Halfway across the Atlantic Ocean, the Zeelhaen, a three-master loaded up with wood and furs, continued its progress across raging seas, en route to Amsterdam. Since leaving Manhattan, where Radisson and Father Poncet boarded, the ship had endured several days of bad weather. Father Poncet had found the going tough, unlike Radisson, who had enjoyed watching the crew at work, until the threatening storm had broken. Now he could see from the sailors’ faces that things were bad.
The bo’s’n, Johan Heyn, had decided his experience might be needed and replaced the helmsman. He was posted on the poop deck, the ship’s highest point, from where he could see the heavy waves that had the ship surrounded. With a confident hand, he steered the Zeelhaen through the stormy waters. The manoeuvres he ordered to secure the ship were almost over. The sailors were scurrying back down the masts, having furled all the sails, leaving only half the mainsail and mizzen unfurled to keep on course.
The men standing watch hurried to join the rest of the crew inside, in the dark, cramped quarters where they ate, slept, and rested below deck. Radisson wasn’t sure whether to follow. He wanted to stay as long as possible with the four sailors who were busy attaching the yards and fixing in place anything that might be lost overboard. Crouching in his favourite corner, his back against the quarterdeck that shielded him from the spray, he felt perfectly safe, in spite of the waves that bombarded the little Zeelhaen, a ship that had seemed so big to him when he boarded it in Manhattan compared to the birch-bark canoes he was used to.
The sea swelled and rolled, collapsing with a roar, then picking itself up again in one unending movement that Radisson, fascinated, never tired of watching. Sometimes ice-cold water spurted over his head and ran down his back from the poop deck. It mattered little: water was now working its way into every nook and cranny on board and everyone was drenched.
As long as grayish daylight remained, with more light coming up off the sea than down from the cloud-choked sky, Radisson feared nothing. He trusted Johan. But he dared not think what might happen once nightfall complicated matters for the bo’s’n, especially if the storm picked up.
He had never seen such foul conditions.
One of the sailors finished what he was doing and ran to take shelter inside. Passing by Radisson, he shouted over at him to come too. But the young man pretended not to understand and stayed where he was, even though he now had a decent grasp of the Dutch language after twenty-one days on board. Coming out the wrong way, an officer emerged from the quarterdeck at that very moment and struggled up onto the poop deck. Holding on tightly to the railing, Radisson took a few steps forward to see what he was up to. He went over to the bo’s’n and both grabbed hold of the tiller, requiring all their might against the raging sea.
Furious waves rushed at them from all sides. The ship heaved back and forth between the frothing heights where they stood and the fearsome depths that threatened to keep them for all eternity. For a time, they looked down over the dazzling sea below as it spat up thick clouds of white foam. The Zeelhaen plunged into the unfathomable night, as into the belly of a dragon. It was then that the miracle happened. The ship righted itself, cleaved through the light-filled crest of a wave, and fell back down again. Radisson was captivated by the performance, a dance in equal parts spectacular and unsettling.
The storm again picked up in strength.
Tons of water crashed against the ship’s stern, each time shaking the stern cabin, where the captain had his lodgings. Violent shocks reverberated across the ship. Radisson could feel the danger growing, unstoppably. He was about to go inside when the captain burst onto the deck. Radisson watched him clamber up the dripping-wet ladder to the poop deck and hurl abuse at Johan, waving his arms about madly. Radisson didn’t know why. The two men argued. The two helmsmen then turned the ship slightly to meet the water at an angle. This spared the captain’s cabin from the brunt of the waves, although the ship started to roll more. Radisson had trouble keeping his balance.
As he was getting ready to at last go back inside, two huge waves joined forces, coming together in an enormous pyramid that towered over the Zeelhaen. The pyramid rose to almost the full height of the masts, rolled towards the ship, and broke over it with a terrific crash. Radisson raced for shelter, but the wave outran him, bringing him down hard against the deck. The backwash flung him against something hard. Stunned, he lost his bearings. He was suffocating in the ocean as it engulfed him. Another wave threw him against the railing, which he clung to in despair. Time seemed to take an eternity to tick by. He was going to live with the fish. At last, his face resurfaced. He breathed in, dazed and in a stupor, lying on the deck, which was now almost vertical. The Zeelhaen pitched terribly. The waves continued their relentless assault. The ship had been thrown off course and was liable to be swallowed up at any moment.
The Zeelhaen righted itself, barely managing to keep afloat. Radisson wondered what had become of the captain, the bo’s’n, his assistant, and the three sailors who had remained on deck. He glimpsed a survivor clinging to the foremast. But the others were nowhere to be seen. Everything around him was wet. The sea had washed over all of it. Only a heavy yard had broken free of the mainmast and was now swinging dangerously across the deck, dangling from a piece of rope. The mainsail had been torn off. Radisson realized how lucky he was not to have been washed overboard.
The ship righted itself again. Radisson seized the opportunity to dive into the staircase to the poop deck. From up there, he could see no one, nothing but empty space swept by the wind and the spray coming up off the sea. The mizzen sail was torn. He felt miserable, all alone in the world. He had to hold on to the nearest halyard to keep his feet. The ship was starting to list again dangerously. Almost every wave threatened to lay it on its side.
Radisson at last saw the captain caught up like a rag doll between the bars of the railing on the starboard side. A strange sound reached his ears, some sort of moan apparently human in origin, mixed in with the howling of the wind and the thunderous noise of the water. He looked around. Saw nothing. Then he made out two strong arms hooked around the railing that ran along the outside of the ship. It was Johan, hanging on for dear life and shouting for help. Radisson tried to reach him, but the ship was tilted too steeply against him. As the Zeelhaen began to swing back like a pendulum, he took his chance and dashed across. But the deck tipped again, propelling him towards the sea. He threw himself flat on his stomach and flew head first into the railing, the only thing keeping him in the land of the living.
With his face pressed against the roaring waves, he clutched the bo’s’n’s arms against his chest, waiting for the Zeelhaen to right itself again before he moved. Now! He grabbed the man with all his might and hauled him in. Both men lay side by side on the deck, out of breath and frightened as the ship listed again. As soon as the Zeelhaen returned to a horizontal position, Johan stood up and pointed at the whipstaff, shouting:
“Right the ship! Quick! We have to right the ship!”
Radisson understood the Dutch command. Both men raced over to the whipstaff and pulled as hard as they could, slipping and sliding on a deck that continued to buck every which way beneath them. The heavy sailing ship had taken on too much water and resisted their efforts. The bo’s’n racked his brains for a solution. He grabbed a rope attached to the mast. Radisson cut it with his eagle-head knife and gave it to him. The bo’s’n tied it tightly to the whipstaff then held on to the mizzen mast to keep his balance. They pulled together until it felt as though their hands might fall off, contorting their bodies until it felt their bones might break. But the heavy Zeelhaen only half gave in. The storm was still working furiously to lay the ship on its side. They might go under yet.
Miraculously, two sailors suddenly appeared on the poop deck. Hope was rekindled. From where they had taken shelter at the ship’s bow, they had risked their lives to cover the distance between them and the quarterdeck. The four of them managed to right the ship, stabilizing it. The helm held firm. The worst was perhaps behind them.
The bo’s’n sent a sailor to get the crew pumping as hard as they could and told him to bring back men to rescue the captain.
The sailor soon reappeared with three hardy-looking men. Two of them kept a firm grip on the whipstaff while the five others went over to the captain. His rescuers hung on to the rigging, to the railing, to each other’s clothes, to their own lives, never once losing sight of the raging sea. They made slow progress over to the captain, who was in such a bad way that it was pitiful to see. One man freed his head, which bounced up and down about every time the boat moved. He managed to free his arm and his shattered leg too. But could these dislocated parts still be said to belong to the body? The captain was unrecognizable. The thing inside a uniform had to be brought inside. Radisson carried the lifeless legs, holding tight to keep his footing. The group staggered down the poop deck stairs and went inside through a door that opened only after they had banged on it with increasing urgency.
Inside the Zeelhaen, the sea’s muffled roars hammered against the hull, replacing the commotion of the waves and the howling of the wind outside. A muddle of shouts rang out. The fear was palpable. In the dark depths of the boat, five or six men were pumping furiously, trying to stop the water from filling the hold. By the feeble light of a swaying lantern, men dashed in all directions, trying to secure objects that were rolling about dangerously. Chaos reigned. Other men, wild and terrorized, stood rooted to the spot. The five sailors carrying the captain reached his cabin. Stumbling, they set him down on his bunk. The mutilated man was barely breathing. Blood ran down his whole body and stained his dark clothes red. His rescuers didn’t know what to say, convinced that their captain’s hours were numbered.
“Get the surgeon,” Johan whispered to one of the sailors.
The bo’s’n then turned to Father Poncet, who had shared the captain’s cabin since Manhattan. Radisson hadn’t seen him in days. The Jesuit was lying in a hammock, pale as death, struck down by a terrible seasickness that was regaining the upper hand. Poncet struggled to lift his head out of the hammock and made as if to vomit. But nothing came out of his empty stomach, only a disgusting grunt, a violent retch that left him wincing in pain. Johan Heyn grabbed his soutane and hauled him up off his back, showing him the captain:
“Bless him! He’s going to die,” he said to him in Dutch.
He didn’t care if the Jesuit priest was Catholic and not Protestant. He was a man of God and could help the dying man cross the great divide. Too bad for the skinflint captain if he’d been too stingy to pay for a Protestant chaplain aboard, settling for a passenger who happened to be a Christian priest. The surgeon arrived and stood there, speechless. Putting such a demolished man back together again was beyond him. There was only one thing for it: Johan dragged Father Poncet out of the hammock and stood him in front of the captain, holding him up by the armpits. Again he ordered him to bless him.
The Jesuit recognized the dying man as his cabinmate.
“May God forgive us our sins, may God forgive us,” he groaned in French, covering his face.
Unsatisfied, Johan shook him like a rag doll and raised his voice.
“BLESS HIM! I SAID. BLESS HIM!”
Poncet eventually understood what was expected of him and mumbled a prayer that he broke off from to be sick. He doubled up, moaning miserably. Johan looked away. The unfortunate ceremony came to an end when the Jesuit traced a cross with his fingers on the dying captain’s chest, muttering a few words in Latin. Johan then handed the priest over to two sailors, who returned him to his hammock. He motioned for everyone to leave. Radisson was relieved to get out of there. The man he had grown to like among the Dutchmen who had freed both of them from the Iroquois had let him down terribly. What a pity to see him reduced to this. What a lack of dignity in the face of death.
* * *
The worst of the storm had passed. The wind had died down, although the waves were just as huge and continued to shake the Zeelhaen. The men, exhausted, had stopped pumping once the ship had regained close to its normal draft. It was faring rather well, and all risk of going under now appeared to be behind them. Johan took the captain’s place. At first light, he ordered the staysails be raised between the two main masts. The crew was worn out. The fear had not yet left their addled minds and stiff bodies. The freezing water had flooded everything: clothes, trunks, hammocks, the deck, steerage, and the hold. The quartermaster who had come to help the bo’s’n steer the ship had been less fortunate than his colleague: he was lost at sea. Another sailor had been lost overboard and the captain had left this world during the night. Radisson shivered with the other sailors until the galley stove was put back. The Zeelhaen’s yawing had carried it off along with the sand from the box it had been standing in. The crew was looking forward to nothing more than a warm meal. After a night spent in hell, eating would be like ascending the stairway to heaven. In the meantime, the heavy cold cut through them like stone.
Johan came back down at last from his long watch, exhausted. Before going back to his small cabin on the quarterdeck, he stopped by steerage, where the sailors and Radisson bunked. He sat down on a crate and stared intently at the young Frenchman. After a moment, he stood up and walked over to him without saying a word, stooped over so as not to bump his head on the deck joists. Then he lifted Radisson up by his clothes and held him tight in his arms, without saying a word. Radisson felt a lump in his throat. He was happy to have saved the life of a man whose courage and know-how he admired, happy to have helped right the Zeelhaen, happy to be alive.
Comforted by Johan’s grateful embrace, Radisson stopped shivering. No one around them said a word. No one could find the words to express their relief or convey their gratitude towards whatever had saved their lives. Perhaps God, perhaps fate, perhaps Johan and those who had helped him.
The new captain released his bear hug. He said to Radisson in Dutch:
“Tomorrow, when I move into the captain’s cabin, you can sleep in my cabin. You can also come up onto the poop deck with me. I’ll teach you how to pilot a ship.”
Radisson didn’t catch it all, but he understood for the most part. He knew he could now go up onto the poop deck and have a cabin of his own, a privilege unheard of for a passenger with no experience. Johan left and the handful of sailors who had witnessed the scene looked at Radisson, their eyes burning with envy.
* * *
Two days after the terrible storm, the sun finally broke through the clouds. The wind died down. The sea had calmed. It was no longer so cold. The new captain granted everyone permission to go out on deck to dry off and warm themselves in the sun. Sails were shortened so that everyone could get some rest.
For the first time in over a week, Radisson saw Father Poncet on deck. He seemed to be faring better, but Radisson did his best to avoid him. He had lost confidence in this Jesuit he barely knew. He feared he had been misled by the relief they shared after escaping from the Iroquois. Now he wondered if this weakened old man really could help him, if the offer he had made Radisson was really of interest. But Poncet followed him everywhere and in such cramped surroundings Radisson couldn’t keep giving him the slip for long.
The Jesuit was most impressed by the young man’s promotion, considering him something of a protégé. Radisson’s exploits during the storm had strengthened his intention to recruit this gem he had uncovered after the testing times spent in captivity by the Iroquois. It was as though he believed Radisson to be a reward sent down to him by God. Now that his seasickness had subsided, he wanted to close the deal he had begun with Radisson as they left Manhattan. He cornered Radisson near the bow.
“How are things, my friend? The new captain tells me you were quite the hero during the storm. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Father,” Radisson replied distractedly, hoping to discourage the Jesuit with his lukewarm welcome. “I was out on deck when the wave hit us. I did what I had to do, that’s all.”
“God is great and merciful. Let us give Him thanks for saving our lives! Once more, you have shown great courage and exceptional ability in coming to the bo’s’n’s aid. You have all my admiration.”
“Thank you, Father,” Radisson replied, looking out to sea.
He dreamed of returning to New France. This unintended detour via Europe was complicating matters. But he doubted the Jesuit had a solution to his problem.
“Have you given my suggestion any thought?” Poncet asked, not at all put off by Radisson’s standoffishness.
“What suggestion, Father? To be frank, I’m not sure I understand what you expect from me.”
“Come off it, Radisson!” snapped Poncet. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten the conversation we had when we left. I told you we needed experienced voyageurs like you, strapping lads with plenty of pluck to travel with our missionaries to the nations we are trying to convert. We have goods to transport, letters to deliver, new routes to discover, valuables to protect… Your knowledge of the Iroquois would be a great asset to us! Can’t you see what we’re up against? You spent a year in Trois-Rivières, after all. Didn’t you see everything the Jesuits had accomplished there? You know all this. Don’t pretend you don’t. You can help all of New France by serving the Society of Jesus.”
Radisson didn’t flinch. He was wary of flattery, even though he knew very well that the Iroquois were the Frenchmen’s worst enemies. According to Poncet, the colony was still in crisis. Nothing had changed since the Iroquois had captured him more than two years ago.
“Perhaps you’re right, Father,” Radisson replied, turning to look at the priest for the first time. “But, with all due respect, I spent less than a year in Trois-Rivières and know little of the Jesuits.”
“Your sister Françoise is working for us over there and she didn’t tell you a thing? Our missionaries have travelled great distances and taken incalculable risks. Some have even paid for their devotion with their lives, massacred by the Wildmen you know so well. What I hope for us Jesuits, and for all the colony, is to benefit from your youth, your energy, your courage. In return, through me the Jesuits are offering you unconditional support and the chance to travel across America with our missionaries. You will want for nothing if you join us: the Jesuits are powerful, and generous to those who serve them.”
Father Poncet was looking to get the better of Radisson, to force his hand. But his protégé had too often suffered because of what others had imposed on him. He balked.
“Your offer is tempting,” he replied, “But why must I first travel to Paris? Why can’t I go back to the colony immediately?”
“I told you. First, you must meet with the man in charge of our missions in Canada, Father Paul Le Jeune. He alone can pay to have you sent back across the ocean and accept your oath to faithfully serve our Society. You must play by our rules now, Radisson.”
Radisson was beginning to realize all that Poncet’s offer involved. The Jesuits would cover the full cost of his return to New France, then support him in the colony. He would also travel to Indian lands. The idea pleased him. Only, in exchange, he would have to obey the Jesuits and give up his freedom. That was less appealing.
“In Paris, I’ll go find my mother,” Radisson added. “Perhaps I’ll stay with her and make sure she has everything she needs…”
Irked by Radisson’s shameless dishonesty, Poncet spun away. How could this daring young man—a young man who had travelled extensively in New France and been through so much among the Iroquois—how could he possibly prefer to look after his old mother in Paris rather than head back out again on another adventure?
“Now listen to me,” Poncet replied curtly. “Answer me this: How are you going to get from Amsterdam to Paris? How are you going to get back to New France? How are you going to support yourself?”
“I’ll find a way,” said Radisson, stalling for time. “I’m not afraid.”
“Clearly you’re not afraid,” Poncet retorted. “You’re afraid of nothing! But that’s not the question. This is the question: What are you going to do with your life, Radisson? How are you going to put your God-given talents to good use? I am offering you the chance to lead the life of adventure you dream of, all while helping the Society of Jesus. What more could you wish for?”
Radisson had trouble fending off such serious questions when he had just survived a storm that had almost cost him his life. He kept quiet. But Poncet, who could feel his strength deserting him, was desperate to score points while he still had the energy.
“Let me sum it up for you,” he went on. “The Society of Jesus will help you get to Paris, then return to New France. It will bring you to China, if that’s what you want! We have missionaries there, too. I promise you will be housed, fed, and clothed, and you will never lack adventure. In return, all I am asking is that you help our missionaries carry out their apostolic work in New France. Is that not what you want more than anything else in the world, Radisson? To get back to New France and see the Indians again? You have often told me of the wild lands you hold in such affection, the lands you dream of one day seeing again. I am giving you the chance to live this dream. But you must decide. And I want an answer now.”
Before making a decision, Radisson wanted some advice. He thought of his two absent fathers, the merchant back in France who had disappeared without a trace, and the Iroquois warrior who was probably dead by now. There was no one to help him. And the way of life that the Jesuit was trying to drag out of him made his head spin, as though his very soul had gotten seasick. The blood was still crashing around inside his heart, too much fog still enveloped his mind for him to say yes or no to Poncet. It was asking too much. The Jesuit, who felt as though he was about to collapse, was bold enough to make a final offer.
“I am even prepared,” he added, “to give you the money you need to make it to Paris. There you can meet Father Le Jeune, who will be able to explain better than I all the benefits of forming a partnership with the Jesuits. If you promise me you will visit him, I will give you the money. I trust you. What do you say?”
“That is very generous of you, Father. I am flattered. But please, just give me a little time.”
“Don’t stretch my patience, my friend. I might change my mind. I’ll give you three days to come to a decision. Not a day longer.”
“Very well. I will give you my answer in three days. I promise.”
Poncet then turned on his heels to head back to the captain’s cabin, exhausted by the conversation. Radisson went in the opposite direction, watching an already pale sun drop off the horizon. On this brief late winter afternoon, from up on the topsails two watchmen gazed at the sky with concern. Great clouds were gathering again.
* * *
The ship pitched and rolled. Radisson had trouble falling asleep. He took his precious eagle-head knife out of its leather sheath and held it. He could see it now and again, whenever the pale light of the moon shone in through the window of the stern cabin in time with the ship’s rocking. Ever since Johan had become captain, Radisson had used this cubbyhole as his own private quarters: luxurious surroundings indeed compared to the cramped, cluttered, and foul-smelling conditions of steerage, which he shared with some thirty sailors. The young man was so excited by the opportunity that he had trouble sleeping, what with the bad weather rattling him from one side of his bunk to the other and the sheer joy he felt at once again being able to admire the knife he had kept hidden when he lived in steerage, for fear of having it stolen.
A moonbeam lit up the sleek feathers, the finely drawn beak, the tiny little eye that peered back at him… The night became black as ink again.
As he held the knife tight in his hands, the memories came rushing back. He felt the same sense of well-being that washed over him the first time he held the knife among the Dutchmen of Fort Orange. He could not explain the power the knife held over him, how it guided him, leading him who knows where. An Iroquois shaman could no doubt help him understand. But it would be a long time before he could meet one. Until then, he would have to make do with the energy it gave him.
He thought of Shononses, the friend he had fought alongside for months. If the Iroquois had been right, the eagle was Radisson’s spirit animal, the animal he should look to as an example. But Shononses was no shaman and Radisson had barely mentioned his strange feelings for the knife. On the other hand, Shononses had told him that the knife’s handle was definitely not European in origin. That meant the power that emanated from it could not be European either. And that Radisson was going in the wrong direction as he made his way to Amsterdam.
He was now sure he wanted to return to America. And so he decided to accept Father Poncet’s offer.
Dense clouds blocked out the moon completely. As Radisson put away his knife, he remembered the words of his adoptive Iroquois sister: “Your knife is too beautiful to use for killing… It will help you find your way in life…” He felt the lock of her hair that she had slipped into the sheath and recalled their passionate kisses, the hurt she had felt at not being able to be with him. He felt the pinch of tobacco he had swiped from his father Garagonké, the crumbs of cornmeal taken from his mother Katari’s mortar, the arrowhead from his brother Ganaha, all carefully kept in a little pocket on the sheath… His Iroquois family came with him on all his adventures. They would be part of his flesh and blood forever. He would never forget the time he spent living among them. It was a shame he had had to leave them behind to escape with his life.
Radisson tried to slow down his thoughts. He should sleep.
The choppy sea had probably made Father Poncet sick again. There was no sign of him on deck and he hadn’t answered when Radisson knocked on his door to tell him his decision. Now that the three days had passed, Radisson was sure. He would go to Paris and meet Father Le Jeune. In the meantime, he would try to find out if fur trading had started again in New France and if the war against the Iroquois was over. With a little luck, he would even find another route back to the colony.
Sometimes he thought about becoming a sailor. It was so exciting up there with Johan. From the poop deck, he looked down over all the ship and could watch the sea’s every move. He could see the sails, all the manoeuvres, the hull splitting the waves. He listened to the wood groaning, the masts cracking, and the men shouting “Heave ho!” He learned a lot from Johan, who always seemed to know how to lead the Zeelhaen through the unending labyrinth of peaks and troughs. Radisson would love to lead his own life with such assurance.
* * *
On January 4, 1654, after fifty-seven days at sea, the Zeelhaen entered Amsterdam harbour. It had been a rough crossing. Gazing at the huge, bustling city that awaited them, the sailors thanked the heavens for delivering them safe and sound. Some were to be reunited with their wives and children. Others were off to get drunk and find company in one of the inns by the port. Everything was going to change for a time. Then they would again take to the sea, off to explore new horizons.
The Zeelhaen weaved its way between thirty-odd trading vessels anchored in the bay, heading for the long wooden wharves where its cargo would be unloaded. Johan ordered the sails be lowered and the anchor dropped. The Zeelhaen came to a standstill. Radisson looked on, fascinated, as rowboats weighed down with men and merchandise zipped relentlessly back and forth between the bigger boats that huddled close together. He had never seen such a busy port. Along the wharves, carts made their way between piles of goods. The place was alive with the hustle and bustle of trade.
In the distance, behind a dense forest of masts, stood Amsterdam, dominated by a dozen belltowers, some of which had giant clockfaces. Other clocks had been topped by intriguing spheres on high, pointed spires. Even Paris had been less lively in the faubourgs Radisson had been to with his father. After so many weeks spent at sea, seeing nothing but the water, the sails, and the clouds racing across the sky, Radisson was dazzled by the riches and excitement Amsterdam had to offer. He could feel the need to explore the world stirring inside him.
As soon as the Zeelhaen’s sails had been furled, Johan had a rowboat dropped down into the water. Two sailors rowed it over to an imposing two-storey stone building at the harbour entrance. Radisson followed them with his eyes. Johan jumped up onto the wharf and disappeared inside the building. Long minutes went by before he came back out again, accompanied by a tall man wearing a broad black hat. After chatting with him for a while, Johan came back on board to supervise the ship’s unloading. The bundles of fur and the lumber had to be brought on deck quickly. The longshoremen loaded them onto rowboats and then onto the wharf. Johan forbade anyone from leaving the ship while this was going on.
A strange mix of emotions flooded over Radisson as he carried the furs. He had probably killed some of the beavers himself and bartered their skins when he was still an Iroquois, only four months earlier. He knew they were from Fort Orange, where the Dutch had made him aware of the danger he faced living among the Iroquois. It was that trading expedition that had convinced him to flee his adoptive family, his village, and had brought him to this ship. Now he found himself on the other side of the trade, transporting the same furs he had haggled over with the Dutch.
He was dismayed to see the furs were still soaking wet and would soon rot. Nobody aboard seemed to know how to take care of them, after all the effort that had gone into hunting and preparing the animals, then bartering and transporting the furs. It enraged him to see that such a precious cargo could be ruined through sheer ignorance. This was no way to do business. There was too much at stake, it was too important. He would talk it over with Johan as soon as he had a chance. Someone would have to take the situation in hand as quickly as possible. But it wouldn’t be him. He was too keen to move on.
As soon as it had been repaired and reloaded, the Zeelhaen was scheduled to leave for Spain. Johan wanted to meet with each man separately the next day to see who would stay on board with him. Radisson was torn. He would have liked to stay with Johan Heyn for a while longer. More than anything else, he would have liked to sail on and land in France rather than Holland. But he didn’t know if that was possible. First, he would need the money Father Poncet had promised him. But the priest was still shut away in the captain’s cabin.
* * *
Johan was keen to help Radisson and offered to drop him off at the mouth of the Loire. Then, he would only have to work his way up the river to Paris. It was the best route at that time of year, much better than the endless potholed and muddy roads he could take with the Jesuit, who would certainly not want to continue by sea.
From his small cabin on the quarterdeck, Radisson kept an eye on the door to the captain’s cabin. If Poncet did not leave by his own means before nightfall, Johan would throw him out and at last be rid of the troublesome passenger. It was noon before the door opened. Very slowly, a hesitant, much thinner silhouette made its way into the light. Radisson was so surprised by this ghostly apparition that he wasn’t entirely sure if it really was the Jesuit. But the threadbare soutane, his height, and his emaciated face left no doubt: it was indeed Poncet.
“Father!” cried Radisson, coming out of his cabin.
“Ah, it’s you,” wheezed the priest as he turned around. “You waited for me. Good lad. Now come on and give me a hand.”
“I must speak with you, Father.”
“First come into town with me. I have a rowboat waiting and have sent word to a friend. Carry this bag for me. I am so weak it is too much for me. Now let’s get off this infernal ship.”
“First I must speak with you, Father.”
“Later, Radisson, later. The most pressing matter is to make our way to this friend’s home. I need rest. Help me, please.”
The rowboat took them to the wharf. Carrying the bag with one hand, Radisson helped the Jesuit along a steep, slippery stretch. Then they found a carter who agreed to take them into town. With the wharves, ships, and smells of the sea behind them, Poncet began to feel better.
The carter was wary of them, put off by the Catholic missionary’s soutane, although Father Poncet barely paid any heed. He sent the carter in the direction of a large belltower set against the blue sky. On the way, Radisson took in the prosperous streets, lined by homes of brick and stone. In one of the bigger squares, he was surprised to see strange gables on top of buildings three and four storeys high. Dozens of horse-drawn carriages blocked the cobblestoned square. Nicely attired passersby seemed to be doing well for themselves. Further on, Radisson craned his neck to peer at a huge red clock in the middle of a belltower that seemed to touch the clouds. It was all so impressive. It was one o’clock in the afternoon.
Poncet ordered the carter to stop in front of an anonymous brick home. All smiles, he motioned to Radisson that they had arrived. A tall, well-built man opened the door to them. Once inside, their host clutched the sickly Poncet in his strong arms, welcoming him to his home.
“You will feel right at home here. Follow me.”
The man led them into a spotless kitchen whose walls were half-covered in white tiles. He pulled up two chairs and urged them to take a seat around a large wooden table.
“You appear to be very tired indeed, my dear colleague.”
“Oh, yes,” Poncet replied weakly. “The crossing was terrible. Wasn’t it, Radisson? The bad weather just would not let go of us. We almost sank and I was dreadfully seasick.”
Radisson did not like being shown up. He hadn’t found the crossing so bad, but he bit his tongue.
“You can stay here as long as it takes for you both to get back on your feet,” their host assured them. “Our new Amsterdam residence will no doubt seem most comfortable to you compared to America! All that I ask is that you not wear your soutane or any other Catholic symbols. The Dutch are a tolerant people, but we do not wish to provoke. Father Jacquemin and I are most fortunate to be on a mission here. We have big plans…”
Their host broke off suddenly, noticing the missing finger on Father Poncet’s right hand.
“Forgive me. I had not yet seen your injury. I imagine it was the Wildmen who inflicted it on you? Word has reached me of the torments our missionaries are going through over there. You are courageous indeed to have served in such conditions.”
His head down, and with a sad look in his eye, Father Poncet looked for a moment at the mark left by his time spent as a captive among the Iroquois. Then, relieved to be safe and back on dry land again, he smiled as he raised his head.
“Save your admiration for the martyrs who sacrificed their lives over there, Father Boniface. I am not worthy of it. Look instead to my young companion. He underwent torture more severe than my own, and much more besides. And yet he does not fear these barbarians. Indeed, he has more affection for them than I do. Isn’t that right, Radisson?”
“I am as glad as you are, Father, to have escaped them and to have arrived in Europe.”
“Although you still want to return to New France, don’t you? Don’t tell me you have changed your mind?”
“No, Father. I am still set on returning to the colony.”
“To serve us, like we agreed?”
Radisson hesitated. Was now the right time to tell Poncet he wanted to make his own way to Paris? He was prepared to swear that he would meet Father Le Jeune there. But for nothing in the world did he want to remain stuck in Amsterdam, travelling with a feeble old man he no longer thought much of.
“In fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about earlier.”
“Well, go ahead. I’m listening. Now’s the time.”
“Captain Heyn is leaving again for Spain in a few days. He says I can disembark at the mouth of the Loire. It’s the best way to reach Paris quickly, he tells me. There, I will go and meet Father Le Jeune, as you offered. I promise you I will.”
Poncet was disconcerted, as though he had forgotten that he himself had proposed this alternative to Radisson. Gradually, however, his face relaxed. A serene smile even made its way across his lips. He nodded silently.
“Your idea is an appealing one. Even though you will no doubt reach Paris before I do, since I cannot set off for several days yet. I understand you are in a hurry to push on at your age. If you swear on the Bible to meet with Father Le Jeune in Paris, then yes, I’ll give you the money you need. Now I remember I promised you that. But swear to me, right here in front of Father Boniface and before God, who is looking down on us, that you will speak with Father Le Jeune.”
“I swear!” Radisson replied, his hand stretched out in front of him as though he was swearing on the Bible. “I will go meet with him and I will tell him about my plans to serve the Jesuits, as God is my witness.”
“Very well,” Father Poncet agreed, looking relieved. “I will write a letter for you to hand over to him in person. As for the sums required, I’m sure Father Boniface can get the funds for you. Isn’t that right, Father?”
“Absolutely! There are more bankers in Amsterdam than in all of France! They have come here to trade, attracted like our Crusaders to the Holy Land. But you should spend the night here, young man. I won’t have the money until tomorrow. How does that sound?”
“Perfect,” said Radisson. “The Zeelhaen is not yet ready to leave.”
“Very well,” concluded Poncet. “I believe we have made a very wise decision.”
That evening Poncet penned a short message to Father Le Jeune, procurer of the missions in Canada, warmly recommending Radisson. He sealed it twice to ensure his protégé could not read it. The next day, he gave it to him along with a small leather purse containing forty silver écu coins. Before allowing him to leave, fearing he had been duped and might have given in too easily, he had him swear again, this time with his hand on an actual Bible. Radisson did as he was told without complaint, then, delighted to have gotten his way, hurried back to the ship.
Poncet was not so content. Tormented by doubt, he wrote a second message that day, sealing it as carefully as the first. He handed it to a messenger boy and told him to bring it to Paris at once, where he was to deliver it to Father Le Jeune in person.
* * *
From his position as helmsman on the poop deck of the Zeelhaen, Radisson admired the sails, puffed out in the wind. It was plain sailing. As long as the wind was behind them, it was easier to control the ship’s speed and Radisson had the situation in hand. A few days of high-speed training had seen him make great strides, with Johan sparing no effort to make a sailor of him, no doubt with an eye to keeping him on board. But for naught. Life at sea wasn’t enough for Radisson. The ocean was too vast, the ship too small, the days too monotonous. He had only one thought on his mind: to get back to New France and quickly, no matter how things were over there, no matter the cost. He wanted to pick up his life again where the Iroquois had put it on hold when they captured him.
He turned his sandglass over for the fourth time. His shift at the helm would be over in an hour. In the meantime, he kept heading for the French coast, which they were to reach by nightfall. Radisson felt the thrill of success: Paris was ahead of him, he had saved time, he was getting closer… It was then that Johan came up onto the poop deck early, looking concerned. Radisson looked hard at the sails, the deck, the sea, but saw nothing out of place. Things didn’t look good, though.
Wanting to get a better idea of their position to the French coast, Johan called for the water to be sounded.
“Twenty-two fathoms!” shouted the sailor as he hauled the sounding line back in.
The captain was lost in thought. A sailor needed a great deal of experience to gauge the distance from the coastline, which was completely masked by the clouds. Judging by the latitude he had measured at noon, they were exactly in line with the Loire. But what was their longitude? How far were they from shore? That was another story.
“Prepare to turn around! Starboard tack!” Johan suddenly shouted.
Radisson jumped and grimaced. Johan came right over to take his place at the helm. Radisson watched, mesmerized, as the crew took their positions on deck. Sailors raced up the masts. He knew he didn’t have the experience to pull off such a delicate manoeuvre, but that wasn’t why he was frustrated.
“You promised I could get off at the mouth of the Loire! Why have you changed your mind?”
“Too dangerous,” replied Johan. “We won’t be there before nightfall. With these clouds, we won’t see the coast. I don’t intend to run aground just to keep you happy. I’ll drop you at La Rochelle.”
Dejected, Radisson watched as the ship turned around and set sail for Spain. The French coastline remained far off in the distance for two or three more days. Paris got further and further away. Radisson knew that Johan would not change his mind: the ship’s safety was paramount. There was no point wasting his breath. He withdrew to his small cabin on the quarterdeck to try to come to terms with his disappointment. But, Radisson promised himself, another bend in the road would not prevent him from reaching his goal.