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The Marin Family Chronicles--Volume 3-Book 3

The Explorers by Charles O. Goulet

Chapter One -- The Mission

    "Maman, what was Father like?"
    The slim woman with steel gray hair stiffened as she placed the ladened dish before the young man seated at the heavy puncheon table.
    The two other persons seated around the table also stiffened as if the young man's question was prohibited.  Their eyes turned slowly toward the middle-aged woman who stood rigid and unmoving as she stared into the face of her oldest son.
    Pierre stared back almost in defiance.
    The woman clasped her hands tightly, the knuckles showing white.
    The sturdy young man with the shaggy brown hair shook his head slightly and repeated, "Maman, what was Father like?  What did he look like?  What kind of a man was he?"
    The two other children around the crude table froze in a static tableau.  Their eyes looked questioningly at their mother.
    The youngest member of the family, Jean Joseph, a slim wiry sixteen year old with unruly blond hair and twinkling blue eyes that glittered mischievously, smiled up at his mother.  "Please, tell us about Pierre Marin Sr."
    Silence hung heavy over the assembled family.
    Pierre, the oldest son, spoke again solemnly.  "Maman, you've never told us about our father.  Was he such a bad man?"
    The mother's eyes glittered coldly.  "My children, you never had a father."  Finality in voice seemed to say that the question was answered.
    Pierre looked past his mother to the small room.  The log house was a single room with a ladder at the far end that led to a shallow loft.  At the other end, a doorway opened to a small lean-to that served as his and Jean Joseph's sleeping quarters, while the loft was occupied by his sister in the summer.  During the winter she slept with her mother in the curtained bed which stood in the corner of the room to his left.  As long as he could remember, his home had not changed.
    He would be nineteen years old in the fall of this year, 1725; yet it was the first time he mentioned his father's name to his mother.  And she never mentioned it to him.  It was as if his father was a spirit that did not exist in the real world.  In the dim recesses of his mind he thought he recalled a man with dark brown hair and laughing eyes, but he was never sure.
    He heard vague rumours that his father disappeared into the vast wilderness to the west, yet whenever he asked questions, the subject changed and he got no answers.
    He turned back to his mother.  "Maman, we're old enough to know about our father."
    Anne-Marie, his older sister--almost two years older--leaned forward eagerly.
    Jean-Joseph added enthusiastically, "Please, Maman, tell us about our coureur-de-bois father."
    The mother's eyes sparkled coldly as she turned toward her youngest son.  "Never say that again."  Her voice was hard and sharp and her hands clutched rigidly at her aproned bosom.
    Pierre eyed his mother intently.  Her body was rigid and stiff.  The long full skirt and the large gray apron that covered her from neck to ankles could not hide the tension.
    Pierre mused.  Next week, on Wednesday, April 18, she will be forty-two years old.  She's still a handsome, well-built woman.  Only  the streaks of gray in her hair reveal her age.  Otherwise her face is smooth and unlined, even though her hands are coarse and rough from the heavy toil of developing this farm.
    It was only in the past five years, since he and Jean-Joseph were able to take over the heavy work of clearing the forest and cultivating the woodland acreage, that she found more time to devote to their small house.
    As he looked at his mother, he admired her strength and independence.  He knew that many urged her to leave the concession and move to the village of Boucherville, but she refused, preferring to wrest a living from the small farm in the wilderness south of the village.
    With the help of her family--especially her father and older brother--and aid from Uncle Charles Marin, they survived although at times he could remember the dullness of the same foods for weeks.  Now it was better.  They had more arable land; sometimes they even had a surplus of wheat that they traded for necessities and the occasional luxury such as an imported bottle of wine from France.
    Jean-Joseph's voice interrupted his pondering.
    "Maman, is Papa dead?"
    The question shocked Pierre.  He never believed that his father was dead, only that he was somewhere in the great wildness of the West, living among the Indians, hunting and trapping, free and unrestrained.
    He studied his mother's face.  She frowned and the muscles in her cheeks twitched.  Her eyes glistened as a film of moisture covered them.  She blinked sharply, squared her shoulders, lowered her hands slowly to her sides, and heaved a deep sigh.
    Then she stiffened, and her eyes narrowed; her nostrils flared, and she glared at his brother.
    For a moment Pierre thought she was about to tell them of the father they never knew.  Her guard had dropped, and she was about to reveal a part of her life that always remained hidden.
    Now her eyes flashed, and Pierre knew the moment had passed.
    Pierre did not want to lose it.  So he persisted, "Maman, we must know something about our father."
    Jean-Joseph nodded his head enthusiastically.  Anne-Marie interjected, "Maman, please tell us."  Her voice pleaded.
    Marie Marin's head rose defiantly; her eyes hardened and she stared off into space.  "No, I refuse to talk about your father.  He is gone; his is no more."
    Jean-Joseph queried, "But why, Maman?"
    Pierre was not sure if he was asking why she did not want to speak of their father or why he was gone.
    Pierre could feel the tension in the air; it seemed to permeate the small room, yet he continued, "Maman, for a long time we've wanted to ask you about our father, but we knew you found it painful, so we didn't ask.  Now, please tell us something about Papa.  Did he look like Uncle Charles?  What was he like?"
    He stopped and studied her face.  It was rigid.  The muscles along her cheek were drawn into hard furrows; her mouth was pursed, her nostrils flared slightly, and her eyes stared straight ahead.
    She remained statuesque, silent and unmoving, only the rise and fall of her bosom as she breathed deeply gave her life.
    Anne-Marie, the daughter, spoke softly, almost a whisper, "Maman, please tell us about Papa.  We must know, we should know."
    Slowly the mother turned her head toward her daughter.  Her eyes bore down on her.  "You need never know of the baseness of your father."
    "But, Maman, it's worse to not know.  It's worse to hear whispers and rumors.  Even if the truth is painful, it's better to know.  When did he leave us?  Why did he leave us?  Where did he go?"
    Jean-Joseph joined in, "Yes, Maman, tell us about Papa."
    "I've told you that your father is gone.  You never had a father.  He left many years ago, and that is all there is to it."  Her voice rose then trailed to a whisper.
    Pierre half rose and grasped his mother by the left elbow.  "Maman, sit down."  He pushed a home-made chair toward her.
    She sank to it, as if her legs could not hold her.  She placed her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands, covering her eyes.  Her body sagged and heaved.  Her head shook, but no sound came from it.
    Pierre placed his right hand over his mother's shoulders.  He felt a slight quiver.  "Maman, it's all right."  He felt her suffering, and guilt and remorse flowed through him.  The last thing he wanted to do was to make his mother suffer.  He knew that she endured much over the years for her children.  She slaved for them, she went hungry for them, she deprived herself for them, and she bore it all with fortitude and courage.
    "It's all right, Maman.  We don't need to know.  If you find it too painful, we can forget about it."
    Her shoulders shook and in a muffled voice she said, "Son, you're right.  It's time that I tell you about your father.  You have every right to know.  He was your father."
    She lifted her head slowly, and brushed her hands against her eyes as if to wipe away a tear, yet Pierre saw none.  She stiffened her shoulders and sat upright in the chair.  She looked at Pierre and then at Anne-Marie, and finally her eyes came to rest on her youngest son, Jean-Joseph.  "Jean-jo, you never knew your father.  He disappeared when you were just a baby."
    Jean-Joseph, whom everyone called "Jean-jo", searched his mother's face.  It was solemn and sober.  He nodded his head.
    "Children, what do you want to know?"
    Questions poured from their lips.  Anne-Marie asked, "How did you meet Papa?  Did you fall in love?"
    "Was he tall and strong?  Was he brave and fearless?"
    "What did he look like?  What was he like?"
    A slight smile softened her features.  "Not so fast, my children.  I'll begin at the beginning."
    "Yes, Maman, please do.  How did you meet Papa?"  Anne-Marie asked eagerly.
    The mother paused, clasped her hands in her lap, and her eyes took on a faraway look.  It was so many years ago, and she tried to forget it over the years.  Yes, it was twenty-two years ago since that fateful day.
    She smiled.  "A bear brought us together.  I met your father because of a bear."
    "A bear!"  Incredulity filled Jean-Joseph's voice.
    She looked at her youngest son.  His spontaneity and enthusiasm, his exuberance and vivacity, made him a pleasure to have.  His wiry frame leaned forward as he waited eagerly for her to continue.
    "Yes, I was out in the woods picking berries or flowers...I'm not sure which...but this black bear surprised me.  And before I knew it, your father came to my rescue.  He chased the bear away and took me home."
    Anne-Marie nodded her head and smiled.  "How romantic.  Did you fall in love instantly?"
    Marie smiled.  "I don't think so, but maybe we did."  The bitterness of years dissolved as she remembered those pleasant moments.  She recalled the next months as Pierre Edouard Marin courted her.  She remembered his impatience...and his tenderness.  She recollected her fear and caution as this brash and brazen coureur-de-bois sought her hand and obtained it.
    "Anyway, my father agreed to the match and we were married at Boucherville in the spring of 1703.  Your father obtained this concession, and with the help of my brothers and his, he built this house."  Her eyes roved around the small room.  It had not changed much in the past twenty odd years.  The lean-to was added; the loft was opened to use, but other than that it was still the same--older and worn, but still the same.
    "Was Papa a good farmer?" Pierre asked.
    The mother laughed wryly.  "No, he wasn't a farmer.  He was a woodsman...a hunter...a trapper...a voyageur.  He hated the farm."
    "What did he look like?"  Jean-Joseph's voice vibrated with excitement.
    Marie closed her eyes momentarily as she formed the picture of her husband in her mind.  "He was above average in height...almost as tall as Pierre."  She waved her hand at her oldest son.  "He had dark brown curly hair...very dark brown...and beautiful eyes...with long lashes...expressive and happy."
    She paused.
    "Do any of us look like him?"  Jean-Joseph questioned.
    She looked to each of her children.  None of them really looked like their father.  Pierre probably looked the most like his father, but his personality was so different that she never made a connection; Pierre, her husband, was a gregarious man with an easy smile, who liked people and their company, while Pierre, the son, was a quiet, solemn person who preferred to listen.  Yet they both had the same dark curly hair and hazel eyes.
    She nodded toward Pierre.  "He looks most like his father, but Jean-jo is most like him."
    "Were you happy?"  Anne-Marie leaned forward.
    Marie paused, remembering.  Their sexual encounters were unsatisfactory, but she recalled the pleasure of her children's births.  How she hated the sex act, but how she loved the pain and the joy of bringing each child into the world.  She remembered the sorrow of losing her first child--the daughter they called Anne-Marie--yet she enjoyed the pain of childbirth and the euphoria after it was over.
    "Yes, I was happy...very happy...especially after you children were born...but I guess your father wasn't."
    "Why?"
    "He hated the constraints of the farm, of the seigniory, of the church...of married life."  She could not tell them that she failed to satisfy him, that her fear of the love act came between them.
    "What happened?"
    She shook her head.  "I don't know.  Those were hard times.  We were at war with the English...and the Indians...the Iroquois.  He went to defend Quebec against an English siege...in the militia...with your Uncle Charles...but he never came back."
    "Was he killed?"  Jean-Joseph asked, shock in his voice.
    "No...no, he disappeared.  He left the colony...for the West, I think, although I never knew.  There were rumors that he had an Indian wife and that he returned to her, but I never heard from him since the day he left."  Her voice quivered.
    Pierre spoke for the first time.  "Maman, I should go and look for him."
    Her head jerked up.  Had she heard right?  Had Pierre said that he wanted to search for his father?
    "What did you say, Son?"
    "I want to go to the West and look for my father."
    "Pierre, that's a foolish idea.  Banish it from your mind.  Your father has been gone for fifteen years.  You would never find him.  You would be wasting your time and your life.  Forget it!"  Her voice rose sharply.
    "But, Maman, it would be gratifying to find our father.  Maybe he needs us, maybe..."
    "No, your father does not need us.  When we...when you needed him, he wasn't here.  No, Pierre, that's a senseless thing to think about.  You must forget such an idea."
    Anne-Marie spoke slowly.  "Maman, I think Pierre has a good idea.  It would be satisfying to know what has happened to our father since he left...what he has done...where he is..."
    "No, Anne-Marie, you must forget that.  It will only bring you suffering and sorrow.  Your father's gone...he's dead...he's been dead for the past fifteen years.  Now is not the time to resurrect him."
    "But Maman, there'll always be that question...that mystery...in our lives.  We'll always want to know.  Don't you?"
    She did not reply.
    "Maman, I've been thinking.  I've been thinking of joining a brigade to the posts in the West."
    She shook her head sorrowfully.  "Not you too, Pierre.  You want to leave me like your father did."
    "No, Maman, but I've been thinking: Jean-jo is old enough to work the farm, and I hear there's money to be made in the West...as a voyageur...a trader...or a militiaman.  I've heard in Montreal that the government is looking for young men to man the canoes and the posts.  I'd like to try my luck there."
    "No, Pierre."  Her voice quivered.  She paused and drew herself together.  "We need you here.  The farm is prospering.  Prices are good for our produce.  We must produce more so we can sell more."
    "I know that, Maman, but you and Jean-jo can manage very well without me."
    "You want to search for your father."
    He remained silent.
    "You're using that as an excuse to go West.  You want to find your father.
    He nodded.
    "No, Pierre, you'll never find your father.  I'm sure he's dead somewhere in the vastness of the Indian country.  If he was alive, we'd hear something about him...some rumor...someone would see him...someone would know about him...but there's been nothing.  I'm sure his dead.  For us he's dead."
    Jean-Joseph interjected, "But, Maman, what if he isn't dead.  What if he has chosen another name.  He could still be alive.  How old would he be...if he's alive?"
    She figured and then replied slowly.  "He'll be fifty on August 8."
    "You see, Maman, he could still be alive.  That's not very old."
    She stared at Pierre, her eyes locked on his.  "Son, I'll never give you my permission to go to the West."
    The knock on the door startled them.
    "Is anyone home?"
    They recognized the voice of Charles Marin, their father's brother who lived on the neighbouring seigniory of Longueuil.
    "Come, Charles."  Marie's voice turned cheerful.
    The slab door opened and a short stocky middle-aged man with sparkling eyes and a thick beard speckled with grey stood in the doorway.
    Almost simultaneously the three young people chorused, "Good day, Uncle."
    He bobbed his head toward each of them.  "How are my favourite niece and nephews today?"
    "Fine," they replied.
    He noticed the closeness of the grouping around the table.  "Have I interrupted something?"  His eyes swept the group.
    Marie answered first.  "We were discussing Pierre."
    His eyes turned to Pierre who sat at the far end of the table.  His eyes twinkled.  "Has he found himself a wife?"  Pierre would be nineteen in the fall, and it was not unusual for young men to be married at that age, especially if they had access to land of their own.
    Jean-Joseph grinned.  "No, Uncle, we were talking about our father, Pierre, the coureur-de-bois."
    Marie interposed sternly.  "Jean-jo, I told you never to use that word.  Come, Charles, sit down.  Join us for some tea.  Maybe you can help me.  This foolish boy...," she pointed to Pierre, "wants to go West to look for his father."
    Charles looked from the mother to the son and back again.  He never discussed his brother with Marie.  He knew that the mention of his brother's name brought back painful memories, so they had a silent agreement never to talk about him.  When Pierre first left, Charles could not understand how a father could abandon his children, his own flesh and blood, but over the years he had learned that living with a woman who was a wife in name only could be difficult, and he understood better.
    Jean-Joseph rose and urged his uncle to a chair at the table.  "What was our father like, Uncle?"
    "He was a dreamer, Jean-jo."  He paused.  "He dreamed of becoming a wealthy seigneur with his own tenants and a large stone house with beautiful furniture brought from France, fashionable clothes for his wife and children.  He wanted to be one of the important people of the colony, maybe even a member of the little nobility, like old Pierre Boucher."
    All eyes centred on him.  Marie whispered, "He never told me that."
    "But it didn't happen, so he came back to the St. Lawrence.  He met your mother and decided to become a habitant."
    Charles looked around the room.  "He started...but he never finished.  The war came.  It changed everything...and everyone...including your father."
    "Did the war make him leave?"  Pierre asked as if trying to excuse his father's desertion.
    Charles looked at the floor.  He saw a terrible scene.  His brother raping a helpless English girl in sight of her dead or dying parents.  He shook his head to banish the thought.
    "Yes, war does many things to people.  It brings out the animal in some and the saint in others."
    "Charles, please tell Pierre that he is foolish to go to the West to look for his father.  If he were alive, we would have heard something about him by now."
    Charles nodded his head slowly.  "Marie, I had some news a few years ago, but I did not mention it to you because I knew how you felt."
    Anne-Marie leaned forward.  "What did you hear, Uncle?"
    "Jean Baptiste Le Moyne is the governor of Louisiana and he told his brother Charles that he had seen Pierre at New Orleans.  That was a few years ago."
    "What was he doing there?"  Jean-Joseph's voice rose excitedly.
    "I don't know.  There was some rumor of a duel with one of the citizens of that town.  Nothing more."
    "Did he win?"
    "I don't know, Jean-jo, but there was no mention of his death.  It seems it was over an Indian women from the north.  Neither Charles or Jean-Baptiste told me this personally.  I seldom get to see the seigneur since he has become governor of Montreal."
    "Do you think my father is still alive?"  Pierre asked the question solemnly.
    "Pierre, I don't know."
    "I want to go to the West and look for him."
    Charles shook his head slowly, sadly.  "Pierre, I don't think that's a good idea.  If your father wanted to be found, he could easily send word to us. Communications between here and the posts in the west and south are very good.  Messages and communiqués come and go on a regular basis.  If your father wanted to be found, it would be a simple matter."
    "But, Uncle, I want to find him.  I want to know my father."
    Charles shook his head again.  "You have little to go on...a mere rumor.  I think you should forget that idea, Pierre.  You'll only waste your time and energy."
    "That's what I tried to tell him, but he doesn't want to listen."  Marie shook her head.
    "Pierre, your mother's right.  You should forget your father.  You'll only be sorry with what you find out."
    "But, Uncle, he's your brother.  Don't you want to know what has happened to him...what has become of him."
    "No, Pierre, I don't.  For the past fifteen years I have erased him from my memory...as has your mother, and I don't want to bring him back."
    "But, Uncle, I can't do that.  He's my father.  He's part of me...and I'm part of him.  I would like to know where he is and what he is doing."
    Charles shook his head.  When young people got an idea, it was hard to dissuade them.  He remembered when Pierre, his brother, decided to go to the West to make his fortune, both his mother and father begged him to stay on the concession at Longueuil, but to no avail.  He turned to Marie.  "I suppose if the boy's mind is made up nothing we can say will keep him from going.  At least he won't be able to go this year."
    "Why not?"
    "Pierre, all the brigades have left.  It's too late in the year to think of going now."
    "Last week, I was talking to young Jean-Baptiste Gaultier.  He tells me his father is thinking of getting into the fur trade.  He's getting tired of farming."
    Charles smiled.  He knew Jean-Baptiste's father, Pierre Gaultier de Varennes, Sieur de La Verendrye.  They were on the Deerfield expedition together. Charles's smile deepened.  At that time they were about the same age as young Pierre was now.  Pierre Gaultier was one of the regular soldiers on that expedition.  Already, eighteen or nineteen, he was a veteran soldier, having served in the French army in Europe.  Charles recalled that he was seriously wounded and left for dead on one of those battlefields--which, he no longer remembered.
    "When is this to happen?"
    "I don't know, but I intend to find out."

    Two days later, Pierre drew his small birchbark canoe onto the rocky shore of the island off the south shore of the St. Lawrence River in the part that was known as Lac St. Pierre.  After the discussion with his mother and his uncle, he decided that now was the time to act.  Although they did not support him in his desire to go to the west, to the Great Lakes, at least, he felt that he must.
    Today he would talk with the Sieur de Varennes and find out if his son, Jean-Baptiste, was telling the truth or merely bragging.  He remembered how the youth bragged to his brother, Jean-Joseph, that he would be going with his father into the fur trade country.
    He lifted his head as drew the frail craft completely out of the water onto the muddy shore.  Someone called.
    He recognized La Verendrye's oldest son who strode purposefully down the gentle slope from the large stone house set on a slight rise above the high water mark of the river.
    Pierre raised his hand in greeting.  "Good day, Jean-Baptiste."
    "What brings you this far from home, Pierre?"
    The boy was sturdily built for a twelve year old, and dressed in his coarse and sturdy homespun breeches, knitted shirt, and high moose skin moccasins, he looked much older.  He wore a knitted tuque on his head, and a white clay pipe drooped from the right hand corner of his mouth.
    "Jean-Baptiste, is your father home?"
    "No, I think he's in Montreal.  He won't be home for some time.  He's gone with my Uncle Jacques to the West."
    Pierre's heart sunk.  He had missed the senior.  "So you're in charge."
    The youth puffed out his chest.  "Yes, how can I help you."  He drew on the clay pipe and sent a cloud of blue, streaming smoke in Pierre's direction.
    Pierre coughed as the biting smoke entered his lungs.  The other laughed.  "Not used to smoking."
    Pierre had never tried smoking, not because he did not want to be like all the other young men and boys in the colony, but because he could never afford it.  Neither he nor his brother, Jean-Joseph, acquired the habit which was ubiquitous with all the young men of the colony.  He laughed.  "No."
    "What did you want to see my father about, Pierre?"
    Pierre paused.  Should he tell this youth the reason for his visit to the La Verendrye farm?  Would he understand or would he laugh at him?  "I heard that your father was planning to go to the West, and I hoped to join him."  He added hurriedly, "I'm not a voyageur, but I can handle a small canoe.  I'm sure I could learn to be a paddler in a canot de maitre."
    The boy removed the pipe from his mouth and laughed.  "So you want to make your fortune in the West."
    Pierre nodded his head, but did not smile.
    The boy grew solemn and leaned toward Pierre.  "My father promised me that he'll take me with him next year.  I'll put in good word for you, Pierre."
    Pierre smiled.  He was not sure how much weight the boy's recommendation would have with the father.  "There's no chance for this year?"
    "No, I don't think so.  I'm not even sure that my father will be going this year.  He's gone to Montreal to make arrangements with my uncle. But I'm sure he'll be going next year.  He promised me."
    Pierre made the long trip from Boucherville to Ile aux Vaches, the La Verendrye home farm for nothing.  And worse, he now had to make the trip back home against the strong current of the St. Lawrence River.
    He tried not to show his disappointment, but he hoped this was only a temporary setback to his plans.  He knew his mother would be happy that he would not be able to leave for another year.
    Pierre reached down to the gunwale of his canoe.
    "You mustn't leave.  You must say 'Good day' to my mother."
    Pierre straightened up.  He knew it would be an affront if he did not pass greetings to the matriarch of the house.  "Yes, you're right.  I was so hoping to see your father that I forgot my manners.  Forgive me."
    "Mother, will be glad to see you.  She especially likes company when father is away.  You can stay for dinner?"
    Pierre nodded his head; he realized that he was hungry.  In his eagerness to arrive, he had not eaten since early morning, and now it was late afternoon.  Even his disappointment could not dampen his appetite.

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