Never would Radisson have imagined such devastation. He didn’t recognize the faubourg Saint-Antoine where he had grown up at all. Once fertile fields all lay fallow, overrun by thistles and worthless hay. Stone houses looked like bodies with their clothes torn off. Soldiers had ripped out all the wood they could find—doors, windows, shutters, frames, furniture, ceilings, and floors—to throw on their fires. They had broken up the frames with axes. Roofs had disappeared or fallen in. Windmills had lost their sails. Wooden homes had been taken apart. Only a handful of solid stone buildings belonging to religious orders and aristocrats, protected by surrounding walls, had resisted.
Radisson continued on towards the family home. The area had changed so much that he was having trouble finding it. Along the way, he passed by people repairing their homes. Others, emaciated, seemed to have given up and were wandering aimlessly, staring blankly ahead. Beggars held out their hands as he walked past. He was so stunned, in such a state of disbelief, that he did not even see them. He arrived at a crossroads where locals had found the strength to take their fate into their own hands. Artisans were at work in their boutiques. An almost empty store had opened its doors. The small block of houses was finding a new lease on life. Not far from there, Radisson recognized the road that led to his home.
There it was. That was their family home. Or at least what was left of it. It had been reduced to a deserted square of masonry, completely disfigured, with no doors or windows. A piece of the roof hung down over the front wall and onto the road; another had fallen inside the house. There was not a soul to be seen. Inside or out. Feeling completely helpless, Radisson stood there paralyzed, his arms by his sides as he surveyed the ruins of his childhood. He looked around him. Where was his mother? For hundreds of feet in every direction, no house had been spared. Nothing. All around. Discouraged, he went to sit inside the ruins on a pile of rubble that had fallen off the fireplace. How would he ever find his mother? What could have happened to her? Had she taken refuge somewhere? Radisson feared she might be dead.
He felt lost.
An old woman shuffled over towards him, bent with age, wrapped up tightly in any number of shawls to protect her from the biting wind. Radisson walked over slowly to meet her. She stopped before him, trusting him completely, raising her head to look the big, strapping lad in the eyes.
“Excuse me,” he asked. “Would you happen to know what happened to the people who lived here?”
“They left,” she replied. “As you can see.”
Her voice full of sympathy, she recounted how some of the people who lived in the faubourg fled to Paris before the fighting, taking all they could with them. Others stayed to protect their possessions. It hadn’t been a wise move: they had perished with everything they owned.
“I used to live here,” Radisson chipped in. “I’m looking for my mother.”
“I can’t help you, young man. Some were fortunate and got help from family or friends. I didn’t know any of them. I live in a hut over there,” she said, pointing. “There are a lot of new folk around here now, not all of them honest. Can’t tell you any more than that.”
Radisson concluded that he should maybe take a look around Paris. Perhaps he should ask at the rare customers his father did business with inside the walls, but he would have trouble finding them again. He had only been there two or three times. His mother had never come with them. So how could she have taken shelter with them then? It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. But he had nothing else to go on right now. The emptiness around him was bringing back painful memories of his father’s disappearance before Radisson left for New France. His whole family had been broken up, scattered to the four winds.
The church was over there, still standing. His mother would go to mass there almost every day. Perhaps the priest had helped her make her escape, perhaps some of the nuns she knew had sheltered her in a convent.
Over at the church, a priest he did not know was handing out bread to dozens of paupers gathered around him. The old woman he had spoken with earlier was among them. Many were horrendously thin and dressed in rags. They shivered with cold and hunger. Radisson stayed to the side, waiting for the priest to stop handing out bread. He then went over to ask what had become of the parishioners, mentioning his mother and a few neighbours by name. The priest did not know. He had been helping the poor in the faubourgs for only a few months. He had heard that many locals had died here during the fighting. Rumour had it that the previous parish priest had been killed too, when the first army arrived and his church was requisitioned to house the officers. He had stood up to them and been killed. The priest was keen to continue his rounds and wished Radisson the best of luck. Radisson went back to the crossroads, hoping to find something to eat.
“Any bread?”
“Any money?” the merchant replied warily.
“Yes,” said Radisson.
“How much? Prices are up this year.”
Now it was Radisson’s turn to be wary. Another man, sitting behind him in a corner, was watching him. He still had twenty écus in the purse Poncet had given him, hidden under his clothes. It was a lot of money. He would rather no one knew he was carrying so much around. So instead he rummaged in his pockets and held out thirty sol coins in the palm of his hand.
“That’s not enough,” the merchant grunted.
Radisson wasn’t in the mood to be turned down.
“I’m hungry! Give me something to eat for thirty sols! And be quick about it!”
The storekeeper decided it was best not to try to outsmart this tough character who was becoming more threatening by the minute. He went into the backstore where the bread was hidden and gave him half a loaf.
“That’s all you can have for thirty sols.”
“That’s fine. Thanks.”
It was enough to satisfy his hunger. Radisson walked out of the store with the loaf hidden under his jacket. He ate away at it as he wandered around what had been his family home, trying to come up with a sensible strategy to find his mother. He wanted to at least try. There was no way he was giving in right away, slim though his chances were.
At nightfall, he slipped inside what remained of his home to spend the night there. He hid himself away under the fallen-in roof to be safe from bandits, beside the fireplace he and the rest of his family used to eat in front of. It was cold. Luckily he still had his wool jacket. But he couldn’t fall asleep. He felt bad for having left to follow his sister Marguerite to a distant colony, never to return. She had had enough of being told what to do by her father and the parish priest. Their father disappeared shortly after that. Then the priest had recruited Françoise to serve the Jesuits in the same village as Marguerite. His mother had cried for days. And he in turn had given in to his craving for adventure and had left, too. Their mother, home alone. Defenceless.
He tossed and turned.
As soon as the sun rose on the horizon, Radisson set out for the centre of Paris.
* * *
At Porte Saint-Antoine, the fighting had left its mark on the walls of the Bastille. The bank of homes rose up and struck Radisson like a smack on the mouth. He had forgotten just how huge and densely populated Paris was. It was like walking into an enormous forest of stone that was inhabited by thousands of people. As he trudged up the street, on each side extravagant stone churches and clusters of high homes stretched as far as the eye could see. But the lingering stench of excrement gave the impression that he was walking through a giant outdoor stable. It was noisy, too: carriage wheels rumbled, horses neighed, street peddlers shouted, a crowd of people made a racket on their way by. He could see the mark the violence had left on the city. Things seemed less exciting to him than when he used to go there with his father. But here there was more of a recovery underway than in the faubourgs.
People thronged around a convoy of bread. Hired men protected it from protests against the price hikes. The bakers turned a deaf ear to the pleas and handed over their precious bread only to those who could afford to pay.
Tired and confused, Radisson didn’t know which way to turn in the huge city. The staggering number of streets and homes had taken the edge off his determination. Any direction might be the right one, but none seemed particularly promising. There were no clues to help him decide. He tried to imagine his mother’s reaction, if she had indeed come into Paris to find shelter. But no flash of inspiration came to mind. She had no relations in the city. She had followed her husband from Provence to satisfy his ambitions. Religion was the only reason she might have gone somewhere in particular. His mother was a very pious woman. She might have taken shelter with a religious organization. But which one? There were so many of them.
Three- and four-storey homes towered over Radisson on all sides. He looked for the belltowers sticking out over the rooftops. He saw three and headed toward the tallest, to his left. He stopped in front of a colossal church by the Seine, but was too intimidated to go inside. He didn’t have the strength to start asking priests he didn’t know if they happened to know Marie Radisson from the faubourg Saint-Antoine. He did not believe in miracles and his efforts seemed destined to fail. He did, however, promise himself he would go into churches further on, later on, and pray for God’s help.
He came out into a large square and stopped in front of the city hall, fascinated by the impressive building’s stone façade, entirely sculpted as though made out of wood. A carriage pulled by four frisky horses suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Radisson dived out of the way, only narrowly managing to avoid it. The golden coach pulled up in front of the city hall’s main door. The four horsemen escorting it pushed back the crowd. “Out of the way! Let us through!” they cried from their saddles. Radisson retreated further in case one of the horses stepped on him. “Out of the way!” cried the horsemen as they dismounted to push back onlookers with the flat sides of their swords. A man armed with two pistols stepped out of the coach and stood next to it. He pointed his weapons at the Parisians, who looked on in fright.
Radisson, who didn’t appreciate being pushed about, was furious at having had the cold metal of the sword pressed against his chest. He kept one hand on the eagle-head knife hidden under his clothes, ready to retaliate, although he knew it would be too dangerous to confront the escort of a powerful lord, particularly the armed valet. He struggled to put a cap on his anger.
A footman wearing a sumptuous silk jerkin dismounted. He opened the door to the carriage with a bow as an extravagantly attired man got out. The arrogant-looking count, duke, or marquis was wearing a broad-brimmed black hat adorned with white feathers and a curly brown wig whose locks tumbled down over his shoulders. A cape cut from scarlet cloth half-covered his gold-embroidered jacket, which ran down his arm to his broad lace cuffs. His pantaloons, also made of lace, resembled a woman’s skirt, and his long square-tipped shoes boasted broad golden ribbons that made it difficult to walk. Radisson was taken aback by such a display of riches in the midst of such poverty. The powerful figure disappeared as quickly as he had arrived behind a heavy, finely carved door of the city hall.
The horsemen then went about dispersing the crowd. “Get out of here! You have no business here!” Radisson didn’t wait to be asked twice. He wandered off, bringing his uneasiness with him, leaving the Seine behind as he took to smaller streets lined with more modest homes, where there was less chance of coming across another aristocrat.
Where should he look now? He glanced up at the sun to gauge what time it was. It must have been around noon. Without any real conviction, he gave himself a few more hours to find his mother. He walked blindly through narrow streets that cut across each other to form a confusing maze. He cut a random path, remembering that he had vowed to go into a church. But church steeples were less common in this neighbourhood. A tall, gaunt man suddenly stood in his way.
“Looking for something?”
Three more men surrounded him. He had allowed himself to be surprised by thieves, like a halfwit.
“If you have money, we can help you,” added the ringleader facing him.
“I don’t have a sol,” Radisson replied curtly.
“Give me your jacket then. That will do me for today.”
The tall man stared him down as the three others jostled Radisson to shake him up.
“Give me your jacket! Be quick about it!”
Radisson stiffened and took a step back. He didn’t want to give in to the threat because if he handed over his jacket they would see he had money. The ringleader took out his knife.
“Hand it over or I’ll cut you to pieces!”
“Now the fun begins,” the thief to Radisson’s left whispered into his ear.
“I’ll be scraping your insides up off the street in no time,” said the thief to his right.
The third man punched him hard in the back. A shiver ran down Radisson’s spine. He was afraid he might be killed. He was sure the ringleader wouldn’t think twice about carving him up to see what he had on him. He had to defend himself.
“Let me be!” exclaimed Radisson, trying to sound as anxious as he could manage. “I have money. I’ll give you everything.”
“Good. Now we’re talking. Stand back, lads. Watch as he hands over his money to me.”
His tactic worked like a charm. Radisson used the moment of respite to take out his knife.
“You think you’re gonna frighten me with that?” laughed the ringleader, getting ready to attack.
But Radisson charged at him, shouting his Iroquois war cry at the top of his lungs. He cut through his shoulder into the bone and the man fell to his knees, moaning. The fight was over for him. Radisson turned to the three remaining bandits, still rooted to the spot at the sound of his fearsome cry. They each ran off as fast as their legs could carry them. Radisson chased after the man who had been looking forward to tearing his guts out, swearing he would pay for the others.
The man ran quickly, though, and knew the neighbourhood well. He tried to lose Radisson in the maze of tiny streets, but an Iroquois can keep going for longer than any Parisian and Radisson was sure he would catch up to him. He was gaining on him, brandishing his knife when the spirit of his father Garagonké intervened: “Follow the path of peace, my son.” And so, instead of striking him, Radisson shoved the man in the back. He fell flat on his face. Radisson put the brakes on, ran back to where the man was lying, and knelt down over the thief. He grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head back and threatening him with his knife.
“Have mercy,” pleaded the man, shaken by the fall.
Radisson hesitated, bringing the blade of his knife down onto the man’s throat, carried away by a thirst for revenge, then checked by the spirit of Garagonké: “Your way is the way of peace, my son.” He brought his knife to the man’s brow—the robber was crying now—and pressed it where his hairline began, exactly where the Iroquois would scalp their victims. He made a long cut, then buried the thief’s face into the ground, hissing at him: “You don’t deserve to live, you rat! But a powerful spirit is watching over you. You can thank the heavens I’m sparing you.”
Radisson walked away. None of the onlookers dared intervene. Further on, he rinsed his knife in a public fountain and put it back in its sheath. He walked towards a belltower, entered the church, and knelt down before the altar. “Lord, forgive me for my sins. I only wanted to defend myself. Protect me from hatred and help me find my mother.” But he had given up on the possibility and asked the priest how to get to the Jesuits. He followed the very precise directions and found their college, where he was told Father Le Jeune was not there. He was off leading a retreat at the Saint-Germain novitiate. The Jesuit speaking to Radisson had the presence of mind to inquire after his name and immediately recognized the long-awaited traveller. He explained how to get to Rue du Pot-de-Fer.
It was a long way. Radisson took the Pont Neuf and crossed the Seine, walked past the Basilique Notre-Dame-de-Paris, then crossed another bridge. There he lost his way, tracked back on himself, looked for his bearings, asked for directions, and finally ended up, exhausted, in front of the Jesuit novitiate just as night was falling. A high stone wall stood between him and the buildings. He banged louder and louder against a locked door, yelling, “Open up! I have an urgent message for Father Le Jeune! I have come from New France!” He shouted until the porter at last let him inside, anxious to avoid a scene. When the young man showed him the crumpled note from Father Poncet, the porter, who had been expecting him, beseeched Radisson to calm down and led him to one of the rooms set aside for travellers, promising he would be able to speak to Father Le Jeune the following day. Radisson collapsed onto the bed, completely worn out.
* * *
Although disappointed at having to interrupt his Holy Week retreat, Father Le Jeune was so looking forward to meeting Radisson that he left the faithful to pray alone for a while.
The meeting took place in his office.
Radisson was struck right away by the aura of serenity given off by Father Le Jeune. Being in his company calmed him down immediately. He remained silent for a long time to let the feeling of peace wash over him. At last Paris had a nice surprise in store for him.
Le Jeune was in no rush to break the silence either. He took a good look at the newcomer, trying to gauge whom he was dealing with, beyond what Poncet had already told him. His first impression was favourable. The young man seemed a little troubled, but likeable, and he had no doubt he had what it took to work in the difficult conditions of New France.
“I have a message for you,” Radisson said eventually, handing over the crumpled parchment he had been carrying since Amsterdam.
Le Jeune took it, feigning surprise.
“Father Joseph Poncet asked me to deliver it to you in person. I crossed the ocean with him. From Manhattan. We parted ways in Amsterdam. I promised him I would come meet with you and talk about Canada.”
Le Jeune was pleased by Radisson’s honesty. It confirmed Poncet’s first message, which he had reread before the meeting.
“If I may,” the Jesuit replied, “I will take a moment to read the message and we shall talk after that.”
“Go right ahead, Father.”
First and foremost, Le Jeune ensured the envelope’s seal had not been broken. It had not, despite the parchment’s poor condition. A point in Radisson’s favour. He opened the letter, keeping a discreet eye on the young man’s reaction. Radisson’s thoughts appeared to be elsewhere.
Amsterdam, January 5, 1654
Father Le Jeune,
Please receive this young man, Pierre-Esprit Radisson, with open arms. He escaped the Iroquois at the same time as I and we travelled together from New Holland to Amsterdam. He lived among them for two years. He is familiar with their language, their customs, their strengths, and—I hope—their weaknesses. I have managed to convince him to serve us in New France, where his knowledge will be of great assistance to us. If he appears before you within two months of this day and delivers this letter still sealed, I have accurately judged his character and he is someone we can trust. Welcome him as my protégé and please see to it that he returns to New France without delay.
Joseph Poncet
Although brief, this letter showed more conviction than the first. Father Le Jeune nevertheless noted that his colleague did not appear to have been freed by the Iroquois; it seemed he had escaped. Hopes of a peace with these terrible foes in the near future faded. But other matters were of greater concern. Before looking up again to speak to Radisson, the Jesuit allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection, pretending to still be reading. The message clearly indicated that Poncet had already recruited the young man, even though Poncet appeared to have been in some doubt just a few hours later when he wrote the second note. Perhaps Radisson had not given a firm commitment. There was still work to be done then. Comparing Poncet’s letters in his mind, Le Jeune drew three conclusions. Radisson’s strong suit was his knowledge of the Iroquois. It was up to him to make sure the young man could be a reliable servant to the Jesuits. He would also have to decide if there was a need to apply Poncet’s advice: “Keep a close eye on him and take him in hand in the future.”
“Father Poncet tells me you know the Iroquois well, that you wish to assist our missionaries in New France. Is that correct?”
Radisson was not expecting such a frank assessment. He remembered having promised Poncet to come talk to Father Le Jeune. Nothing more. But a lot of water had flowed under the bridge since then. Now the only thing he was certain of was his desire to return to New France at any price. If he had to serve the Jesuits to get there, he was prepared to go that route.
“I do know the Iroquois well,” Radisson replied. “I lived among them for two years. I speak their tongue. I know their customs. I promised Father Poncet I would come talk to you because he believed I might be of use to you. If you would like my help, I am prepared to work for the Jesuits in New France. As long as I don’t have to kill any Iroquois.”
Father Le Jeune was taken aback by this unexpected remark.
“Whoever said anything about killing them?” he retorted. “The cross of Christ is our only weapon. Our intention is to convert them, not to go to war with them. Wherever did you get such an idea?”
Radisson was sorry the emotions of the past few days had gotten the better of him. But he recalled that tensions were running so high in Trois-Rivières when he had been captured that everyone, including the Jesuits, was on the offensive against the Iroquois. He believed he was right to bring the matter up since he would prefer not to get involved.
“I know there are Iroquois who want peace,” he added. “That’s what matters to me.”
“Very well!” exclaimed Le Jeune. “We both want the same thing. Do tell me more about these peaceful Iroquois. Do you really think peace is possible?”
“Before I left the Mohawks, an Onondaga delegation came to talk to them. Peace was in the air.”
“Encouraging… Listen, I do not yet know you, but you certainly inspire confidence. I’d like to tell you a secret. Or rather, a rumour. In the last letter I was sent from our missionaries in Canada, they told me the Iroquois have proposed a truce. A number of our countrymen are skeptical and fear it may be no more than a ploy. Do you believe the Iroquois are acting in good faith?”
“Probably. Anything is possible with the Iroquois. If it’s peace you’re after, I can help. Send me back to New France and I will serve your missionaries faithfully. I will never give them reason to complain.”
Father Le Jeune settled back into his chair. He admired the young man’s attitude, even though he sensed a rebellious streak. He wondered if Radisson would be able to manage the strict obedience that members of the Society of Jesus owed to their superiors. Also, the closer he looked, the more he seemed to be hiding something.
Radisson was in a hurry to leave Paris, to put his decimated family behind him. Since he had set foot in the calm and clean surroundings of the novitiate, where everything had its place, he was feeling better. The Jesuits could be his new family. He knew they were influential and well organized in New France. He could hardly go wrong by teaming up with them. When the fur trade picked up, he would see where he stood then.
“Honestly,” Father Le Jeune went on, “I feel you are committing yourself a little too hastily. You do not even know what we expect of you.”
“I know perfectly well, Father,” replied Radisson, quick as a flash. “Father Poncet explained everything.”
“I see,” said Le Jeune, surprised at his assurance. “All the same, I would still like to get to know you a little better. For instance, how much time did you spend with the Iroquois? What were you doing there?”
Radisson would have preferred to avoid the question. Either he gave a frank and honest answer and risked being judged severely by the Jesuit, or he lied and managed to get away with things for a little longer. But never could he erase what he had experienced among the Mohawks. Sooner or later the question would come back and bite him.
Le Jeune looked him square in the eye, his gaze remarkably clear and piercing. He was a good man. Radisson could feel it. He even felt as though he was in the company of someone truly exceptional. He wanted to tell him the secret he had buried away since he left America. But first, he took a precaution or two.
“Is it true you lived in New France?” he asked.
“I worked there for seventeen years!”
“Do you know the Indians well?”
“Of course. The Innu and the Algonquins best of all, but I was also with the Hurons. And I met the Iroquois on a number of occasions.”
Radisson could see compassion in the Jesuit’s attitude. He decided to tell him the truth.
“The Iroquois captured me three years ago. They tortured me. Then they adopted me because of my courage. My father and brother thought I could become a good warrior and I became one to honour them. I killed a number of Erie on an expedition that lasted eight months. The Iroquois in my village respected me for that. But some were jealous. They never forgot that I was a Frenchman. A few wanted to kill me. That’s why I fled. I met Father Poncet with the Dutchmen, where both of us were hiding. I told him everything. He forgave me. I’m sorry for killing innocent people. I am a man of peace now. I would like to get into business, too. Like my father.”
So that’s it, Father Le Jeune said to himself. He was a little taken aback by the turn of events. One hour ago, he had still been meditating with a group of devout Parisians and now here was a young man suddenly reminding him of the colony’s tremendous difficulties, the failed Huron mission, the financial missteps… He would need more time to ensure the potential recruit would be able to serve the Jesuits while respecting their rules and principles. Nonetheless, something told him Radisson would serve them faithfully and would be a big help in New France. But two questions wouldn’t leave his mind.
“Are you aware you cannot do any trading if you agree to serve us?”
“Yes. But the trade is at a standstill at any rate. And, as far as I can remember, the Jesuits relied on the fur traders for help, didn’t they?”
“In a way, yes… And if the Iroquois attack our missionaries, if their lives are in danger, what will you do then?”
“I will defend them, Father, like I was fighting for my own life. It’s not the same when my life or the lives of my masters are at stake. I won’t have to think twice about it, believe me.”
Le Jeune was reassured.
“You do know this is Holy Week?”
Radisson nodded, although this was news to him.
“At the moment, I am leading a retreat for around one hundred people. I would be delighted if you joined us. Praying for a day or two will do you the world of good. You can take the opportunity to examine your conscience and we’ll be able to get to know each other better.”
“As you wish, Father.”
“Very well. After the retreat, if we both still agree, I’ll send you to La Rochelle. You will arrive in time to take the boat with the fishermen who often deliver letters and parcels for us to Île Percé, where they fish. They are men we trust. From there, you can easily make your way to Québec. What do you say?”
“Perfect.”
Father Le Jeune stood up.
“I have a favour to ask you, Father. I tried to find my mother, Marie Radisson. She lived in the faubourg Saint-Antoine. But our home was destroyed and my mother left. If ever you could help me…”
Le Jeune did not dare respond right away.
“Unfortunately,” he said at last, “the worst atrocities were committed in that very faubourg. Many left their lives there.”
“My mother was very devout. Perhaps she took refuge with the nuns.”
“Perhaps. I’ll see what I can do. But I’m afraid you shouldn’t hold out too much hope. My advice is to pray with all your heart for the duration of the retreat. Your mother is surely in need of your prayers, wherever she may be.”