Читать книгу The Explorations of Père Marquette - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 5

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Shortly after noon of the next day they reached a place seventy-five miles from Quebec. This was Three Rivers, which stood where the St. Maurice River empties into the St. Lawrence. It was a village of bark shanties and log huts. The stockaded buildings of the French fur traders dwarfed everything around them.

Père Marquette watched with interest as the big canoe swung in towards a pier that thrust like a long finger into the river. Three Rivers, he had heard, was an outpost of some five hundred people. It was also a meeting place of tribes wandering to or from their favorite hunting grounds. As a result, Three Rivers was apt at times to have anywhere from half a dozen to several thousand visitors.

A throng lined the shore, and so many people had come out onto the pier that it seemed in danger of collapsing from their weight alone. Père Marquette saw warriors, naked even in this cold weather save for a breechcloth. French woods-runners and trappers, gay in colorful clothing, looked as if they owned the place. Squaws roamed about with babies on their backs. Curious children stared shyly. A horde of assorted dogs howled and barked so loudly that their clamor drowned out every other noise.

The canoe glided smoothly next to the wharf, and every canoeman on the pier side reached out to steady it.

Pierre du Chesne said to Père Marquette, "Step upon the pier. Be careful you do not fall."

Gathering his small packet of belongings, Père Marquette stepped out of the canoe onto the rough-hewn pier. He stood uncertainly, not knowing exactly what to do in this wild place. A fierce-looking Indian with a hawk's wing in his hair swaggered insolently down the pier.

"One side, Black Robe!" he growled in French.

Père Marquette stepped aside, letting the proud warrior pass. He looked about in bewilderment, trying to bring some order out of what seemed utter confusion. Then he felt a hand on his elbow and whirled to face another black-robed Jesuit.

"You are Père Marquette?" the stranger asked.

"I am," Père Marquette replied. "And you are Père Druilettes?"

"Indeed, that is I," said the other man. "I had word three days ago that you would arrive with Pierre's canoe."

Père Marquette looked with vast respect at the lined face of the older Jesuit. He was a man who knew the wilderness and the savages in it better than almost anyone else. Père Druilettes had lived much among the Abenakis of Maine, and he had also worked among other tribes. He laid a gentle hand on Père Marquette's elbow.

"Come, Jacques—I may call you Jacques? We will go where we may talk without being shouted or barked down. There is always great interest when a canoe arrives with trade goods."

"I must confess that I had not expected such a horde," Père Marquette admitted.

Père Druilettes laughed. "This is only a small portion of two tribes. We'll have a larger gathering in the spring, when the Indians come with more fur, and later in the fall. Did you have a hard journey?"

"It seemed so to me."

"The first canoe trip always seems endless," Père Druilettes said. "However, you will become so accustomed to this mode of travel that in time you will outdo the voyageurs at their own trade."

The two men made their way through the crowd on the pier and the bank. Some of the Indians stood graciously aside. Others, like the chieftain who had brushed past Père Marquette on the pier, stayed where they were and pretended not to notice the two Jesuits. Expertly Père Druilettes steered Père Marquette around these Indians and headed away from the water. As the two men drew farther back, the clamor on the shore died out.

"May I see your church?" Père Marquette asked.

"Spoken like a Jesuit! It is this way," said Père Druilettes.

He guided Père Marquette past the rows of buildings and into a quiet grove of trees. Beyond this, on a small hillock that rose to command a view of the river, nestled a log church graced by a finely polished cross. Père Druilettes opened the door and stood aside so Père Marquette could enter. There was a little silence and then the two priests knelt and prayed.

When they rose, Père Druilettes asked, "What do you think of it?"

"It is not what I had expected."

"It is not," Père Druilettes said wistfully, "to be compared with the cathedrals of France."

"Oh, but you mistake me!" Père Marquette insisted. "It is peaceful and beautiful, and altogether fitting for a church! I had expected in this new world to have almost nothing save an altar stone."

Père Marquette thought of the little altar stone he had brought from France. With the stone, a missionary could conduct services on the stump of a tree or anything else he could find. What missionary could expect to have a church in the wilderness?

"You will not be disappointed, Jacques," said Père Druilettes, laughing. "A fair share of the time an altar stone will be all that you'll have. Now I think you must be weary. Come, I will show you to our quarters."

Père Druilettes led his companion to a neat log house near the church, and entered. An Indian boy with one withered leg and a pleasant, smiling face limped as he came to meet them. Père Druilettes laid a gentle hand on the youth's head.

"This is François," he said in French. "I found him in the snow, where his tribe had left him to die. Having only one useful leg, he could not keep up with their winter travels. Ever since then he has attached himself to me. François is an excellent cook and housekeeper." Père Druilettes grimaced. "He is even clean."

The Indian boy said something in his own tongue and Père Druilettes translated.

"He bids a happy welcome to Père Jacques Marquette, and hopes you may prosper in your mission here."

"Will you have him repeat it?" Père Marquette requested.

"Be not overeager, Jacques. One does not master the Algonquin tongue in a single day, or in many days. However, since my sentiments and François' are similar, I will repeat them slowly for you."

Père Marquette made a stumbling attempt to say the words after the older priest, tasting them with his tongue, rolling them over and over, eager for their full flavor. It was a strange language, unlike any European tongue, but he would master it. He must. One did not go out among Indians unless one was prepared to speak to them in their own language. François looked puzzled at Père Marquette's attempt to speak Algonquin. Père Druilettes smiled.

"Not at all a sorry first attempt. But you must be very weary, Jacques. Rest until our dinner is prepared."

François scurried about and laid a fire on the hearth. Its warmth took the raw chill out of the room. Père Marquette reclined in a chair, a wooden frame covered with stretched moose hide. Sitting in a similar chair, Père Druilettes was serious.

"Jacques, I shall not tell you what to expect. Had our superior in France not felt that you could do a Jesuit's work, you never would be here. But tell me, what are your impressions of our wild land?"

"It is impossible to tell you!" exclaimed Père Marquette. "Those wild rivermen! The weariness of paddling! The savages that met us! I fear that as yet I have no clear thoughts."

"You still feel that it is worthwhile?"

"If I came this far, and much farther, and converted but one savage, I would not have failed."

Père Druilettes said, "You will go far, Jacques."

"I do not understand you," Père Marquette replied.

"You will journey a long way as a Jesuit, and I am glad that you have come. Here is François."

The Indian boy put on the table a dish of venison haunch cooked with wild rice and another dish of pounded corn. Père Marquette ate heartily, for he was very hungry. Then he leaned back in his chair.

"Don't you think you should sleep?" Père Druilettes asked.

"I would like to."

"Then do so. I shall awaken you only if it is necessary."

Père Marquette settled his tired body on the bed, marveling at the richness of the tanned furs that covered it. Almost at once he fell into a sound sleep.

So deeply did he slumber that, when he was awakened, he thought himself back on the river with Pierre du Chesne shaking him. Père Marquette opened his eyes to stare at a single lighted candle on the table. He heard Père Druilettes' soft, "Come, Jacques, there is work for us."