The Adventures of Radisson. Back to the New World (7 page)

* * *

Three days of heavy rain had made the Loire easier to navigate.
La Louve
continued on to Orléans without incident. Touchet made a stop to unload the last barrels of salt and pay for the goods bought from the widow. Jean Roussin left the money behind with a merchant they regularly did business with so that Catherine could have it, come what may. Touchet also brought his young nephew and further provisions on board.

As they approached Briare, where the brand new canal opened up to join the Loire to the Seine, scenes of devastation became increasingly common. A rebel prince's army had passed through the area, his men behaving like foxes in the henhouse, pillaging and ransacking everything in their path. All along the shore,
La Louve
's crew observed the ruins of a deserted hamlet in silence. Cow and horse skeletons littered the ground, picked clean by crows now retreated to the blackened beams of burned-down buildings. Things were looking bleak.

“Soldiers set up camp not far from here,” explained Touchet. “They say they stayed barely two weeks, just time enough to take everything.”

Radisson loved the new canal. The locks allowed them to easily negotiate the handful of small valleys that separated the two rivers. The days of transferring their goods on and off the boat were behind them. No longer would they have to make long journeys by cart. What a boon to trade! What a bold move it had been to create a new river in all but name!

As they neared the junction of the Seine, a menacing-looking young man appeared on the high embankment to their left. He was soon followed by three, six, then ten more of his companions, each eyeing the sacks of wheat piled high on the barge. Touchet ordered the crew to each take a stick and grabbed for himself the two long kitchen knives he had taken on board at Orléans. Jean and Thomas clutched the long poles they had picked out to keep would-be assailants at bay, pointing with them at the thugs as they hurried along the embankment in pursuit of the barge. Touchet's unpredictable nephew, who hadn't yet turned thirteen, twirled his club awkwardly above his head, more to reassure himself than to scare off the bandits, all of whom were bigger and stronger than he was. Radisson held in one hand a short stick similar to an Iroquois club and in the other a nicked kitchen knife Touchet had loaned him. If they attacked, he would use his eagle-head knife instead. He could already feel its reassuring presence against his skin. The powerful spirit within it reassured him that they would overcome this gang of thieves, even though they were outnumbered two to one.

“Look out!” cried Touchet, spying the robbers' leader working a slingshot.

A rock slammed into the barge. Touchet only just missed it by diving behind the freeboard. The other bandits sent a shower of rocks their way. The four men hid behind the sacks of wheat. No one had been hit. Radisson and Roussin countered, flinging back any rocks within arm's reach.

The gang disappeared for a moment behind the embankment. They reappeared further along and rained more projectiles down upon the barge, which the crew again only narrowly avoided. The thieves beat a retreat just as quickly as they had reappeared and repeated the manoeuvre three times without hitting anyone. After an hour of this game of cat and mouse, their attackers disappeared for good as the last lock approached.

That evening, Touchet dropped anchor right in the middle of the Seine and designated nightwatchmen to ensure the robbers would not surprise them. The night passed without incident and they left again early the next morning.

The rebel armies had been in this area for a while now. They went through a large village where everything had been burned to the ground. Of one hundred or so homes, nothing remained but wood frames and half-collapsed stone walls. A year had passed since the carnage and still no one had come back to live there. Radisson had never seen such complete and utter desolation. It reminded him of a story his father Garagonké used to tell him about the destruction of the Hurons. War destroys all.

The barge went by another pile of ruins, this time a small town surrounded by a wall that had not been able to keep the soldiers out. A few locals wandered around among the patched-up buildings. Thomas told them that here the soldiers had disembowelled the townsfolk after taking their homes and possessions. No one had ever seen the like of it. They raped the women then stuffed their vaginas with powder and blew them up. It made them laugh. The very thought of it sent shivers down Radisson's spine.

Two days later, they arrived without mishap in sight of Charenton. Once the barge had been secured near the bakers' camp, Radisson jumped out onto dry land to join a convoy headed for Paris. He took an
écu
out of his purse as he ran and showed it to a baker who let him scramble up onto his cart. He didn't turn round to wave goodbye to his companions. He had helped Touchet as much as the cantankerous boatman had helped him. Their work together was over now. The others had been nothing more than fleeting shadows. In the devastated world he was discovering, it was every man for himself. Paris was within reach. That was all that mattered.

* * *

Father Le Jeune was enjoying a break. It was a grey day and he was having trouble writing the
Relations
, Jesuit reports of news from New France based on letters sent to him by missionaries earlier that year. The jubilation of earlier days had given way to grave problems. His task was becoming harder and more complicated. But it was mainly the previous day's visit from Vincent de Paul that was weighing on his mind. A tireless man, he had come to ask Le Jeune to support his efforts to convince the Society of Jesus to do more for Paris's poor. Vincent had set up a network to aid the destitute, but it was not enough. He needed more money, more staff. The needs were tremendous.

Father Le Jeune left aside the documents that were piling up on his desk. Peering out his office window from the third floor of the Saint-Germain novitiate, he despaired at the sad state of affairs. The faubourg had been more or less spared by the opposing armies, but it was still in a real mess. The pain and the poverty were palpable. Vincent de Paul had reminded him that the hard times some had fallen on were unbearable. The Jesuit was eager to help these poor people. It was his order's duty, he said. Unfortunately, Le Jeune's cause was the missions in Canada, where things were scarcely better. And, in these troubled times, it was harder than ever to find money for the ambitious project. “Why so much suffering, Lord?” he asked himself. “Why so much suffering?”

He came back to sit down at his desk, picked up his quill and wrote a word or two. But his heart was no longer in it. From the pile of papers he had left on the desk, again he picked up the note a messenger from Amsterdam had delivered to him ten days ago. He read it again, trying to grasp its exact meaning for he could see very little hope between the lines.

Amsterdam, January 6, 1654

Father Le Jeune,

This brief note complements another I wrote last evening and that a young man by the name of Radisson will deliver to you shortly. In the note I entrusted to him, I recommend you take him into our service and assure you that he will be most helpful on our missions in Canada. I hereby confirm the sound opinion I have of the young man. Nonetheless, I urge you to be prudent. He lived for two years among the Iroquois and I know that he was fond of these barbarians. Let us be on our guard. Please ensure that the note he carries is still correctly sealed and keep a close eye on him for a while. Please take him in hand in the future. For even though I have returned him to the straight and narrow of our faith, I believe a relapse is still to be feared. You have laboured longer than I in Canada and will know what to expect. You will no doubt be able to exercise your perceptive mind and recognize in him either a faithful servant to our Society or an opportunist seeking to profit from our influence and our funds. Please be vigilant, I beseech you. May God help you.

Joseph Poncet

Le Jeune was now certain Poncet was the missionary the Iroquois had captured near Québec. His colleagues had told him about the capture in their letters. It had to be him. So the Iroquois had released him. Or Poncet had escaped… He wondered if it was a sign that the Iroquois' hold on the colony was slipping at last. Otherwise, why the gesture of goodwill on their part? Nothing in the note shed any light on the matter. If the Iroquois had freed Poncet, there was hope that things in New France might be improving. But was that really so?

As for Radisson, try as he might Le Jeune couldn't find any trace of him, in his memories or even in past correspondence. He had never heard tell of the young man. He was eagerly awaiting his arrival, hoping that he might be able to tell him more about the Iroquois' state of mind. For him and many other French settlers in Canada, the nation remained an enigma. He also hoped Poncet's first note would be clearer.

The Jesuit inspected the note again to be sure he had not missed any information in the margins or on the back of the page. But no, he had read every word of it. He read it again carefully.

He began to think its author might be slightly unbalanced. Perhaps Poncet had undergone a traumatic experience at the hands of the Iroquois. It was possible. One thing was clear, though: Poncet was free, and that was encouraging. The Iroquois had not killed him like Father Brébeuf and Father Lalemant. Objectively, there was cause for hope.

As a precaution, he warned all the Jesuit institutions in Paris of Radisson's impending arrival. It was an event he did not want to miss.

Giving free rein to his imagination, Le Jeune was suddenly struck by how the news had reached him. The image of the Dutch rider handing him the message, exhausted, barely coming down from his horse at all, his clothes dusty, with his long black riding boots and his old feathered hat… The coincidence got him thinking about a theme for the retreat he would be leading the week before Easter.

Hope was sometimes born of the most curious circumstances. That's why, even in the darkest moments, even in the face of situations that appeared to be devoid of all hope, as when Christ had been crucified, one had to keep the faith and continue to pray, for God was almighty and always looking down over his flock.

N
ever 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.