The Adventures of Radisson. Back to the New World (3 page)

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.

T
he
Zeelhaen
had just tacked its sails. Despite the strong waves, the sailors cast a rowboat into the sea and kept it by the ship's side. Radisson quickly embraced his captain, the master he would have liked to follow a little longer, but now they were going their separate ways: one by land, one by sea. They kept the farewells to a minimum, to keep their sadness hidden away below the surface.

Radisson descended the rope ladder and jumped into the rowboat. He shouted a last goodbye to Johan and the crew, then turned his gaze to the port of La Rochelle. The entrance to the port was flanked by two high stone towers, which he could make out in the distance. The four sailors who accompanied him had a hard time rowing through the choppy water. It took them two hours to reach the town, at the far end of a large bay. The sea calmed as they approached the towers and they easily negotiated the narrow passage that led into the port. The rowboat pulled up to the stone wharf. Radisson grabbed hold of an iron rung and scaled a ladder. He was at last on French soil, back in the land where he was born. “Thank you!” he shouted down to the sailors, who headed straight back to the ship.

Radisson stood for a moment on the wharf. All he had with him were the clothes on his back, the warm but threadbare clothes the commander at Fort Orange and the Dutch sailors had given him, the purse containing forty
écus
, and the message from Father Poncet. Johan had advised him not to change his plan: the best course of action was to head to the Loire and follow the river to Paris. Radisson would have to double back to Nantes or Angers. How exactly remained to be seen.

A cold wind blew over the port. Four or five ships of considerable tonnage were anchored a short distance from the inland basin, with smaller boats shuttling back and forth between them and the wharf. La Rochelle was a place where people came to trade. So much activity surprised Radisson, even though it was nothing compared to Amsterdam. He walked past a group of people taking shelter from the wind and the cold next to the high stone houses by the water, then took the first street he saw into town.

He recognized the style of the two- and three-storey stone homes that leaned over the narrow, winding streets. He felt at home. But the passersby dashed past him, holding their woolen capes close. He seemed strange to them. He walked aimlessly, being sure to stay close to the port, the one landmark he knew. Merchants had spread out their wares beneath the stone archways he walked through: fabric, bricks, cabbages, bread, ironwork. He saw an inn or two. Perhaps he would stay there. His random course brought him back to the square by the port where an inhospitable gust whipped his face. Better to go back to one of the inns and ask for directions and perhaps find help.

Radisson chose the inn that looked the most welcoming. As soon as he stepped inside, the open fire that sighed with contentment in the fireplace beckoned him. He walked over and held his hands in front of it to warm up. The fireplace was so big there was plenty of room for him to stand by the fire. He stole a glance at the innkeeper and a group of seven or eight men who were chatting noisily around a long wooden table not far away. In the half-light at the back of the inn, a couple was eating in silence. The group did not seem to have noticed Radisson, but the innkeeper was keeping an eye on him. Radisson tried to be as discreet as possible, turning to look at the sculpted stone above the fire. An attractive ash shovel was propped against the fireplace, beside a long wrought iron poker. He felt better here.

The seven men finished their meal, but continued to drink their wine. They spoke loudly, waved their arms around, and talked all over each other. Radisson caught snatches of their conversation. Something was bothering them. Some of them were angry. But the innkeeper had grown impatient and wasn't going to let Radisson spend all day beside the fire. From behind his long wooden counter, he shouted over:

“Hey, stranger! What's your business here? Have you come to eat or to drink?”

“I'm warming myself up,” Radisson replied.

“Well, warm yourself up somewhere else! I don't like strangers hanging about my inn. Are you Dutch?”

The young man's odd clothing had aroused his suspicions.

“I have come from Amsterdam, but I am French. I have money. I'd like to stay here.”

The innkeeper calmed down.

“Well, then. I might have a room for you.”

“I crossed the ocean on a Dutch boat. I have come from Canada.”

Radisson didn't say another word. Instead, he waited for the innkeeper's reaction. Even in a busy port like this, with many travellers passing through every day, Radisson wasn't sure if the innkeeper would have heard of the colony. But he raised his eyebrows and replied loudly, addressing the men seated at the table along with Radisson.

“From Canada, you say?”

Two members of the group turned around right away.

“I spent three years there. Now I must go to Paris to deliver an urgent message. Someone advised me to follow the Loire. I'm wondering if he was right.”

One of the two who had turned around at the mention of Canada walked over to Radisson, looking wary. He was a great strapping fellow, tall and stout. He stood a good half-head taller than Radisson.

“So you're back from Canada?” he asked.

“Yes. My sisters live there, too. In Trois-Rivières.”

He didn't want to mention that he had spent almost all his time among the Iroquois. No Frenchman could understand what he had been through.

“My cousin lives in Québec, and his sister, too,” the hulk of a man went on, pointing at the other man who had turned around at talk of the colony. “Guillaume and I know Canada well. This year, the sailors coming back tell us there's no trade to be had because of a war with the Wildmen. They say that's it, they won't be back again. What do you say?”

Radisson could sense a trap. The man wanted to see if he really had come from New France.

“You mean the Iroquois? It's true they're great warriors. But the French will win the day, that's for sure. No point letting our heads go down. The fur trade'll pick up again after the war.”

“That's not what we're hearing here. Seems as though lots of
habitants
are thinking about coming back. Even the ones who have been in the colony for years. Guillaume and I are worried about our families.”

“There are also Indians who are with the French. I've even heard Iroquois talk of peace, with my own ears. I wouldn't worry too much, if I were you. The sailors were just passing through. I spent three years there.”

The heavy-set man now brushed against Radisson with his belly. His look was hard, his tone aggressive.

“Do you know his sister, Jeanne-Marie Hunault, née Pichon? Or my cousin, Toussaint Lafond? Ever heard of them?”

“No,” Radisson replied, looking him square in the eye. “I don't know everyone in Québec. I live in Trois-Rivières.”

“What are your sisters called?”

“Marguerite and Françoise. The eldest is married to Jean Véron dit Grandmesnil. He's an officer of the militia. Françoise is a servant for the Jesuits.”

Now it was Radisson's turn to quiz them. The big man took a step back.

“Grandmesnil rings a bell. What's your name again?”

“Pierre-Esprit Radisson, like my father. I was born in Paris.”

“What brought you here on a Dutch boat? Last time I checked, the Dutch had nothing to do with Canada.”

“The French boats had all gone when I learned I needed to go to Paris urgently. We came through Acadia. The Dutch trade over there and are the only ones to cross the Atlantic so late in the season. They're the best sailors in the world, you know.”

“And what takes you to Paris?”

“I have a message for the Jesuits. It's important, urgent even.”

His story checked out. The Dutch were the best sailors; the captains in La Rochelle often took them on. And everything he said about the colony made sense. The big man decided to trust Radisson.

“Come sit with us,” he said, relaxing. “Tell us what's going on over there. Not every day you meet someone who lives in Canada. I'm Jacques Laîné dit Legros.”

All the men were carters, cartwrights, or day labourers. They worked together at a transport company. Their conversation was very animated because the man they worked for had been killed at war. Rumour had it his rival was planning to marry the widow to get his hands on all his land. If the couple did get married, that would mean less work for them: the rival had his own network of carters and merchants, even mercenaries to protect his men and his goods. What's more, hay and oats cost more than ever. They were afraid the poorhouse beckoned now that their master was dead.

With one ear on their conversation, Radisson tried his best to answer Jacques and Guillaume's questions about New France. He said as little as possible so they wouldn't catch on that he hadn't set foot there in two years. Maybe their news was more up-to-date than his. Now that he was in their good books, he wanted their help. When the time came, he turned the discussion back to his trip to Paris. Laîné tried to get the group's attention.

“Listen up!” he said. “Our friend from Canada wants to know how to get to Paris.”

“Why Paris?” one of the carters asked. “You'd be better off staying here, believe me.”

“I have no choice,” Radisson replied. “I absolutely have to deliver this message.”

“He's right,” chimed in another. “It's not a good idea going to Paris at the minute. Stay here. Life is good in La Rochelle.”

Radisson was keen to find out why they were trying to put him off leaving for Paris, but before he could get the question out, the innkeeper had set down an appetizing white loaf with a hunk of cheese in front of him.

“Eat up! Let me know what you think. The Dutch wouldn't know a good meal if they ran into one.”

While he was at the table, the innkeeper set down another jug of wine. The carters roared with delight.

The tasty bread melted in Radisson's mouth as he devoured his food, a real feast after so many weeks spent eating biscuits as hard as rocks. The cheese delighted his taste buds, as soft and satisfying as a woman's touch. He felt like a new man. As Radisson ate, Jacques Laîné spoke up again to ask which route their visitor should take.

“And the Loire? Do you think he should follow the Loire? Is that the best way to Paris?”

“If he's willing to give it a try,” one man piped up, “that's the way to go. If you're feeling brave, lad, that's the way. You don't look much of a pushover, so go for it. Find yourself a barge and get as far as you can. After that, well, you'll see for yourself…”

“No one will want to take you there by horse, at any rate,” added another. “The Loire is the best route.”

The men went back to their conversation, the volume rising as the level of the wine in the jug fell. Only Laîné still seemed interested in talk of Paris, shouting down to a small man at the other end of the table who hadn't yet said a word.

“Nicolas, you're off to Nantes tomorrow. Couldn't you take him with you? You'd be doing him a favour and you'd have a fine escort to put your mind at ease.”

The man remained hunched up in his chair, his glass of wine in his hand, hesitant and silent. Four days earlier, he had learned he needed to go to Nantes to visit his sick mother. He was reluctant to leave because of the weather, and the money he would lose, and most of all because he considered the journey dangerous. He had plucked together all his courage to do his duty as a son and was ready to leave, but the thought of travelling in these uncertain times terrified him. He glanced quickly at Laîné, then at the young stranger, wondering if he could trust him.

“Speak up, Nicolas! You're afraid of your own shadow! Look how strong he is! You'll have nothing to fear alongside him. What do you say?”

Radisson put on his broadest smile to win the carter over.

“What if he's a thief?” Nicolas countered. “We don't even know where he's come from. Look at how he's dressed! I don't trust him.”

“He's from Canada, Nicolas. I'm sure he's telling the truth. I've already heard tell of Grandmesnil. You'll both be doing each other a favour. Come on, Nicolas, one good turn…”

“My mother still lives in Paris,” added Radisson, sticking out his chest to look as brave and strong as he could manage, but not too much so as not to frighten the man they claimed was afraid of his own shadow. “I was born there. I'm a Frenchman, just like you! The Dutch gave me these old clothes so I wouldn't get cold on the crossing. If the Jesuits trust me to deliver one of their messages, you have nothing to fear, I swear!”

Radisson went as far as crossing himself to show he was a good Christian. But Nicolas still wasn't sure. The stranger was strong and everyone said you needed to be fearless to go to Canada. He would be safe with him. He could even ask for a little money, if he worked up the courage.

Jacques Laîné lost interest with the carter still to reply. It was none of his business, after all. Neither Guillaume nor anyone else wanted to get involved. Radisson made one last effort, flashing Nicolas his winning smile… At last, the carter made up his mind.

“If you dress like a Frenchman, I'll bring you!” he exclaimed, setting down his wine with a bang on the table.

“With pleasure!” Radisson agreed. “I'll find myself something to wear tonight. Thank you!”

“Promise you'll defend us if we run into thieves along the way.”

“I promise!”

“We'll meet here tomorrow in front of the inn, when the cock crows.”

“I'll be there!”

That evening, the innkeeper sent for a secondhand clothes dealer so that Radisson could buy the French clothes he needed. He kept only the old wool sailor's jacket to keep him warm. He spent the night in front of the fire, on a straw mattress on the floor, to be sure he wouldn't miss the appointment the next morning.