He was keen to make a good impression, to prove that he deserved the trust Godefroy had placed in him. Suddenly Godefroy threw the wood high into the air and yelled “Fire!” Radisson brought the musket to his shoulder, aimed, pulled the trigger, and hit the branch. It tumbled through the air. “I hit it! I hit it!” shouted Radisson, hoisting his arms and turning toward the men looking on, the delight on his face clear for all to see.

“See that?” said Godefroy. “I wanted to show you that you don’t need to be a soldier to be a good shot. Radisson never even held a gun before he came over here. But he’s worked hard and he’s learned well. In just six months, he’s better with a musket than many of you. You can do anything if you set your minds to it. Now, if you all do the exercises I give you, you’ll only get better and we’ll have nothing to fear from the Iroquois! We will be stronger than anyone.”

Radisson was still thrilled and surprised at having shown everyone he was one of the sharpest shooters in Trois-Rivières. One man after another came up to congratulate him and pass on words of encouragement, aware that they needed young recruits like him if they were to regain the upper hand in the war against the Iroquois. He thanked them with his finest smile; he’d always found it easy to get on well with people. In Paris he’d already discovered the benefits of serving his father’s customers with enthusiasm and good humour: it loosened their purse strings and kept them coming back.

“Follow me, now!” ordered Pierre Godefroy. “Everybody run!”

His triumph still fresh in everyone’s mind, Radisson was keen to again prove that he was one of the best. He rushed forward but, unused to running on snowshoes, fell headfirst into the snow. François didn’t miss the chance to exact his revenge:

“Ah, now we can all see the new guys aren’t up to much,” he said scornfully. “You can’t always be lucky like earlier, can you?”

“Shut up, François Godefroy. You know I’m a better shot than you!” replied Radisson as he struggled to get up, tangled in his snowshoes. “Give me a hand, will you?”

But François ran on ahead without turning round, in high spirits. Radisson caught up with him a few minutes later at the Algonquin camp. His father had already begun to address their chief in the Algonquin language. Radisson could barely understand a word. He leaned over to his friend, who spoke the language fluently, and whispered, “What’s your dad saying?”

François was only too happy to show he knew more than Radisson and whispered back: “He is sorry so many Algonquins died when the Iroquois attacked them four years ago. He says that the French have come in force to pledge to fight alongside them and prevent another massacre. He wants to know if the Algonquins will agree to fight with the French.”

Radisson was very impressed by the chief, who expressed himself nobly, weighing each of his words as though he had an important secret to share. He asked François to translate but Jean Véron, who was standing beside them, motioned for them to be quiet. Radisson managed to grasp only a few words: “summer… Saint-Maurice River… alliance… many brothers… my word…” As soon as Godefroy brought the meeting to a close by ordering a return to the fort, Radisson again asked François to translate the Algonquin chief’s reply.

“I can’t remember,” replied François.

“I don’t believe you,” said Radisson. “Tell me, please tell me, François. Give it a try.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“You have to teach me Algonquin, François! I want to learn Algonquin. Say something in Algonquin, anything at all. Talk to me, I’m listening.”

SPRINGTIME HAD COME at last. Ever since the ice on the St. Lawrence gave way with an almighty crack one night in April, Radisson felt a fever building up inside him. Every day he pestered Jean Véron about when they would be leaving for Québec, as he’d promised. At the very least he yearned to get out of the fort to hunt the Canada geese that filled the skies. It drove him wild to see the geese flying over the village and landing on the St. Lawrence in their thousands, just beyond the stockade, where they fed, then flew off again only to be replaced by still more.

But instead of seizing the chance to feast on such an abundance of fresh meat after Lent— which the Jesuits had seen was observed to the letter —Pierre Godefroy ordered everyone to remain in the village until further notice. He had heard from a settler from Montréal that the Iroquois were back. Apart from Godefroy, nobody in Trois-Rivières believed a word of it, since the Iroquois had never before arrived so early in the season. But for the captain of the militia, this was no time for taking risks. Radisson wouldn’t have minded if they had gone to Québec immediately to get their orders from the governor. But they hadn’t moved. Everything was at a standstill: no hunting, no travelling to Québec, nothing. Jean Véron was tying himself in knots, putting off the trip for one unlikely reason after another. Radisson would have done anything to put an end to the standstill that was eating away at him.

One morning, to his great surprise, he saw that Jean Véron was nowhere to be found. “Where did he go?” he asked his sister, apprehensively. At first Marguerite didn’t dare tell him the secret she’d been reluctantly guarding for the past few days. Then she gave in: her husband had left by canoe during the night with Pierre Godefroy and Claude Volant to meet the governor in Québec. They’d decided to leave alone in secret for reasons of safety, she explained. Radisson exploded with rage.

“Liar!” he shouted, slamming his fist down on the table. “He’s a damned liar! He promised he’d take me with him.”

Marguerite tried to calm her brother.

“There was no choice, Radisson. We have to be more careful than ever. The Iroquois have already killed enough of us as it is. Pierre and Jean didn’t want to take any risks. They kept the whole thing a secret.”

“I’m stronger than any of them, you’ll see!” said Radisson, not listening. “If they’d taken me with them, we’d already be in Québec by now!”

“It takes more than strength to paddle,” Marguerite replied calmly. “You’ve hardly even been in a canoe, Radisson. You don’t know the first thing about it. It’s not as easy as it looks.”

“How am I going to learn when nobody wants to show me? All I want is to learn to paddle. Like I learned to shoot. At least give me a chance! But oh no, it’s always the same old story: wait your turn, lad, you’re not old enough yet. Véron is a damned liar! What kind of life is this? If I could at least go hunting! Tell me why we’re not allowed to hunt? Nobody believes the Iroquois are here! Somebody’s messing with us!”

“It’s safer that way,” Marguerite replied, but without much conviction.

Far from convinced the Iroquois were an imminent threat, she looked for a way to cheer her brother up. He was moping more and more with every passing day.

“Perhaps you could go hunting just opposite the fort with your friends,” she suggested. “There are so many geese! You’re bound to hit three or four of them. And I can’t wait to eat fresh meat…”

Her offer had an immediate effect on Radisson, who jumped to his feet, full of enthusiasm.

“Seriously?” he cried, raring to go. “Can I really?”

“Why not? I think Jean would agree. As long as you stay within sight of the fort and François and your friends go with you. You’re well armed and not too far away— you should be fine.”

“Great idea! I’ll run and see if François is game. I’ll be back right away.”

Radisson dashed outside like the wind. His first stop was at Mathurin Lesueur’s house. Even though he found him a little dull and rather awkward, Radisson had made him his friend since they were both the same age. There were so few young people in Trois-Rivières. Radisson quickly told him about his sister’s plan.

“Marguerite says we can go hunting opposite the fort,” he told him. “She wants us to bring back enough for everyone! Your mom is going to be so happy, Mathurin. Get ready and I’ll go find François. See you in a minute!”

But Radisson had more trouble convincing François Godefroy.

“My dad says we’re not allowed out of the fort,” he said, confidently. “There’s no way I’m going. It’s not your sister that calls the shots around here, or her husband— it’s my dad.”

“It’s for the common good, François!” argued Radisson, using his full powers of persuasion. Everybody’s tired of eating rotten turnips, tasteless onions, and salt pork. Just listen to the geese! They’re calling to us, all day long! They want us to come feast on them! Have you ever heard of someone turning up his nose at what God has been good enough to send him every spring? It’s practically a sin, staying here instead of going out hunting!”

“Our safety is at stake,” countered François. “All my dad wants is to keep us safe from the Iroquois.”

“Maybe. But who ever saw an Iroquois round here in early May? No one. Nobody believes the garbage that guy from Montréal was spouting! The Iroquois are doing exactly what we should be doing, François— they’re out hunting geese while they’re still around! It’ll soon be too late. There’s nothing to worry about— we won’t be far. We’ll stay opposite the fort. The guards will see us from the palisade. Marguerite has been living here five years, you know! And your dad made Véron, her husband, first officer of the militia. My sister knows what she’s talking about. Come on, François! Mathurin and I are going anyway. But you’re the one with all the experience, and you’re a better hunter than we are. Come on, François. It’s for the common good…”

At that moment, a flock of geese flew just over their heads in a V, filling the bright, clear sky with their cackling. François’ mouth watered at the thought of all the tasty roast goose he’d ever eaten. His resistance weakened.

“My brother Jacques did leave this morning with the Algonquins to go up the Saint-Maurice River…”

“You see! Anyway, all the officers have gone except Dandonneau. Nobody will be angry we went hunting. No way! Your own mom will be thanking you for bringing fresh meat home. Come on, François— we’re going!”

“Fine. I’m in as long as we stay within sight of the fort. We’ll be safe if we do that. We’ll kill a goose or two each and then come back.”

“Great!”

Radisson was over the moon. He’d done it! At last he would be able to get outside and make himself useful. Marguerite would have preferred there be more of them, but she trusted the three, especially with the experienced François, and didn’t go back on her word. Radisson put his greased moccasins on as fast as he could, then picked up his musket, powder horn, and pouches of lead shot. It was a perfect day for hunting: warm and sunny. Radisson was wearing only a linen shirt and pants. Marguerite watched him get ready without saying a word, delighted to see him back in high spirits after so much disappointment. She gave him only one piece of advice:

“Whatever you do, don’t go wandering off from the fort. That’s what we agreed. Just be patient, little brother. You’re sure to bring back plenty of geese.”

“Don’t worry. You can start getting your pots ready. I promise you we’re going to have a real feast tonight!”

“Here, take a loaf with you,” added Marguerite, handing him a big hunk of fresh bread. “It’ll keep you going all day.”

Radisson stuffed it into his shoulder bag and left the house, but an idea flashed before him and he went back to take Véron’s musket from above the hearth, in addition to his own.

“I’m borrowing your husband’s musket,” he explained. “He owes me that at least. Two muskets will mean more geese for everyone. See you later!”

Marguerite was only too happy to have solved the problem. The hunting would do her little brother good: he really was beginning to get fidgety feet. “Just so he doesn’t stray too far,” she thought.

THE GUARD keeping watch over the fort’s main gate at first refused to let the three young men through. They reminded him of the need to bring back fresh food, orders or no orders. To convince him, they promised to bring him back the fourth goose they shot, if fortune smiled on them, that is. The guard didn’t believe the Iroquois would have come so early in the season and would have liked nothing more than to go hunting himself, so he let them pass. “Provided you stay close by and don’t tell anyone it was me who let you out.”

The three companions left the village, crying out with springtime glee. Radisson felt as free as the geese flying overhead. In a few hours, he’d be bringing a mouth-watering meal back to Marguerite and would give some of the meat to his sister Françoise who worked for the Jesuits. Everyone would be happy and proud of him.

In no time at all they reached the edge of the meadow that surrounded the village, heading for the St. Lawrence. Undergrowth separated them from the shore, which was further away than it looked. It took them a few minutes more to reach the last thickets, just steps away from the riverbank. What better place to surprise the geese, even though, for the moment, they were all still too far away. All they had to do was wait… wait… and wait some more… Staying still for so long quickly began to grate on Radisson’s nerves.

After an hour, not a single bird had come within musket range. Radisson could make out a huge white patch of thousands of geese out on the water, much further away. “All the geese are over there,” he argued. “We’ll have to flush them out. There’s no point waiting around here.”

François and Mathurin didn’t agree. They’d given their word to stay within sight of the fort. But they finally gave in to their friend. The three of them started walking along the shoreline. Soon the palisade of Trois-Rivières was nothing more than a faint line above the brushwood. Young vivid green leaves masked their surroundings. The three companions could now see only a short distance in front of them. Soon it became clear that no one would be able to see them from Trois-Rivières.

“Hey! We’ve lost sight of the village!” protested Mathurin. “We said we wouldn’t go far. We’ll have to go back.”

“Chicken!” replied Radisson, without even turning round. “We’re almost there. In fifteen minutes we’ll have bagged two or three geese each and be on our way back. Come on!”

Mathurin stopped for a moment, looking carefully around him. He would have liked to see the reassuring sight of the palisade, but it had disappeared. Fear took hold of his stomach. Even the bushes seemed threatening; he thought he could see Iroquois hiding all around him. But Radisson and François were already in the marsh grass, on their way to the river. Reluctantly, Mathurin ran to catch up with them, scared of being alone. The three made slow progress through deeper and deeper water, crouching down so as not to scare the geese. Mathurin couldn’t help showing his distress once more: “It’s dangerous,” he managed to stutter, his voice trembling.

“Shut up!” Radisson retorted. He was leading the way, and stood up straight to face Mathurin. “You’re going to scare the geese!”

At the same time, a first goose took flight in the distance, then another, then ten, then a hundred, then a thousand all at once! A whole white cloud of them swelled, banked, then pitched to the west in one exquisite movement. Radisson ran in their direction, took aim, and fired… But they were too far away. Their highly coveted prey remained beyond their reach. François didn’t even bother firing. Radisson turned round angrily and upbraided Mathurin: “It’s your fault! If you hadn’t said anything, we’d have been close enough to get at them!”

“You’re the one who shouted!” retorted Mathurin. “It’s your fault! You don’t even know how to hunt! I’m not taking lessons from you!”

The two friends pushed and shoved each other for a moment. François stayed to one side. He was the only experienced hunter among them and he knew that patience was the key— a quality that Radisson still lacked. When peace reigned once again between the two companions, he asked them to walk back to within sight of the fort and work out what to do next. When Trois-Rivières was once again close by, Radisson again convinced them to return to where the geese were. And so they headed westward again, this time following François’ lead, which meant walking across the cleared fields tilled by the rare farmers who lived outside the Trois-Rivières stockade, a route that François believed would be safer.

No sooner had they gotten close to the first farm house than a man shouted out to them from inside the building: “Halt!” A middle-aged habitant with a stoop unbolted his door and came out carrying a musket. “You young ’uns are all mad! The Iroquois are out in droves— you’re going to get yourselves massacred! Now clear off before I fill your hides full of lead!”

The threat set the three lads back on their heels: now they didn’t know what to think. But François recognized the farmer and remembered that he had a bad reputation: it was Old Man Bouchard, who sold alcohol to the Wildmen, even though the Jesuits didn’t allow it. And he didn’t seem to be all there. Mathurin, who was already scared stiff, believed every word he said, but François wondered if he’d been drinking and wanted to see if what he was saying really made sense.

“Where did you see them then?” he asked.

“Down by the river,” replied Bouchard, pointing to the water. “Right down there at the far end of my field!”

Radisson stared into the distance, even less convinced than François.

“Sure you can see that far, old man?” he asked arrogantly.

“Dead right I can, boy! No mistaking an Iroquois. Saw a hundred of them, I did. With feathers sticking out of their heads. Now get back home before they eat you up for dinner!”

“We’re going, we’re going,” said Mathurin, his voice shaking.

“Over there?” Radisson asked. “Right where I can see the Bogeyman?”

“Go to hell, you little brat! Too bad for you if they scalp you. I warned you. Now goodnight all!”

And with that the farmer disappeared back into his house just as quickly as he’d come out. They could hear him sliding the bar back across his door. Two seconds later his worried face reappeared in the tiny window overlooking the St. Lawrence. He was still holding his fowling piece.

“If you ask me, we should go look for footprints,” suggested François. “May as well be clear about it in our own minds. If they are here, we’ll go warn Dandonneau right away. Muskets at the ready, lads. We need to be careful.”

“Oh, no!” Mathurin sighed.

Once they reached the edge of the forest separating the cleared field from the river, the young adventurers peered long and hard into the bushes, then inspected the ground for footprints. They listened to the wind whistling through the branches, the cracks of vegetation, and the far-off cackling of wildfowl. Nothing appeared to be out of place.

“We’ll keep going as far as the river,” announced Radisson, walking deeper into the woods.

Ready for anything, they moved slowly from one tree to another. Terrified, Mathurin fell behind, following his companions reluctantly, shaking. Radisson and François motioned to each other. They pointed out a tree, a grove, or a shadow, and covered each other. Fifty feet further on, when they at last reached the shoreline, Radisson let his guard down: “See? No Iroquois here. The old fool was wrong!” François, who was less certain, continued to scan the ground, searching apprehensively for the slightest evidence that would confirm his intuition.

“Just because we haven’t seen any Iroquois doesn’t mean they’re not here,” he said at last. “They’re masters of concealment.”

“Whatever,” Radisson replied. “They’re not ghosts, you know— just Iroquois!”

“That shows you don’t know them,” François answered, continuing to examine their surroundings, as though he felt like he was being spied on. “There’s nothing more cunning than an Iroquois. You’d better learn that quickly or you won’t last long in New France.”

“Perhaps. But at the minute all I see is thousands of geese right over there. Follow me! This time we’re not going to miss out!”

“No way!” said François. “I’m going back to Trois-Rivières. We’ve already gone much further than we wanted to. It’s dangerous out here. We need to warn Dandonneau that Old Bouchard has seen Iroquois.”

“Is there something wrong with your head?” Radisson was starting to lose his temper. “We have no more than a hundred paces to go and then we can kill as many geese as we like. Old Bouchard is half mad. We haven’t seen the slightest trace of any Iroquois. And you want to go running back to your mommy? You’re nothing but a chicken, François Godefroy! I promised Marguerite I would bring back goose for tonight’s dinner and by God that’s exactly what I’m going to do! So long, scaredy-cats! Get yourselves laughed at, if you like. I’m going on.”

Radisson turned on his heels and moved rapidly toward the geese, bent over so as not to scare them again. Mathurin couldn’t wait to get back to the fort, but François hesitated for a long while, his teeth clenched and his pride wounded. Finally he decided that he was duty bound to return to the fort and warn Dandonneau, and headed back toward Trois-Rivières.

“Let’s go,” he whispered to Mathurin. “We’ll go back along the shore. If we’re lucky, we’ll run into the geese along the way.”

IT TOOK RADISSON a few minutes to reach the geese he’d thought were much closer. Thousands of geese and ducks were resting nonchalantly in the middle of a huge expanse of partially submerged bulrushes. He walked slowly toward them, bent double, so as not to frighten them away. The cold water rushed into his moccasins and was soon up to his knees. He kept going, careful to keep the powder in his shoulder bag dry. His second musket was slung across his shoulder, hampering his progress, but he was glad he had brought it. He’d be able to shoot twice each time and bag more birds.

The geese were nervous; Radisson knew they’d take off at the slightest movement. As soon as he reckoned he was close enough to be sure of hitting the target, he stopped, took aim, and fired a first time. Hundreds of frightened birds flapped their wings in panic, scooping frantically at the water with their feet as they took to the air, all crying out at once. Radisson grabbed his other musket, aimed, and fired a second time. A handful of birds fell from a sky now black and white and brown with them. A deafening racket of straining wings, anguished cackles, and whipped-up water filled the air. The immense flock took flight, pirouetted, and scattered itself overhead. Some of the geese landed much further away, but masses of them rose higher and higher in the sky, lost for good.

Radisson stood gaping at the dazzling spectacle and took a moment or two to find his bearings. Now all he had to do was collect the dozen or so dead geese floating not too far away. He waded further out until he was knee deep in water, trying hard to keep his shoulder bag and muskets dry. It was hard going, hauling the geese one by one back to shore. He managed to pile up seven of them, nice and dry on a little mound of sand. Then, without warning, cold and fatigue assailed him. Radisson had to sit down and rest for a long while, leaving his muskets to dry in the sun. Despite his precautions the butts were soaked, but the firing mechanisms and barrels were still dry. He devoured the bread Marguerite gave him. The food made him feel better, but it couldn’t drive away the concern that was beginning to gnaw at him. He had strayed much too far. Here he was, all alone, making enough noise to draw any number of Iroquois who might have happened to be in the neighbourhood. He hoped that François was wrong about them, that his father, the man from Montréal, and Old Bouchard were all wrong too… otherwise he could be in real trouble.

Radisson managed to keep calm and get his bearings. Judging by the sun, it must have been two o’clock in the afternoon and he was about three hours from Trois-Rivières. He was reassured at the thought that he’d be able to make it back home by nightfall, even before the evening Angelus if he got a move on. First, though, he reloaded his muskets just to be sure, checking that the powder was still dry. After carefully tamping the powder well down into the barrel he slid in the lead shot and the piece of wadding that kept everything in place. He picked up Jean Véron’s weapon and filled it with six medium-sized shots that would be sure to injure any assailants he might encounter and send them packing. He put his biggest lead shot into his own, to kill if need be.

Radisson’s pants and moccasins were still soaked, but the sun was beating down; he began to warm up a bit as the cold started to fade. He felt ready to set off on the long way home. But the seven geese were dreadfully heavy and burdensome; he didn’t quite know how he was going to carry them. His shoulder bag wouldn’t be enough. After thinking it over for a while, he came up with an ingenious solution. After winding the strap of his bag around the long necks of his catch, he threw the bag over his shoulder, three birds behind him and three in front. Then he slung Jean Véron’s gun over his free shoulder and grabbed the seventh goose by the neck with his left hand, carrying his own musket in his right hand. It was heavy, but he could just about manage. His feet dragging, Radisson headed straight along the shoreline, avoiding the obstacle-filled woods that would only slow him down. The walk would be long and tiring, but he was determined to bring his haul home with him, all of it.

After an hour, Radisson was exhausted. “These geese weigh a ton!” he groaned. He stopped to drink clear, fresh water from the river and rest for a moment. Barely had he refreshed himself when he sensed a presence behind him. He whirled around like lightning— but there was no one to be seen. And yet he still felt danger tying his stomach in knots. Radisson picked up his firearms and geese and broke into a run. He dashed headlong into the woods, took a few strides, and then abruptly crouched down, not moving, hardly breathing, nervous, alert to everything around him. But he heard only the wind in the trees, the birds singing, and the pounding of his heart … not the slightest sound to draw his suspicion. He tried to calm himself. In vain. “I’m tired,” he thought. Images of grimacing Iroquois descended upon him, like flies over a corpse. He must be going mad, he thought; death was shrieking in his ears. He couldn’t take it any longer, left everything right where it was, and crawled away with one musket. He tracked back on himself in a roundabout way, hiding opposite the geese tied up to his shoulder bag, beside Jean Véron’s gun, which he’d left at the foot of a tall tree. “If the Iroquois are about,” he said to himself, “they’re going to come for my spoils.” Then, all he’d have to do was run for his life.

But nothing happened. For what seemed forever, Radisson froze. Nobody came. He shook his head with all his strength to chase away the bad thoughts that were tormenting him. At last he got back on his feet and went to pick up his geese. He knew he had to make tracks if he wanted to reach Trois-Rivières by nightfall. Nothing could stand in his way. He swallowed the last of his bread and retraced his steps back to the riverbank with his heavy load, then headed quickly along the shore.

Time flew by without him noticing. He tried his best not to think of anything at all. Just walk as fast as he could. He thought of Marguerite, all the same, and her bright idea of giving him bread for the day. “God bless you, dear sister,” he thought. He felt annoyed at himself for breaking their agreement. “Just so you stay within sight of the fort and François and your friends go with you,” he heard her saying to him again and again, as it sank in just how reckless he’d been. But his ordeal was nearing an end: he recognized the spot where he left his companions. Suddenly he felt much calmer. He promised to give a goose each to François, Mathurin, and the guard that let them out to make amends. There was plenty of meat for everyone. He’d give two to his sister Françoise for the Jesuits, and that would leave two for him and Marguerite. To hell with Jean Véron if there was none left by the time he got back! Too bad for him. Everyone would be happy. All’s well that ends well. He’d learn from this…

It was then that Radisson spotted two strange shapes lying a little to his left in the long grass. They were not tree trunks, nor animal carcasses. He feared he knew what they were but disbelieving, walked up to… the horribly mutilated, arrow-riddled bodies of François and Mathurin! Horrified, terrorized, he flung his load to the ground and recoiled. He felt sick at the sight of their blood-soaked bodies lacerated from head to toe, their disfigured faces oozing blood. He vomited hard. But he couldn’t take his eyes off their scalped heads, their hair cut sliced from their foreheads then torn off, their bodies slashed with knife wounds, carved up like animals. “Why didn’t they fight back?” he wondered, horrified. “Why didn’t I hear anything? There’s no way…” Radisson refused to see the truth, but there was no denying their grimacing faces, covered in still warm blood, no denying their still soft flesh.

A violent shiver ran through his body. Radisson could feel death closing in on him, cruel and ruthless. Instinctively, he fired into the air to alert the people of Trois-Rivières, so they could come to his aid. But it was a forlorn hope from so far away. And now he had only one shot left. He pointed his other musket aimlessly in front of him, ready to defend himself at all costs. And then, just like that, he saw ten Iroquois with brightly painted faces half hiding in the bushes! He took aim and was about to fire when terrible screams from behind him made his blood run cold. He turned around and saw twenty Iroquois warriors racing toward him. He fired blindly at the powerful bodies as they overpowered him. Their cries and their weapons beat down upon him. Radisson tried to put up a fight but it was impossible. The Iroquois pinned him to the ground and a violent blow to the head knocked him unconscious.