CHAPTER 8

1640–42

IN THE COUNTRYSIDE NEAR CHAMPAGNE, FRANCE, HEAVY-SET, bald, white-whiskered Father Charles Lalemant passed his days amid a gallimaufry of memories, flowers and bees, augmenting a meagre pension through the production of honey. From time to time, whenever the local parish priest had cause to travel or perhaps took ill, as he was a frail man, Father Lalemant would accept the opportunity to partially replace him and again say mass. If the resident priest tarried awhile or his infirmity lingered, Lalemant would consent as well to hear confession and engage in administrative chores. Deferential to his age and position, his neighbours knew nothing of his background. They assumed that, somewhere in France, he had enjoyed a quiet parish and had faithfully passed his days in humble servitude to his Lord. On rare occasion—welcome hours for him, as he favoured company and conversation—he’d receive visitors from Paris or from towns farther afield, men or priests who had learned of his experiences and sought knowledge of his early days. For Father Lalemant, Jesuit and beekeeper, had not lived a docile life. Father Lalemant had preached among the Huron.

His neighbours would be shocked to know that, in his day, he had retrieved the bodies of his fellow priests from the stakes on which they’d been tortured and slain, and that in modest numbers—some would say unsuccessfully—he had converted warring Huron.

A story told about him, one he forever declined to repeat, maintained that he had converted an Indian who had been torturing him, thus sparing both his own life and the immortal soul of the native.

News had arrived by dispatch a week earlier, so that Lalemant was not surprised when a horseman approached his cottage, which was painted the colour of a daffodil freshly in bloom. He put out an array of cheese upon the pear-wood table, sliced cooked bull’s liver and duck’s breast, and decanted a bottle of red wine into a jug before stepping outside to greet his guest.

The traveller, arriving all the way from the northwest seaport of La Rochelle, represented the Order of St. Sacrement, a secret society to which Lalemant himself adhered. Members held social and political position, they might be men of commerce or belong to the Church, but they were uniformly pious, and held in contempt Cardinal Richelieu’s policies of the day. As first minister, Richelieu conducted the European wars and sought the enrichment of France. Piety was a word he might speak on public occasion, but a personal discipline he had failed to undertake. Hence the need for a society, independent of Church and king, devoted to the propagation of the faith. The need for secrecy, a nuisance, had been determined by the cardinal’s spies, who were everywhere as he sought to consolidate power. Peacefully, diligently, members of the Order of St. Sacrement undertook what they considered to be the true work of France, to herald the spiritual sovereignty of their Lord.

The visitor slid down from his horse, doffed his plumed hat to bow formally, and introduced himself as Jérôme le Royer de la Dauversière.

“Welcome, welcome!” Lalemant greeted him. He clutched onto him and clasped his hand, eager, in the manner of lonely men, for the company. “Please. Come inside. We shall break bread. You must be weary, famished from your journey.”

After they had feasted, and were indulging their second carafe of wine, the guest revealed himself.

Six years earlier, he had experienced a vision. Lalemant shifted around in his chair. From experience, he knew that visions had a tendency to be compelling, but were difficult to accommodate. A man’s own visions were a sufficient hardship with which to contend or validate—another’s, more so.

“In my vision, I learned that I was to help establish a settlement on the island of Montreal, from where the faithful might convert les sauvages, and where a hospital might be constructed to attend equally to Indian and French patients.”

A good vision, and Lalemant was intrigued. Not knowing Dauversière, neither through personal experience nor reputation, he did not encourage him with any facial expression other than restrained respect. His visitor did not strike him as one fit for the wilderness. His hair flowed in great waves, finishing in tight brown curls near his shoulders. Hours had been invested to keep his white moustache and miniature goatee trimmed to such perfection. His clothing was ornamental in the style of a nobleman, rendered in a forest green the priest found pleasing. Capes and waistcoat, collars and pantaloons all bulged and hung about him with the excess of the day, and his boots flopped forward just below the knees. The shining brace for his sword highlighted his chest, a parade of bright stones and intricate designs embedded in the fabric, and the sheath for his sword was embossed with finely wrought filigrees in steel. The man’s skin—the softness of his right hand when Father Lalemant had shaken it—and bearing spoke well of a man in court or in commerce, yet such skin was indicative of men ill suited to the hair-raising, demanding wildness of the New World. How would this man respond, for instance, to butchery? How would he adapt to air so cold it burned the skin and stiffened the joints? And why was he here? If all he sought was priestly advice, then this he could freely dispense, for surely Dauversière could see that he was an old, old man now, too decrepit to undertake another mission to New France. At least, on most days, he thought so.

“A few years later,” Dauversière stated, “I knelt at prayer at La Rochelle.”

“I know the cathedral there well,” Lalemant recalled. “I prayed there before embarking to the New World for the last time. Did you experience another vision?”

Dauversière smiled, lowering his eyes a moment. Even among pious men, he knew, suspicions would encroach upon the conversation. Lalemant, in effect, was inquiring if he was a man of feeble mind, who at random would gaze upon the unseen, or in a moment’s wonder concoct a scattering of angels in the midst of dancing flames. He was here, of course, to convince Lalemant that his great vision belonged to God, not to himself and certainly not to a man of frail character, and that he was a practical individual who lived to serve others and had already done so with some success, according to God’s will.

“Emerging from my prayer, which had been fervent in its moment, I met another man, quite by accident, who had also been upon his knees at prayer beside me. We engaged one another in conversation. I believe you know him, Father. Jean-Jacques Olier, the founder of the Order of St. Sulpice.”

Lalemant knew Olier to be a man of piety and substance.

“Through that grand accident,” Dauversière pressed on, “although I might suggest that our meeting had been preordained by the grace of God, he and I have formed a company, an association that works through the good graces of the Order of St. Sacrement.”

“Its name?” the priest inquired. Dauversière’s friendship with Olier obliged him to hear the visitor out.

“The Association of Gentlemen for the Conversion of Savages in New France on the Island of Montreal.”

Father Charles Lalemant rubbed his chin. “That’s a long breath,” he stated.

“For a shorter version, we call ourselves the Society of Our Lady of Montreal.”

Lalemant was impressed, and duly excited. That New France had been so neglected by the French grieved him, and often he had prayed for the few who had remained behind, prayed that they might be joined by their countrymen to create a new nation under God. Yet a question remained to be broached in the discussion at hand, for still he did not know why this man had chosen to address him. If the visitor wished to be informed on the ways of the Indians, on the nature of the challenge, he would enjoy sharing whatever expertise his memories might divulge. If, on the other hand, Dauversière intended that he personally participate in an association of gentlemen and embark for the island of Montreal himself, then he would have no option but to denounce him as a raving lunatic. He asked the pertinent question: “What would you have of me, sir?”

Dauversière leaned forward and spoke in a quiet, sure voice. “God gave me a vision. God guided me into the Order of St. Sacrement and into the company of Jean-Jacques Olier. And God has led me here, Father, to the last surviving priest to have converted the tribes in Huronia. My question is this: given your expertise and your experience in New France, do you know of anyone who possesses the remarkable capability, the soldierly aspect, the qualities of leadership, and above all the appropriate piety, to successfully conduct this mission on our behalf?”

Lalemant remained quiet, his eyes askance. After a long pause, Dauversière noticed that the right hand of his host appeared to tremble, and when he looked up he saw that a tear had formed and soon dribbled upon his right cheek. The old man rubbed it from his rough whiskers. Then he, too, looked up, and gazed into the eyes of Dauversière. The old priest knew, at that moment, that God had sanctioned this mission, for he, Lalemant, happened to know the one man in France more capable of the task than any. He believed that no one to whom Dauversière might speak could produce a man better suited. What made the situation more remarkable was that, as a retired priest, he had few friends, and yet he had just happened to have made the acquaintance of a soldier retired from the army, close to forty, who lived now in Champagne. Pious, brilliant, a leader, fearless, and above all an adventurer, for no man could go to the New World and survive without possessing the apposite adventuring spirit, he was the one man for the task. Indeed, this soldier had also sought him out, and had visited him in this house, so intrigued had he been to hear the stories of life among the Indians, so disappointed had he been, in his marrow, to have lacked similar opportunity to have been there himself.

“Yes,” Lalemant announced, ending the suspense for his guest in a scratchy, God-fearing voice, “surely God has sent you here. I do know the gentleman you seek, for I have met the very man whom God has set upon this earth to conduct your enterprise.”

In the dark of late evening, Dauversière arrived at an inn on the main street of the town of Champagne. He unsaddled his horse, then passed the reins to a liveryman to tend to the animal’s feeding and watering before he entered the vine-covered stone house to arrange for his own nourishment and rest. A lively place, he saw, with men and women and restrained merriment about the room, yet it did not seem a dwelling for drunkards, nor did the premises invite licentious behaviour. As a pious man, he was unlikely to be compromised by the establishment, and having taken a rest from his dusty travels and bathed in the communal tub, he returned downstairs for a repast by the light of the moon.

In the time that had lapsed, merrymakers had gone on their way and only the inn’s residents remained. Road weary, Dauversière ordered pork loin and the region’s most celebrated red wine.

Couples were present, relaxing in the midst of their journeys. Men of court on their way to or from Paris quietly sipped wine. Three tax collectors huddled by the fire, separated only by the masses of cloth that hung upon each of them. Their conversation was hushed, as though conspiratorial. Dauversière recognized them at a glance, for their profession was his own. He collected the king’s taxes from the wealthy landowners of his region, funds to sustain the wars and Richelieu’s gambits. Funds to seal cracks in the king’s palaces with gold. While he laboured as a tax collector in the king’s service, in his own estimation he was also a visionary who travelled from town to town in the service of his Lord. A misspent youth long behind him, he had done much work to create hospitals and to assist the endeavours of nuns administering to the poor. Among friends, he liked to say that while his right hand collected the king’s tax, his left begged on behalf of the poor. He accomplished both tasks well.

On this evening, he eschewed the company of his fellow tribe, preferring to tip his glass in the direction of a man who also drank and ate alone, for they were united as fellow travellers upon the road. The man nodded politely in return, but offered no further courtesy.

Dauversière noticed the lone gentleman again the next morning, strolling in the gardens before breakfast, at times lifting the petals of a blossom to admire it more closely. The man patted the noses of curious horses whose heads jutted from their stalls and stroked the snout of Dauversière’s pale mare. He examined her flanks and haunches and sad sway-back before he moved along to the next animal. Like a thief, thought Dauversière, as he secretly observed from his bedroom aerie. He next spotted the man after breakfast as he moved through a riverside market in crisp air, speaking to farmers and patrons alike. They deferred to him—perhaps to his intelligence, perhaps according to his reputation, perhaps because he was a swarthy, handsome man adorned in the extravagant clothing of a nobleman. Cheerfully, he moved along to subsequent encounters after a few minutes’ respite. When the stranger stooped to present alms to a beggar, he doffed his cap and bowed.

The gentleman from the inn passed a portion of his morning in prayer, first in the damp parish church, again back at the inn’s gardens. Following lunch, consumed quietly, he saddled up and rode into the countryside. Seeing him go, and bereft of ambition for the day, Dauversière chose to mount his own mare and follow along at a secure distance.

The rider ambled through the fragrant orchards, then dug in his heels upon gaining a slope and galloped over the ridge, vanishing from Dauversière’s view. Dust hung in the air, and the visitor from La Rochelle wandered through it, wondering where the path might lead, what indiscretion he might idly traipse upon. More than an hour later, he pulled in his reins, dismounted and let his horse water by a stream. He listened. The brook’s babble. An exchange of birdsong. A breeze momentarily rustled leaves. Then he heard a horse snort, and spun in surprise. The equestrian he had trailed had apparently been trailing him, and had dismounted also, standing now before him with one hand crossed over his body to grip his sheathed sword, a bold, warlike stance.

“Your sword, sir,” the stranger commanded quietly, firmly.

“Pardon me, sir?” Dauversière inquired.

“Surely a Richelieu spy is prepared for the consequence of his occupation.”

Dauversière knew he had indeed located his man, and found him as Lalemant had promised. “I am not a Richelieu spy, sir, although I do exist in his employ and I am, undoubtedly, a spy.”

“Then, sir, your sword.”

“For I am a spy sent by God.” As though to seal the proclamation, he removed his plumed hat and provided a deep bow, the right hand, with the chapeau, fully extended outward, the left above his heart in a gesture of trust and humility. He held his left leg forward and rigid, waiting.

“Blasphemy, sir. Your sword!”

Dauversière stood, smiled and failed to clasp his sword. “If you prefer, sir, let us say that I have been sent to you by Father Charles Lalemant. I have come to collect you for your next mission. From among the pious, you are to gather worthy Frenchmen, farmers and soldiers, carpenters and priests, and lead them to settle upon the island of Montreal in New France, from where your company shall convert our Indian brothers. Paul de Chomedey, Sieur de Maisonneuve, I am Jérôme le Royer de la Dauversière, and I ask a question: are you prepared today to accept your destiny, and undertake this valiant service in the name of Almighty God?”

In the full regalia of amazement and wonder, Maisonneuve stood stock-still a moment before permitting his hand to fall from his sword. He gazed upon the elegant, yet peculiar man by the stream, then he too doffed his hat and struck a deep bow. When he arose, the strangers closed the short distance between themselves and, as though as friends, heartily embraced.

Three ships were destined to embark from La Rochelle and Dieppe. Supplying the vessels with everything the migrants might possibly require—yet manage to afford—had been an all-consuming project for the leadership. The ocean was unforgiving and they had to travel by summer, so the arrivals would have no time to put in a crop their first year. Arriving late in the season, they would have to struggle through a winter at Quebec, then make for Montreal early the following spring. Anything left behind now could not be recovered in less than a year, so every contingency had to be foreseen.

In the midst of the hectic preparations, where it seemed that any problem solved led directly to another, Maisonneuve had set aside a morning for urgent discussions with Dauversière. Entering the makeshift enclave, his new friend greeted him with unrestrained enthusiasm, perhaps glad for the respite. “Jérôme!”

“Paul! How are you? You look so weary.”

“What is weariness? Time enough on the voyage to rest. What news?”

The two settled onto chairs on opposite sides of a table that Maisonneuve utilized as his headquarters. Bags of seed and boxes of carpentry tools and farming implements were stacked as tall walls around them.

“I’ve brought along a young woman I’d like you to meet. She heard about us in Paris and made her way here on her own. She waits outside. I’ve decided, Paul, that she must go with you. Sent by God, I should say.”

“To do what service?” Maisonneuve was skeptical. He felt that he had his full complement in place, and while women were unquestionably necessary to a new colony, for the time being he’d prefer those who accompanied their husbands.

“She’s a nurse. Experienced. She’s been on the battlefield, Paul, perhaps as often as yourself. She comes from Langres, a town stricken by plague, and she nursed the sick there, and the dying.”

Maisonneuve was impressed. Anyone who could offer the twin virtues of youth and experience might prove essential to the enterprise. “Show her in.”

“One thing you should know first—”

“Let me meet her, Jérôme, before you divulge her liabilities,” he instructed, for he could tell that his friend had left something unspoken. “Let me see for myself.”

The woman who sat before him tendered a slight smile, and a casual jut to her chin that Maisonneuve admired. She was a proud woman, forthright, and fervent in her love of God. After a few minutes in her company, Maisonneuve knew that she could be more than a nurse in their work together, for she also possessed the ability to administrate. She could organize and direct many projects when not busy at the hospital, and thereby ameliorate his own burdens. He saw that he could immediately use her help with the current preparations. He also noticed the issue that Dauversière had been intent on raising.

“Mademoiselle Jeanne Mance,” he stated, “the voyage, and life on the island of Montreal, will require great fortitude. A hearty constitution. I am afraid that I must decline your gracious offer to accompany us. Yours is a frail nature, is it not?”

“Sieur de Maisonneuve,” the young woman replied, “have you never been struck by a blow, or received a wound in battle?”

He was surprised by this riposte. “Yes, of course. I’ve been in many battles.”

“Did the infliction of wounds cause you to be less of a soldier? Once wounded, some men remain fearful evermore, while others, the wiser, hone their skills.”

Put in such a way, Maisonneuve had no choice but to suggest that the worst of his experiences had aided him to become a more adroit soldier.

“As have I, as a nurse, been made more effective, more caring and more diligent in my calling, thanks to my infirmities. My fragile nature is a great blessing bestowed upon me, I daresay, by God. My frailty, as you call it, sir, will never be cause for your concern. Better that you mind the ways of the strong, for they may turn fearful when first attacked, or surrender when first weakened by hunger or fatigue. They. Not I.”

Dauversière returned upon the departure of Jeanne Mance. “Well?” he asked.

Maisonneuve felt that he had been in the presence of an extraordinary being. He breathed out heavily, which Dauversière interpreted as rejection.

“Paul, please, I didn’t want to bring this up. But she comes here under the sponsorship of Madame de Bullion—”

“Who might that be?”

“A woman who will undertake the cost of the hospital. Please, reconsider—”

“I will not reconsider,” Maisonneuve informed him bluntly. “Jeanne Mance will be our company nurse, and she will also serve as my second-in-command. You cannot persuade me otherwise.”

Recognizing that he’d been duped, Dauversière clapped his hands once and smiled broadly. “Madame de la Peltrie!” he announced.

“Now who’s this?”

“She will also be joining you on the voyage.”

“Another angel? How many can there be? What does she do?”

“Nothing.” Dauversière shrugged. He had the upper hand now.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t think she’ll get in the way. I’m sure of it.”

“That is the woman’s only virtue, that she won’t get in the way?” He was about to rant about the task at hand, the dangers, the deprivation, the toil.

“She has money,” Dauversière mentioned. “She’s paying the voyage for the entire company. The least we can do is accede to her request to go along.”

“That’s it? She has money?”

Dauversière offered his palms in a gesture of conciliation. “And she is a most pious woman. Therefore, she goes. All I can promise is that she won’t get in the way. She will be accompanied by Mademoiselle Charlotte Barré.”

“What? Who is she?”

“Her servant.”

“What does she do for our mission?” He had rigorously selected candidates based on their piety and capabilities. Now it seemed that women without appreciable worth were appearing out of thin air.

“She serves Madame de la Peltrie. Who has money. Trouble yourself no further, Paul. What’s done is done.”

Maisonneuve capitulated. He complimented Dauversière on being sly, for had he arranged an interview with Madame de la Peltrie and her servant before he had met Jeanne Mance, he would not have stood for these unnecessary developments. Heartened by the arrival of Mademoiselle Mance, his colleague had taken advantage of his accommodating mood.

“What’s next?” he asked his friend. He had little time for idle chat.

“Jean-Jacques is here, with news from across the sea. Prepare yourself. His disposition seemed grave.”

Olier, a short-haired man with a sharply receding hairline—in contrast to the flowing locks of the other two—did indeed appear before them in a sombre mood. Sitting beside Dauversière, he faced Maisonneuve, and such was the nature of his communication that he chose to clasp a hand of the other man in both of his.

“What news? From whom?” Maisonneuve pressed him.

“Montmagny.” The governor at Quebec. Maisonneuve already knew that the governor did not welcome his arrival, largely because the new colony would exist outside his immediate control. For services rendered to the king, title to the island of Montreal had been vested in Jean de Lauzon, who, unknown to the king, was a member of St. Sacrement. He had passed on the title to Dauversière’s company of gentlemen, and so the colonists were not crossing the ocean under the governance of France, but under the governance of God, to do God’s work. The number of French who had survived or been born into the New World or had travelled there since the time of Champlain was about 340, with about 150 at Quebec, 60 at Trois-Rivières, less than that number each at the communities of Beauport and Beaupré, while the rest had scattered along the St. Lawrence, clinging to the land and the river while managing a scant trade in furs. Of these, it was said, many ran with the Indians and had surrendered the Frenchman’s natural attributes for civilized life. They were thought to be in greater need of redemption than any Indian. Lalemant had warned Maisonneuve of this occurrence, for the New World could compel a man to live on the rivers and in the woods where he might lose his moral and spiritual compass. No one lived on the island of Montreal anymore, Indian or French, and Montmagny had already stated that he saw no value to the project there. He preferred that all new arrivals settle in Quebec, where he could observe them personally.

“What does the good governor have to say now?” Maisonneuve inquired.

“The Iroquois have broken the eternal peace that they made with Champlain. They’ve attacked.”

Sobering news indeed.

“Montmagny has been strengthening the fortifications at Quebec,” Olier continued, “and at the mouth of the River of the Iroquois. He states that he is fearful for all those who dwell along the St. Lawrence or in isolation. These men and women he cannot protect.”

“Montreal?” Dauversière asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.

“He cannot, and perhaps I should say he will not, protect Montreal,” Olier confirmed. “Of course, no one is there at the moment, but his opinion will not change with your arrival.”

Maisonneuve received the news and let it settle with him. This was not good. Their mission was exceptionally difficult, pitting a few stubborn French against the wilderness. Add to their woes the prospect of war, and the magnitude of their struggle had just been increased tenfold.

Olier limited the volume of his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s possible,” he suggested, “that Montmagny instigated the war with the Iroquois to coax new funds for fortifications and other projects. It’s a rumour that arrived on the same ship as the messenger to the king.”

Troubling news. If the governor at Quebec was willing to compromise the security of his people as a political gambit, then the new colony would be more vulnerable than Maisonneuve had imagined. He could envisage the possibility that Montmagny would benefit from seeing them sacrificed.

“We can withhold … delay … the voyage,” Dauversière whispered.

Maisonneuve gazed upon both men before speaking, and measured his tone so that there could be no doubting his resolve. “If all the trees on the island of Montreal turn into Iroquois warriors, my duty and honour require that I establish a colony there. I will speak these same words to Montmagny before I sail from Quebec to our island home.”

They were quiet at the table awhile, as though the words echoed among them.

“Well and good,” Olier concurred, although the gravity of his mood had not been displaced.

Dauversière, fearfully, for this mission had begun with his vision while he himself would be staying home, nodded his consent.

Just then, a lad burst around the corner of grain sacks, full of unabashed excitement. “Monsieur! Monsieur! It’s the cardinal! The cardinal is here!”

“What cardinal?” Olier chastised him. He held spiritual sway in this region, and was unimpressed by the interferences of Church officials.

“Richelieu!” the boy exclaimed.

For a man perhaps more powerful than the king to visit their endeavour so close to departure caused Olier to stand immediately and press his garments with both hands. Dauversière’s eyes went round and panicky, for he envisioned the entire project imperilled, if not doomed. Maisonneuve alone exercised guidance, cautioning his colleagues to relax.

“The court does not favour our enterprise!” Dauversière complained.

“Nor does the court fear it,” Maisonneuve pointed out. “Richelieu and the king are agreed on one salient point: they believe we are crossing the sea to our imminent demise. That being so, they perceive no reason to impede our progress. Our peril is of no concern to the king, and he may welcome it as much as Montmagny.”

Olier agreed. “You’re right, Paul. But then why is he here?”

“To wish us bon voyage, what else?”

Richelieu sought to do exactly that. Jeanne Mance had shown him into a further chamber in the warehouse where the group was stocking supplies, and she made him reasonably comfortable upon a chair. He wore the vestments of his office, appearing in a red and black cape. Obliged to remain standing, each of the courtiers in his entourage made it obvious that the quaint, humble surroundings remained unappreciated, even odious. The cardinal adjusted his arms to indicate the irritation of his hard and narrow seat.

Olier led his group in, kneeled and kissed the cardinal’s ring. Dauversière followed. Both men had met with him before, Olier as a religious leader, Dauversière as a tax collector. Maisonneuve, now, was the man Richelieu had come to see, and he accepted the humility of the soldier’s bow as he proffered his ring to be kissed. Maisonneuve attended to the obligation, then rose before the power of France.

“Sieur de Maisonneuve. So. You are the man for this task.”

“With God’s favour, Your Grace. We expect to embark in a week’s time, when wind and tide are favourable.”

“May you enjoy fair winds. Godspeed, Maisonneuve, to your destination.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. Your words are most heartening.”

Richelieu nodded, never removing his eyes from the man. “Yes. Yes,” he said. “I bring, gentlemen, greetings from the king. Everyone accepts that your … excursion … is born of religious zeal, and the king honours your fervour and wishes you well.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the three men repeated, almost in unison.

The cardinal lowered his voice a notch. “So that no misunderstanding should arise, the king has sent a gift to commemorate your voyage, to sanctify your travels with a token of his generosity.”

Raising a hand to draw the attention of an assistant, Richelieu received a wooden box onto his lap. The three pious men shared glances among themselves, curious that the cardinal had raised the issue of the king’s generosity when they had previously encountered only his parsimony with respect to this project. Richelieu opened the box, and before them lay a knife.

“This is the Dagger of Cartier,” he explained. “Given to Jacques Cartier by the Iroquois, and carried back to New France by Champlain. He lost the weapon to English pirates, but it was returned as part of a dowry paid by the king of England to the Holy Monarchy of France. Now it is the king’s wish that you receive the dagger from New France and carry it back with you to the New World, and he would bid you go in God’s grace.”

Their visitor resisted all requests that he remain to dine with his petitioners, or that they be permitted to see to his accommodation. While he protested that he had other men to visit in La Rochelle, that he was expected at the cathedral shortly, it was clear that he feared that the cuisine might not be to his standard and that any bed offered might prove insufficient for his rest.

“There is one more matter we should discuss,” Richelieu intimated. He was looking at Paul de Chomedey, Sieur de Maisonneuve, in particular.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Montmagny. He has built fortifications at the head of River of the Iroquois.”

“So I understand, Your Grace.”

“This name, River of the Iroquois, strikes me as inappropriate, given that the Indians have turned against us and instituted a war. Have you heard of this peril?”

“I have, Your Grace,” Maisonneuve admitted.

“Are you not deterred?”

“With the love of God, and the blessing of our king, we are each of us the more determined, Your Grace.”

“Well spoken.” He extended a hand for Dauversière, then Olier, to kiss his ring, not taking his eyes from Maisonneuve’s. “I will have you inform Montmagny that the River of the Iroquois shall be renamed. Do you have a suggestion?” Although he continued to gaze upon Maisonneuve, he asked, “Anyone?”

The others were flummoxed, but Maisonneuve, knowing that he required the acquiescence of this man if his party was to embark without impediment, suggested, “I believe, Your Grace, that the river shall be called, henceforth, the Richelieu.”

In surprise, the cardinal placed a hand upon his chest. “You do me greater honour than I deserve.”

“Not at all.”

In humility, Richelieu bent his head slightly. “Very well, then,” he concurred.

Once he had departed, Dauversière and Olier looked to Maisonneuve to explain the remarkable encounter.

“We have the king’s blessing, and carry with us tangible proof, Cartier’s dagger. Should we fail, we shall be remembered as religious zealots ill prepared for our undertaking. The king will have lost no treasure—merely a knife he does not value, sent back from whence it came. If we do not fail …”

Maisonneuve allowed his voice to trail off.

Close by, Jeanne Mance picked up his thought. “… If we do not fail, the king will claim a credit for our success. Such is the supremacy of his blessing, and the power of the Cartier Dagger.”

“The knife gave Richelieu his excuse to come here,” Maisonneuve noted, and frowned. “Really, it’s nothing more than a payment for the perpetuation of his name.”

Olier nodded. “Richelieu thinks of everything.”

“Which is what we must do,” Maisonneuve reminded them. “Come, let’s leave the cardinal to his politics. The rest of us must attend to lowly, practical affairs.”

In its case, he held the knife to his bosom. Whatever Richelieu’s cunning motive, he was glad to have received the dagger into his possession, his first contact with the New World, delivered now to the service of their endeavour.

Over the course of two days in 1642, May 17 and 18, the colonists landed on the island of Montreal, having wintered in grave discomfort at Quebec. Maisonneuve was the first to come ashore, bounding from his longboat and splashing through the water to fall upon his knees on the hallowed ground. They were alone, save for the ship’s crew, who followed them ashore, and the governor’s attendants. Each man and woman repeated Maisonneuve’s example and kissed the benevolent earth.

While the men worked diligently to unload their armaments and stores, tents, personal effects, seed bags and tools, three women, Jeanne Mance, Charlotte Barré and her mistress, Madame de la Peltrie, created an altar for evening prayers. The decorations, cut from wildflowers and undergrowth, earned the awe of the company as the people gathered in the evening light. In glass jars, Jeanne Mance had collected fireflies, and as the first mass on the island was conducted, the little bugs from the New World shone radiant light from the altar. Each man and woman knew they were being welcomed by God.

That night, they slept in their tents. In the morning, they set about creating a new village, scarcely looking up as the ships that had carried them from across the sea departed, leaving them alone in the wilderness with the trees and the animals and the persistent rumours of war.