The Adventures of Radisson. Back to the New World Read online

  The Jesuit was most impressed by the young man’s promotion, considering him something of a protégé. Radisson’s exploits during the storm had strengthened his intention to recruit this gem he had uncovered after the testing times spent in captivity by the Iroquois. It was as though he believed Radisson to be a reward sent down to him by God. Now that his seasickness had subsided, he wanted to close the deal he had begun with Radisson as they left Manhattan. He cornered Radisson near the bow.

  “How are things, my friend? The new captain tells me you were quite the hero during the storm. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Radisson replied distractedly, hoping to discourage the Jesuit with his lukewarm welcome. “I was out on deck when the wave hit us. I did what I had to do, that’s all.”

  “God is great and merciful. Let us give Him thanks for saving our lives! Once more, you have shown great courage and exceptional ability in coming to the bo’s’n’s aid. You have all my admiration.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Radisson replied, looking out to sea.

  He dreamed of returning to New France. This unintended detour via Europe was complicating matters. But he doubted the Jesuit had a solution to his problem.

  “Have you given my suggestion any thought?” Poncet asked, not at all put off by Radisson’s standoffishness.

  “What suggestion, Father? To be frank, I’m not sure I understand what you expect from me.”

  “Come off it, Radisson!” snapped Poncet. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten the conversation we had when we left. I told you we needed experienced voyageurs like you, strapping lads with plenty of pluck to travel with our missionaries to the nations we are trying to convert. We have goods to transport, letters to deliver, new routes to discover, valuables to protect… Your knowledge of the Iroquois would be a great asset to us! Can’t you see what we’re up against? You spent a year in Trois-Rivières, after all. Didn’t you see everything the Jesuits had accomplished there? You know all this. Don’t pretend you don’t. You can help all of New France by serving the Society of Jesus.”

  Radisson didn’t flinch. He was wary of flattery, even though he knew very well that the Iroquois were the Frenchmen’s worst enemies. According to Poncet, the colony was still in crisis. Nothing had changed since the Iroquois had captured him more than two years ago.

  “Perhaps you’re right, Father,” Radisson replied, turning to look at the priest for the first time. “But, with all due respect, I spent less than a year in Trois-Rivières and know little of the Jesuits.”

  “Your sister Françoise is working for us over there and she didn’t tell you a thing? Our missionaries have travelled great distances and taken incalculable risks. Some have even paid for their devotion with their lives, massacred by the Wildmen you know so well. What I hope for us Jesuits, and for all the colony, is to benefit from your youth, your energy, your courage. In return, through me the Jesuits are offering you unconditional support and the chance to travel across America with our missionaries. You will want for nothing if you join us: the Jesuits are powerful, and generous to those who serve them.”

  Father Poncet was looking to get the better of Radisson, to force his hand. But his protégé had too often suffered because of what others had imposed on him. He balked.

  “Your offer is tempting,” he replied, “But why must I first travel to Paris? Why can’t I go back to the colony immediately?”

  “I told you. First, you must meet with the man in charge of our missions in Canada, Father Paul Le Jeune. He alone can pay to have you sent back across the ocean and accept your oath to faithfully serve our Society. You must play by our rules now, Radisson.”

  Radisson was beginning to realize all that Poncet’s offer involved. The Jesuits would cover the full cost of his return to New France, then support him in the colony. He would also travel to Indian lands. The idea pleased him. Only, in exchange, he would have to obey the Jesuits and give up his freedom. That was less appealing.

  “In Paris, I’ll go find my mother,” Radisson added. “Perhaps I’ll stay with her and make sure she has everything she needs…”

  Irked by Radisson’s shameless dishonesty, Poncet spun away. How could this daring young man—a young man who had travelled extensively in New France and been through so much among the Iroquois—how could he possibly prefer to look after his old mother in Paris rather than head back out again on another adventure?

  “Now listen to me,” Poncet replied curtly. “Answer me this: How are you going to get from Amsterdam to Paris? How are you going to get back to New France? How are you going to support yourself?”

  “I’ll find a way,” said Radisson, stalling for time. “I’m not afraid.”

  “Clearly you’re not afraid,” Poncet retorted. “You’re afraid of nothing! But that’s not the question. This is the question: What are you going to do with your life, Radisson? How are you going to put your God-given talents to good use? I am offering you the chance to lead the life of adventure you dream of, all while helping the Society of Jesus. What more could you wish for?”

  Radisson had trouble fending off such serious questions when he had just survived a storm that had almost cost him his life. He kept quiet. But Poncet, who could feel his strength deserting him, was desperate to score points while he still had the energy.

  “Let me sum it up for you,” he went on. “The Society of Jesus will help you get to Paris, then return to New France. It will bring you to China, if that’s what you want! We have missionaries there, too. I promise you will be housed, fed, and clothed, and you will never lack adventure. In return, all I am asking is that you help our missionaries carry out their apostolic work in New France. Is that not what you want more than anything else in the world, Radisson? To get back to New France and see the Indians again? You have often told me of the wild lands you hold in such affection, the lands you dream of one day seeing again. I am giving you the chance to live this dream. But you must decide. And I want an answer now.”

  Before making a decision, Radisson wanted some advice. He thought of his two absent fathers, the merchant back in France who had disappeared without a trace, and the Iroquois warrior who was probably dead by now. There was no one to help him. And the way of life that the Jesuit was trying to drag out of him made his head spin, as though his very soul had gotten seasick. The blood was still crashing around inside his heart, too much fog still enveloped his mind for him to say yes or no to Poncet. It was asking too much. The Jesuit, who felt as though he was about to collapse, was bold enough to make a final offer.

  “I am even prepared,” he added, “to give you the money you need to make it to Paris. There you can meet Father Le Jeune, who will be able to explain better than I all the benefits of forming a partnership with the Jesuits. If you promise me you will visit him, I will give you the money. I trust you. What do you say?”

  “That is very generous of you, Father. I am flattered. But please, just give me a little time.”

  “Don’t stretch my patience, my friend. I might change my mind. I’ll give you three days to come to a decision. Not a day longer.”

  “Very well. I will give you my answer in three days. I promise.”

  Poncet then turned on his heels to head back to the captain’s cabin, exhausted by the conversation. Radisson went in the opposite direction, watching an already pale sun drop off the horizon. On this brief late winter afternoon, from up on the topsails two watchmen gazed at the sky with concern. Great clouds were gathering again.

  * * *

  The ship pitched and rolled. Radisson had trouble falling asleep. He took his precious eagle-head knife out of its leather sheath and held it. He could see it now and again, whenever the pale light of the moon shone in through the window of the stern cabin in time with the ship’s rocking. Ever since Johan had become captain, Radisson had used this cubbyhole as his own private quarters: luxurious surroundings indeed compared to the cramped, cluttered, and foul-smelling conditions of steerage, wh
ich he shared with some thirty sailors. The young man was so excited by the opportunity that he had trouble sleeping, what with the bad weather rattling him from one side of his bunk to the other and the sheer joy he felt at once again being able to admire the knife he had kept hidden when he lived in steerage, for fear of having it stolen.

  A moonbeam lit up the sleek feathers, the finely drawn beak, the tiny little eye that peered back at him… The night became black as ink again.

  As he held the knife tight in his hands, the memories came rushing back. He felt the same sense of well-being that washed over him the first time he held the knife among the Dutchmen of Fort Orange. He could not explain the power the knife held over him, how it guided him, leading him who knows where. An Iroquois shaman could no doubt help him understand. But it would be a long time before he could meet one. Until then, he would have to make do with the energy it gave him.

  He thought of Shononses, the friend he had fought alongside for months. If the Iroquois had been right, the eagle was Radisson’s spirit animal, the animal he should look to as an example. But Shononses was no shaman and Radisson had barely mentioned his strange feelings for the knife. On the other hand, Shononses had told him that the knife’s handle was definitely not European in origin. That meant the power that emanated from it could not be European either. And that Radisson was going in the wrong direction as he made his way to Amsterdam.

  He was now sure he wanted to return to America. And so he decided to accept Father Poncet’s offer.

  Dense clouds blocked out the moon completely. As Radisson put away his knife, he remembered the words of his adoptive Iroquois sister: “Your knife is too beautiful to use for killing… It will help you find your way in life…” He felt the lock of her hair that she had slipped into the sheath and recalled their passionate kisses, the hurt she had felt at not being able to be with him. He felt the pinch of tobacco he had swiped from his father Garagonké, the crumbs of cornmeal taken from his mother Katari’s mortar, the arrowhead from his brother Ganaha, all carefully kept in a little pocket on the sheath… His Iroquois family came with him on all his adventures. They would be part of his flesh and blood forever. He would never forget the time he spent living among them. It was a shame he had had to leave them behind to escape with his life.

  Radisson tried to slow down his thoughts. He should sleep.

  The choppy sea had probably made Father Poncet sick again. There was no sign of him on deck and he hadn’t answered when Radisson knocked on his door to tell him his decision. Now that the three days had passed, Radisson was sure. He would go to Paris and meet Father Le Jeune. In the meantime, he would try to find out if fur trading had started again in New France and if the war against the Iroquois was over. With a little luck, he would even find another route back to the colony.

  Sometimes he thought about becoming a sailor. It was so exciting up there with Johan. From the poop deck, he looked down over all the ship and could watch the sea’s every move. He could see the sails, all the manoeuvres, the hull splitting the waves. He listened to the wood groaning, the masts cracking, and the men shouting “Heave ho!” He learned a lot from Johan, who always seemed to know how to lead the Zeelhaen through the unending labyrinth of peaks and troughs. Radisson would love to lead his own life with such assurance.

  * * *

  On January 4, 1654, after fifty-seven days at sea, the Zeelhaen entered Amsterdam harbour. It had been a rough crossing. Gazing at the huge, bustling city that awaited them, the sailors thanked the heavens for delivering them safe and sound. Some were to be reunited with their wives and children. Others were off to get drunk and find company in one of the inns by the port. Everything was going to change for a time. Then they would again take to the sea, off to explore new horizons.

  The Zeelhaen weaved its way between thirty-odd trading vessels anchored in the bay, heading for the long wooden wharves where its cargo would be unloaded. Johan ordered the sails be lowered and the anchor dropped. The Zeelhaen came to a standstill. Radisson looked on, fascinated, as rowboats weighed down with men and merchandise zipped relentlessly back and forth between the bigger boats that huddled close together. He had never seen such a busy port. Along the wharves, carts made their way between piles of goods. The place was alive with the hustle and bustle of trade.

  In the distance, behind a dense forest of masts, stood Amsterdam, dominated by a dozen belltowers, some of which had giant clockfaces. Other clocks had been topped by intriguing spheres on high, pointed spires. Even Paris had been less lively in the faubourgs Radisson had been to with his father. After so many weeks spent at sea, seeing nothing but the water, the sails, and the clouds racing across the sky, Radisson was dazzled by the riches and excitement Amsterdam had to offer. He could feel the need to explore the world stirring inside him.

  As soon as the Zeelhaen’s sails had been furled, Johan had a rowboat dropped down into the water. Two sailors rowed it over to an imposing two-storey stone building at the harbour entrance. Radisson followed them with his eyes. Johan jumped up onto the wharf and disappeared inside the building. Long minutes went by before he came back out again, accompanied by a tall man wearing a broad black hat. After chatting with him for a while, Johan came back on board to supervise the ship’s unloading. The bundles of fur and the lumber had to be brought on deck quickly. The longshoremen loaded them onto rowboats and then onto the wharf. Johan forbade anyone from leaving the ship while this was going on.

  A strange mix of emotions flooded over Radisson as he carried the furs. He had probably killed some of the beavers himself and bartered their skins when he was still an Iroquois, only four months earlier. He knew they were from Fort Orange, where the Dutch had made him aware of the danger he faced living among the Iroquois. It was that trading expedition that had convinced him to flee his adoptive family, his village, and had brought him to this ship. Now he found himself on the other side of the trade, transporting the same furs he had haggled over with the Dutch.

  He was dismayed to see the furs were still soaking wet and would soon rot. Nobody aboard seemed to know how to take care of them, after all the effort that had gone into hunting and preparing the animals, then bartering and transporting the furs. It enraged him to see that such a precious cargo could be ruined through sheer ignorance. This was no way to do business. There was too much at stake, it was too important. He would talk it over with Johan as soon as he had a chance. Someone would have to take the situation in hand as quickly as possible. But it wouldn’t be him. He was too keen to move on.

  As soon as it had been repaired and reloaded, the Zeelhaen was scheduled to leave for Spain. Johan wanted to meet with each man separately the next day to see who would stay on board with him. Radisson was torn. He would have liked to stay with Johan Heyn for a while longer. More than anything else, he would have liked to sail on and land in France rather than Holland. But he didn’t know if that was possible. First, he would need the money Father Poncet had promised him. But the priest was still shut away in the captain’s cabin.

  * * *

  Johan was keen to help Radisson and offered to drop him off at the mouth of the Loire. Then, he would only have to work his way up the river to Paris. It was the best route at that time of year, much better than the endless potholed and muddy roads he could take with the Jesuit, who would certainly not want to continue by sea.

  From his small cabin on the quarterdeck, Radisson kept an eye on the door to the captain’s cabin. If Poncet did not leave by his own means before nightfall, Johan would throw him out and at last be rid of the troublesome passenger. It was noon before the door opened. Very slowly, a hesitant, much thinner silhouette made its way into the light. Radisson was so surprised by this ghostly apparition that he wasn’t entirely sure if it really was the Jesuit. But the threadbare soutane, his height, and his emaciated face left no doubt: it was indeed Poncet.

  “Father!” cried Radisson, coming out of his cabin.

  “Ah, it’s you,” wheezed the pries
t as he turned around. “You waited for me. Good lad. Now come on and give me a hand.”

  “I must speak with you, Father.”

  “First come into town with me. I have a rowboat waiting and have sent word to a friend. Carry this bag for me. I am so weak it is too much for me. Now let’s get off this infernal ship.”

  “First I must speak with you, Father.”

  “Later, Radisson, later. The most pressing matter is to make our way to this friend’s home. I need rest. Help me, please.”

  The rowboat took them to the wharf. Carrying the bag with one hand, Radisson helped the Jesuit along a steep, slippery stretch. Then they found a carter who agreed to take them into town. With the wharves, ships, and smells of the sea behind them, Poncet began to feel better.

  The carter was wary of them, put off by the Catholic missionary’s soutane, although Father Poncet barely paid any heed. He sent the carter in the direction of a large belltower set against the blue sky. On the way, Radisson took in the prosperous streets, lined by homes of brick and stone. In one of the bigger squares, he was surprised to see strange gables on top of buildings three and four storeys high. Dozens of horse-drawn carriages blocked the cobblestoned square. Nicely attired passersby seemed to be doing well for themselves. Further on, Radisson craned his neck to peer at a huge red clock in the middle of a belltower that seemed to touch the clouds. It was all so impressive. It was one o’clock in the afternoon.

  Poncet ordered the carter to stop in front of an anonymous brick home. All smiles, he motioned to Radisson that they had arrived. A tall, well-built man opened the door to them. Once inside, their host clutched the sickly Poncet in his strong arms, welcoming him to his home.

  “You will feel right at home here. Follow me.”

  The man led them into a spotless kitchen whose walls were half-covered in white tiles. He pulled up two chairs and urged them to take a seat around a large wooden table.

  “You appear to be very tired indeed, my dear colleague.”