Читать книгу The Explorations of Père Marquette - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 4

Table of Contents

Father François le Mercier, or Père le Mercier, as he was known to the French-speaking people of Quebec, where he was Superior of the Jesuit Mission, picked up his goose quill. Dipping it in ink, he wrote:

"October 10, 1666. Père Jacques Marquette goes up to Three Rivers to study the Algonquin language with Père Druilettes."

Père le Mercier leaned back for a moment of quiet thought. Then he rose and went into the chapel. He must offer a prayer for the safety of Père Marquette and those who accompanied him. Though the homelands of the Iroquois, bitter enemies of all Frenchmen, were to the south and west, the fierce Indians sometimes came into the very outskirts of Quebec itself.

And the Iroquois were again on the warpath.

Sitting in the big birch-bark canoe that was carrying him and his companions up the broad St. Lawrence, young Père Marquette knew a happiness such as he had never felt before. To this end—to travel up this river into the dark and almost unknown wilderness of North America—he had shaped his entire life.

Père Marquette watched the French Canadian boatmen, or voyageurs, who shared the canoe. Then he shifted his paddle, trying to grip it exactly as his seat mate held his. About three feet long, including the grip, and about three inches wide at the blade, the paddle was light and delicate. However, Père Marquette had found out speedily that handling it properly was an art. He tried to forget the ache in his shoulders.

They had been on the river less than an hour, and already he was tiring! He remembered the instructions given him before he left France:

"You should love the Indians as brothers. Never make them wait for you in embarking. Do nothing to annoy them upon their various journeys."

Père Marquette smiled softly. Plainly the training he had received in the Jesuit college at Nancy, and later as a teacher in various places, was only part of what a missionary to wilderness savages must know. He must never annoy the Indians, but he knew that he was annoying his companions now.

They did not express their displeasure openly, for all of them were deeply religious and were honored to have a missionary in their craft. But the big thirty-five-foot canoe, carrying thousands of pounds of goods for the French trading post at Three Rivers and manned by Père Marquette and thirteen voyageurs, would have gone more swiftly and smoothly had there been fourteen voyageurs.

Père Marquette turned intent eyes on the supple back of the canoeman just ahead of him. There was a definite rhythm in the way the man handled his paddle. It seemed to be an extension of his own arm.

Père Marquette tried hard to swing his paddle with that of the little voyageur, but it was impossible. All the voyageurs were stroking once every second, in perfect time, sinking their paddles eighteen inches into the river and bringing them back in unison. The canoe would have gone forward as smoothly as a greyhound on fresh quarry if every paddler had done exactly the same thing.

Père Marquette could not. The paddles in the voyageurs' hands seemed alive. His was simply another wooden thing, but it was not so wooden as his arms and shoulders seemed now. This was the most difficult physical labor he had ever attempted. Père Marquette did his best to keep up with the others, but he almost dropped his oar into the river.

Then, just as he knew that he could not force one more stroke, the canoe glided to a halt in a quiet cove.

At once the bowman and the steersman pushed slender poles over the side into the river's soft bottom and anchored the canoe by holding onto the poles. There was a flurry of activity as each man hauled out a pipe and a pouch of tobacco. Sparks flew from flint and steel, and thirteen canoemen puffed in contentment.

Père Marquette relaxed gratefully. He was about to shift his legs to a more comfortable position when he was halted by the steersman's alarmed, "No!"

Père Marquette looked questioningly around. The steersman, Pierre du Chesne, chided him.

"The canoe, she is only bark. You must learn how to move or you make the hole."

"I'm sorry," Père Marquette said, and tried to ease his aching legs by flexing their muscles. He should have remembered, for he had also been instructed in canoeing before he left France. The fragile bark canoes were very easily damaged. Anyone who embarked in such a craft must always exercise the utmost care.

The voyageurs smoked their pipes to the end, and the canoe was put under way once more. Père Marquette did his best to find the proper rhythm of paddling, and still could not. His arms became huge, aching things that seemed ready to drop off. He found himself looking forward to the next stop and the next pipe.

They had left Quebec at daylight, but the sun was sinking and evening shadows were gathering before the steersman swung the canoe towards the shore. In spite of the sun, the air was cold. Père Marquette gathered his black robe tighter about him, grateful for its warmth. Paddling more slowly, the canoemen moved their big craft towards the lee of a wooded island, off the shore of which swam a flock of ducks. The paddlers stopped in shallow water fifty yards below the ducks, which watched curiously but without fear.

So expert that they scarcely rocked the canoe, each paddler sprang out to land knee-deep in the icy river. Sticks were driven into the river bottom beside the canoe, and to these the craft was anchored.

Père Marquette hesitated. He had stepped into the canoe from a pier, and until now it had never occurred to him that there must be some safe way of leaving the craft. He looked doubtfully at the water, not afraid of a cold bath, but unsure that he could disembark without damaging the canoe.

Pierre du Chesne waded to his side and looked pleasantly up.

"Come," he invited.

"Come?"

"Get upon my shoulders," the little steersman said. "I will carry you."

Still doubtful, but not knowing what else to do, Père Marquette stood erect. The canoe rocked alarmingly, and voyageurs gathered on either side to steady it. Père Marquette placed his legs beneath Pierre du Chesne's arms, and grasped his mount by the shoulders. At once the Jesuit felt a sense of confidence.

All the voyageurs were small, none over five feet six, but they were very strong. Never faltering, absolutely sure of his footing on the slippery river bottom, Pierre du Chesne carried Père Marquette ashore and put him down. Other voyageurs came with various bundles. Pierre du Chesne shook himself and laughed.

"Ha! A good place!"

"The island?" asked Père Marquette.

"Yes," replied du Chesne. "We see the Iroquois if they come."

Pierre walked back to the canoe, and returned with a bell-mouthed gun called a blunderbuss. He strode up the shore until he was opposite the ducks. Then, raising his gun, he discharged it into the flock.

There was a great squawking and a mighty thrashing of wings as startled birds beat hurriedly into the air. But a dozen floated quietly, limp wings spread and heads trailing beneath the water.

Père Marquette looked at them with interest. This was his first experience with men who killed food as they traveled. However, neither Pierre du Chesne nor any of the other boatmen made any move towards the slain ducks.

Père Marquette looked questioningly towards the steersman.

"Are you not going to recover your game?"

"No," said du Chesne. "Food we have."

"Why did you shoot them?"

"It is no matter," Pierre du Chesne shrugged. "When one is shot, two will come to take its place."

Père Marquette said nothing. His heart had bade him work among the savages of the new world. He had not expected his own French countrymen to be only a little less savage than the Indians, but he could not change that. Meanwhile, he could think of the voyageurs' many good qualities. Certainly they could not be excelled as water men!

As though by magic a fire had sprung up and a big kettle, supported on three stones, stood over it. The kettle was three-quarters filled with water into which a brooding cook was measuring dried peas, a quart for each man. When the mixture was soft enough, the cook added to it three or four pounds of finely cut fat pork.

Père Marquette sniffed hungrily. The stew was crude, but it smelled appetizing.

"We eat," Pierre du Chesne said with enthusiasm.

Père Marquette took his place beside the fire and gravely received the huge portion which the little cook ladled out on his plate. The Jesuit ate slowly, with a spoon, trying not to look at his companions, who were noisily stuffing the stew into their mouths with greasy fingers or even licking it direct from the plates.

When Père Marquette had finished he went down to the river to wash his plate and spoon. Then he replaced them in his kit of personal belongings. Apparently a Jesuit had only one privilege in this wild land. When there was danger that he would upset the canoe in disembarking, he could be carried ashore. Otherwise he would do his full share of the work.

After eating, Père Marquette sat quietly, near enough the fire so that he could take advantage of its heat, but far enough away so that he would not interfere with his companions. It had been an exhausting day, and he could not remember ever having been more tired. The voyageurs could not feel differently.

Père Marquette went a little farther away from the fire and sought his blankets. He drew them around him, reveling in their warmth. Although he was tired, his happiness soared to new peaks. This was an unknown land, a dark country filled with savage and heathenish tribes. It was the finest possible land for one such as he.

As he rested, strange sounds puzzled him. Raising himself from his blankets, he looked towards the fire. The voyageurs, who had paddled from dawn to dark, a full twelve hours, were dancing around the fire and singing! Père Marquette's smile seemed to illumine his gentle features. These canoemen must spring from some hardy super-race.

He fell asleep to the sound of their gay song. The stars were still bright in the heavens early in the morning when he was awakened by a hand on his shoulder. Pierre du Chesne said, "Come now."