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The Marin Family Chronicles--Volume 1-Book 4

The Warriors by Charles O. Goulet

Chapter One -- The Villebon Expedition

    Pierre Marin, forty years old, stared out the narrow window with its rare piece of glass.  He would soon be forty-one, living in a house that he had not built, on land that he had not prepared, in a land that was almost foreign to him.  Saturday, January 3, 1691, winter had a firm grip on the land that he now possessed.
    He winced as a twinge of pain shot through his right side.  The wound that he received at the siege of Quebec, although it appeared completely healed, still bothered him with these sharp, piercing spasms that ran from his waist to his right hip.  He tried to ignore them, but sometimes they were so acute that he almost cried out.
    The window looked out on the south shore of the broad St. Lawrence.  The winter road on the river ice was well established and well travelled as it was the main route between Montreal and the seigniories along the south shore.  As he watched, a lone horseman swung from the river up toward his log house.  He peered at the man, but he did not recognize him.
    The horse was a heavy-set bay with a white face and four white stockings, not an ideal riding horse, but the man who sat on its bare back seemed comfortable and relaxed.  He urged the horse up the shallow bank toward the house.  Obviously he was coming to visit the Marins.
    Pierre turned to the interior where Francoise, his wife, and his three sons busied themselves at various activities.  Francoise stooped over a large iron pot that swung from a crane over the glowing bed of coals in the stone fireplace.  Pierre Edouard, the eldest son, a sturdy fifteen year old, sat at the rough table before the fireplace, cleaning and oiling a long musket, which already shone from attentive care.  Jean Francois, the second son, a light-haired, blue-eyed version of his father, watched his older brother with disinterest.  The third boy, seven year old Charles Robert, kept his eyes on the stew that his mother was preparing.
    "We've a visitor."  Pierre remarked to the group.
    Young Charles jumped from the bench by the table, his eyes now glowing with interest.  "Who is it?"  His voice rippled with anticipation.
    "I don't know, but he's on horseback."
    The young boy's eyes glistened more brightly.  "A real horse."
    Jean growled at his younger brother, "What do you expect.  If Papa said it was a horse, what do you think it would be, if not a real horse."
    These days the two boys bickered constantly to Francoise's annoyance.  She turned from the fire and remonstrated quietly.  "Boys, don't start arguing now."
    Pierre moved to the heavy planked door, which was secured with a thick wooden bar.  He raised the strong latch and swung the door outward.  All the doors in the settlement were arranged in the same way to make it more difficult for an attacker to force the door.  The door creaked on its hardwood, unoiled hinges.
    The stranger had already dismounted and was tying the reins to a post before the house placed there for just such a purpose.  He lifted his head.  On his head he wore a long stocking cap pulled low over his forehead.  A dark bearded obscured the lower part of his face that was further hidden by the wide collar of his heavy cloth coat.  He wore a pair of heavy brown leather breeches which came below his knees.  On his feet were a pair of plain deep tan moosehide moccasins which came to mid-calf where they were tied with a thick leather thong.
    He waved a mittened hand to Pierre.  "Good day, Pierre Marin."  Then he turned to finish tying the horse to the hitching post.
    Pierre did not know the man, but he replied, "Good day, my friend."
    The stranger straightened up and moved up the short path to the doorway where Pierre waited.  He removed the mitt from his right hand which he stuck forward.  "I'm Michel Talbot of Boucherville"
    Pierre knew that Boucherville was the seigniory of Pierre Boucher, a name well known in the colony.  The old man lived with his large family on the neighbouring seigniory.  Although he was almost seventy years old, he still led a very active life.  Pierre never met the old man, but he was told of his many exploits.  He had spent a great deal of time among the Indians and was proficient in many of their languages.  His first wife was a Huron girl, but she died shortly after the marriage, and then he married a French girl, Jeanne Crevier, by whom he had fifteen children.
    "I'm Pierre Marin, recently arrived from Acadia, and now a censitaire for Sieur Le Moyne.  This is my family."  He turned and swung his hand to include Francoise and the three boys.  He pointed at Francoise.  "My wife, Francoise."  She inclined her head slightly.  Then he pointed to each boy as he introduced him.  Only the youngest commented.  "You have a nice horse, monsieur."
    The man smiled.
    "Come in.  Come in.  Welcome."  Pierre stepped back into the room as his family moved in.  The stranger followed and waited as Pierre closed and barred the door.
    Pierre moved to take the man's heavy coat, but he shrugged his shoulders negatively.  "I can't stay long.  I have a message from Governor Frontenac for you."
    Pierre's eyebrows lifted in surprise.
    Talbot stared at Pierre as if he was trying to decipher Pierre's thoughts.  Then he spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully.  "Frontenac is preparing to retrieve Acadia from the English.  He is recruiting a brigade of militiamen to accompany Captain Villebon to Acadia."  He stopped, assessing the effect his words had on Pierre.
    Pierre's expression remained blank.  He waited for his visitor to continue.
    The visitor glanced swiftly at Francoise, and back to Pierre.  "The governor is eager to gather as large a group of soldiers as possible.  He hopes to have as many Acadians as possible in the brigade.  That's why I've come to you."
    Francoise interposed, "Pierre has not recovered from his wound."
    Pierre looked at her fiercely, indicating that he was not pleased with her interruption.  Then his face softened as he turned back to his visitor.  "What does this expedition plan to accomplish?  I've heard that the English have already left Port Royal.  What does Villebon plan to do?  Will he make Port Royal his headquarters, or will he go to Fort Pentagouet?"
    "Pierre, I'm not sure of the details.  I was asked to find you and to inform you that the governor wants you as a member of the force.  You know Acadia very well."
    Pierre scratched his head with his right hand.  "Will travel be by sea or overland?"
    The stranger shrugged his shoulders.  "I think Villebon plans to travel overland to Jemseg.  From there I'm not sure what he intends to do."
    "When does he plan to leave?"
    "Soon."
    Pierre perceived they would be travelling in the deep of winter.  "Is this a request for my presence or is it an order?"
    Again the visitor shrugged his shoulders.  "When Frontenac makes a request, that's an order."
    Pierre smiled wryly.  He heard that the old governor expected his word to be obeyed without question, but he also heard that he continually quarrelled with the intendant, Jean Bochart de Champigny, and the bishop, Jean Baptiste de la Croix Chevrieres de St. Valier, yet he was well loved by the bourgeois and the habitants for his military acumen.  "I'll have to think about it."
    A look of shock froze the man's face.  He stared at Pierre unable to believe what he heard.  Then he sputtered, "Do you want me to tell the governor that you will think about it?"
    Now, Pierre looked shocked.  In Acadia, a man was asked what he intended to do, not told what he must do.  Even if the request came from the governor.
    Talbot continued, "But the expedition is to recover the lands that belong to Frenchmen.  Those are your lands.  Don't you want to recover them?  Don't you want to return to Port Royal?"
    "Yes, Michel.  I would like to return to Port Royal, but only when it is safe for my family.  Only when my lands are safe.  And I don't think that Frontenac or King Louis are prepared to send a large enough contingent of soldiers to defend and hold Acadia.  They want Acadia to be a barrier against the New Englanders...to protect Canada from attack.  They're not prepared to make Acadia secure.  That's why I left.  I don't think Port Royal is safe or will ever be safe."
    "What should I tell Frontenac and Villebon?"
    "Tell them I'll have to think about it."
    "The governor will not be happy with that."
    Pierre nodded.  He shrugged his shoulders as if he did not care.
    "When will you let Villebon know?"
    "I'm not sure, but it'll be soon."
    Michel Talbot turned toward the door.  Pierre followed behind him.  "Thank you, Michel, for bringing me the message.  Are you joining the expedition?
    The man turned back to Pierre.  "No, I'm needed here at Boucherville.  The Iroquois have been making small forays into the area.  A number of habitants have seen small parties lurking in the woods.  We never know when a war party will attack."
    Pierre nodded his head affirmatively.  "I've heard that also.  Be careful as you travel."
    "I'll be all right.  On horseback they'll never catch me."  He laughed as he opened the door.
    "Do you have to give the message to others?"
    "Yes, Villebon wants everyone to know that he needs soldiers, militiamen, riflemen, anyone who can fire a musket."
    Young Pierre spoke.  "Papa, if you don't want to go, let me.  I'm a good shot."
    Pierre turned to his eldest son.  "Pierre, you won't go.  You're needed here.  If anyone goes, it'll be me."  He turned back to his visitor dismissing his son completely.
    After the messenger left, Pierre returned slowly up the short path to the door.  He looked pensive.  As he entered the door and returned the bar securely to its catches, his youngest son stood in front of him.  "Papa, are you going back to Port Royal?  Will you join Captain Villebon?  Can we go?"
    Before he could answer, the second son, twisted on his seat at the table.  "Papa, let's go back to Port Royal.  I don't like it here.  This isn't home."
    Francoise placed her right hand on the boy's right shoulder.  "Jean, we may never go back to Port Royal.  It's too dangerous.  It has no defences.  There are too few soldiers.  The fort is not strong enough."
    Pierre stared at his wife.  It was one of the few times that she agreed with him.  She came to Quebec against her will.  She did not want to leave their lands near Port Royal.  She tried to convince him to stay in Acadia.  Now she seemed to understand that Canada was safer than Port Royal.
    She lifted her eyes toward Pierre.  "Pierre, you can't join that expedition.  You're too weak.  You've not recovered from your wound."
    "Francoise, I must go.  That's my land.  I must try to save it. But before I make a decision, I must speak to Captain Villebon."

    The small church near the Le Moyne manor house was crowded as it usually was every Sunday morning, but this second Sunday in January, the first after Epiphany it was more crowded than usual as it was a warm sunny day.  Because Pierre and his family were new members of the congregation, they occupied one of the last pews.  Charles Le Moyne and his large family occupied the front pews, their right as seigniors and patrons of the parish.
    The priest, Father St. Claude, turned to give the congregation the dismissal blessing, and solemnly declared in Latin that the Mass was ended.  Before he turned back to the altar and the choir finished the recessional hymn, the last pews emptied.  Pierre genuflected and followed the others.
    Simon Fournier, a tall, thin man, about thirty-five years old, who occupied the strip of land east of Pierre's concession, smiled at Pierre and saluted Francoise by tipping his right hand to his forehead. Francoise nodded her head demurely.
    "I hear you're planning to accompany Villebon back to Acadia."
    Pierre's eyes flashed in surprise.  "Where did you hear that?  Gossip travels very fast, Simon."
    The tall man nodded his head, but he did not smile.  "I was thinking that I might join you if you decide to go."
    Pierre looked at the man as if the poor fellow was daft.  Why would anyone want to leave his home to make the long hard journey to fight in a war that was not very successful?
    The thin man noticed Pierre's quizzical look.  He continued slowly, "Those English bastards killed my brother at Pentagouet last fall.  I think the best way to teach them a lesson is the way Frontenac thinks.  The best defence is a strong offence.  We should attack them in their territory.  The "petite guerre" is the only way to defend ourselves."
    "But Simon we need soldiers and militiamen here to protect our homes from the Iroquois.  There've been many reports of war parties skulking around in our woods.  I'm sure there'll be more around as soon as the streams open up this spring.  We'll need a strong defence at all the forts and seigniories.  I'm haven't yet decided if I'll go with Villebon."
    "Have you heard, Pierre.  Villebon is now in Montreal recruiting men for his march back to Acadia."
    Pierre looked surprised.  He had not heard that, but if it was true he would try to meet with Villebon and find out just what the captain had in mind.
    Pierre turned to Francoise.  "I must go to Montreal.  If Villebon is there, I must see him."
    Francoise shook her head.  "Pierre, there's no need to return to Port Royal.  Forget about retrieving our lands there.  Our future's here."
    He convinced Francoise that Port Royal was untenable and vulnerable to English attack.  He convinced her to move to Canada and it was difficult.  She hated to leave the comfortable home that he built on the north bank of the Dauphin River three miles east of the fort that was never ready to defend the somnolent settlement of Port Royal.  Now she was urging him to forget about that community and to start life anew on the south shore of the St. Lawrence River on Charles Le Moyne's seigniory of Longueuil.
    Frontenac and his ragtag army of regulars and militia defeated the Boston expedition commanded by Sir William Phips.  Phips was forced to abandon his siege of Quebec when his assault failed, and Pierre heard that smallpox stuck many of the men in that force.  Pierre was sure that the English in their frustration at their failure to take Quebec would turn their forces against Acadia.  The best defence of Canada lay in a strong defence of Acadia--Port Royal, Fort Pentagouet, Beaubassin, and the other harbours along the coast of Isle Royal, Isle St. Jean, and the main peninsula.
    "I must see Villebon if he's in Montreal"

    Pierre entered the building through the main door which faced north.  A young soldier in his blue uniform of the Troupes de la Marine showed him to the office that Captain Villebon was using during his stay in Montreal.
    Early that morning, Pierre travelled across the ice surface of the St. Lawrence River on the winter road leading to Montreal.  The thick ice of the river was always shifting and there were large cracks and pressure heaves in the road.  He left early before dawn; he made the journey in good time.  It was still an hour short of noon.
    He knocked on the closed door.  A gravelly voice issued from the room.  "Come in."  There was a touch of impatience in it.
    Pierre entered the high vaulted room with its tall windows through which sunlight streamed giving it a bright and airy appearance.  Two men bent over a large map that covered a small table.  The map was larger than the top of the table and its corners hung over the edge.  Neither man lifted his head from the map.  Pierre stopped just inside the door, re-adjusted the musket slung over his right shoulder, and stood with his rabbit-skin cap in his hands.
    The two men studying the map conversed in low tones, intense and serious.  The nearer man  bent over the map, the back of his head showing, his dark hair drawn back into a plait tied with a narrow ribbon.  His blue coat fitted snugly over his shoulders emphasizing their width.  A sword swung at the left side of his waist from a scabbard that dangled from a wide leather belt.
    Pierre recognized the thick figure of Captain Villebon.  He knew  the captain was about thirty-five years old.  He was the second son of René Robineau de Becancour who had been surveyor-general of New France, but Villebon spent most of his life in France where he had been educated.  Later he joined the army serving with a dragoon regiment before returning to Canada with the rank of captain.  Pierre knew that Governor Frontenac thought highly of the officer, but Pierre still reserved judgement.
    When Villebon arrived in Port Royal after it capitulated to Phips, instead of making a defence of the colony there he rushed up the St. John River to the safer Fort Jemseg.  He left the inhabitants of Port Royal to defend themselves.  Pierre still blamed him for the death of his friend, Jacques Breton, as well as the rape of his wife, Marguerite, and his daughter, Genevieve.  If Villebon had stayed at Port Royal, it was unlikely that it would have been attacked by pirates.
    He waited patiently.
    After several minutes, the captain raised his head and turned to face Pierre.  Only then did Pierre recognize the other man; it was Pierre Le Moyne, Sieur D'Iberville, the brother of Charles Le Moyne, his seignior.  He heard a great deal about Charles's younger brother.  Pierre thought he was away on some expedition against the English, somewhere in the bay of the North which the English called Hudson's Bay, so he was surprised to see him here with Villebon.  Pierre Le Moyne did not look much like his older brother: He was a small man with an erect bearing which made him appear taller than he was.  He was dressed in a uniform of the French Navy--a blue waistcoat with gold piping and frogs, and white breeches stuffed into black leather boots that came to the knee.
    Villebon's bass voice almost startled Pierre.  "Monsieur Marin, you wished to see me?"  Pierre was surprised that he had addressed him as "Monsieur"; that was usually reserved for equals or superiors.
    Pierre drew himself more erect, as if he was still in the Navy.  "Yes, sir."
    Before he could continue the other interrupted.  "What did you want?"
    Pierre opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything the stout captain continued, "We will be leaving in three days.  It is a pleasure to see you here, Monsieur Marin.  I need more men like you."
    "Sir..."
    Again the captain interrupted.  "I see you've brought your musket.  We need all the arms we can get."  He turned to his companion.  "Sieur D'Iberville tells me that it may be possible to get a ship to transport us to Acadia, but I've informed him that I can't wait until the ice leaves the river."
    As the captain paused, Pierre spoke.  "Sir, I've not decided yet whether to join your force.  Before I do, there are a few questions that I need answered."
    The captain frowned, but said nothing.
    "Sir, do you propose to make Port Royal your headquarters?"
    "Pierre, I'm not sure.  Port Royal is not the easiest place to defend when one has few men.  The fort itself is not in good condition, and its ordnance has been removed by Phips."
    "Sir, that's where the inhabitants are.  That's where they need soldiers to protect them."
    The expression on Villebon's face did not change.  "I know that, but how can I defend that fort from attack by the sea.  It has no guns left.  Any ship can enter the basin and lay siege to the fort.  You know that.  I understand that you were there when Phips took the fort."
    Pierre nodded.  "Yes, but if the fort is properly manned and four guns are place in its four bastions, it can be defended."
    "Pierre, you know as well as I do the citizens there are not soldiers.  They don't feel that this war is their war.  They won't join me in the defence of the fort.  They believe that it's the army's job."
    Pierre had to admit that the captain's thinking was accurate.  The people of Port Royal, Beaubassin, Grandpre, and the other settlements were more interested in looking after their farms than they were in fighting a war they did not understand, and that would bring them little benefit.
    Villebon continued, "If the situation looks right, then I may make Port Royal my headquarters, but I will not promise you that it will be so.  I understand that you have a prosperous farm at Port Royal.  Is that why you are so interested in my plans?"  He stopped and stared at Pierre.  His eyes glinted steelily.
    "Yes, captain.  I have lands there which I'd like to retrieve, but only if it's safe for my family."
    "That, I cannot promise.  I do need your knowledge of the country.  I've been told that you know the St. John River and the Indians of the region.  You speak Micmac?"
    Pierre nodded his head.
    "Then I need you.  Will you come with me?"
    Villebon stepped toward Pierre his right hand extended.

    The next day a dark overcast covered the land, and the temperature fell covering the snow with ice crystals.  Although it didn't snow, a brisk north-west wind swept over the frozen ice road.
    Pierre trudged slowly along the road heading for his home on the bank of the river.  He still mulled over the decision he had made.  He decided to accompany Captain Villebon in his effort to secure Acadia for the French.  That would mean reinforcing the forts and garrisons of the large area that extended from the Gaspe to Pentagouet.  That would mean re-establishing the alliances with the Indians throughout the vast region--the Micmacs, the Malecites, the Abenakis, the Penobscots, and the many minor tribes.  It might also mean forays into the English lands to the south.
    He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he failed to notice the shrill cry of his youngest son who spotted him on the road and now came running toward him.
    The two other boys followed close on the heels of the younger.  Pierre lifted his youngest son into his arms and hugged him tightly.  His heart leaped: it was so pleasant to feel the love of his family.  The other boys greeted him with smiles and salutations.
    Young Pierre asked, "Papa, have you made a decision?  When will you be leaving?"
    Pierre grinned to himself.  The boy already decided that his father would be going.  He seemed to know his father better than Pierre knew himself.
    "I'll be leaving in two days time."
    The boy replied sadly, "Papa, I wish I was going with you."
    "No, Pierre, someone must stay home and look after your mother and the boys."
    Francoise hailed from the door.  "You're not going!"
    Pierre reached for her hand.  "Yes, I must," he said simply.
    Her face clouded, and Pierre thought the lines around her eyes deepened.  "Who will prepare the land this spring?"  Her voice sounded sad and tired.
    Pierre placed his right arm around her shoulder.  "I will.  I won't be gone that long.  I made it clear to Villebon that I could only be away for a month or so."
    Francoise's frown deepened.  Annoyance tightened her voice.  "How will we survive while you're gone?"
    Young Pierre interjected, "Mama, Papa has said that I'll have to look after you."  His voice resounded with pride because his father had given him such a responsibility.  "I'm a good huntsman.  There'll be plenty of meat on our table."
    Pierre could not hide the delight in his eyes.  He knew that young Pierre could and would fulfil his promise.  The lad was a better woodsman than many Indians because Miskoo, Pierre's Micmac friend, taught the boy all the knowledge of the woods that he knew.  Pierre thought back of those days when he and his Indian friend helped each other.  Those were good years.  He wondered, now, what Miskoo and his band were doing.  He was sure that at this time of the year they were far in the wilderness in the interior of the peninsula secure in their winter camp.
    "Pierre, you're almost a man.  I know you'll look after your mother and your brothers.  If I didn't think you could do it, I would never agree to accompany Villebon."
    Francoise shook her head.  "Pierre, we can't live on meat alone."
    "I know that.  I'll see if I can make some arrangement with Sieur de Longueuil."
    They approached the door of their small house.  The door stood slightly ajar.  Young Charles swung the door outward and the family trooped into the small room.  A crackling fire, its yellow and saffron flames dancing, lighted and warmed the small room.  The open door had increased the drafted and the logs burned brightly, more luminescent than usual.
    Pierre handed his musket to Jean, the second son, who carefully hung it on a peg beside the now barred door.
    Pierre grunted as he lowered himself to the block of wood before the fireplace that served as a chair.  As he did so, a stab of pain pierced his right side.  He winced noticeably.  His breath whistled through his teeth and he tried to stop the moan that escaped his lips.
    Francoise saw and heard.  Concern showed in her eyes.
    Pierre sat down carefully.  Whenever he was tired, these sharp pains came although they lasted but a moment.  They were so sharp that beads of sweat covered his brow with a fine sheen, first making him feel hot and then cool.  Each such spasm left him weak and the muscles along his right side quivered as if from fatigue.  They seemed to originate from the scar that remained from the wound he had received the previous fall.  He never had these pains before so he could only believe they were caused by his wound.
    "Pierre, you can't go."
    Through the pain, he heard his wife's voice.  Slowly the pain left and he felt relaxed and peaceful.
    "It's nothing.  Just a twinge.  When I walk too much, it happens."
    The boys were busy discussing an activity they planned so did not notice what had happened.
    Francoise's face betrayed her anxiety.  "If you travel overland, it will be on snowshoes.  That's tiring if you're not used to it."
    Pierre waved his hand dismissing her concern.  "I'm all right.  It's nothing."  But he knew it was more than he wished to let on.
    "It's not completely healed.  You must give it rest, or it will never heal properly.  Pierre, you can't go!"
    "Don't worry.  If I thought that I couldn't handle it, I'd be the first to stay here."
    She reached out her hand, and he took it in his.

    The stone manor house was large, a fortress in appearance.  Charles Le Moyne, the elder had built it when he first moved to the seigniory on the south bank of the St. Lawrence almost directly east of the town of Montreal.  It was the centre of the seigniory: a bastion for its defence, a courthouse for its justice, a meeting place for decisions, a ballroom for social activities, the hub of the surrounding farms.  The young Charles, who inherited the lands from his father at his death, continued to be the patriarch and the leader of his father's large family.
    Pierre's eyes travelled over the several other stone buildings that were being built.  Some of them were nearing completion as was the high stone walls that would enclose them.  When it was finished it would be a formidable fortress.
    Charles, unlike his brothers, seemed to spend most of his time attending to the affairs of his estate, and it showed.  His seigniory prospered; his censitaires were as proud of their small farms as the master was of his castle-like home.
    As Pierre walked across the stone courtyard before the main building, he knew that if the Iroquois were to attack this fortress they would find it impossible to overcome.  Every building was a fortress, impregnable and unbreachable.  Even the church was built of stone and could be easily defended.  The walls were massive with high windows; the doors were thick and sturdy; the roof was of metal, thus immune to fire.
    He thought, I'll be leaving my family in good hands.  They'll be safe here.  The English will never penetrate this far.  If the Iroquois do, there's no way they'll be able to overcome these defences.  This is a formidable fortress.
    The large, heavy door swung open as he approached.  A young boy with dark hair, and black eyes, about twelve years old greeted him.  "Papa is waiting for you, Monsieur Marin.  Follow me."  Pierre was sure that Charles Le Moyne would care for his family while he was away with Captain Villebon.

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