The boy had grown considerably over the past two years. At eight, he was no longer interested in making sandcastles and chasing whelks out of their shells on shore. He wanted to go on the trip instead. Angélique hesitated, worried about the rigours of fishing on the open seas. “He’ll get seasick.”
“Captain Hyacinthe told me an old trick: just put sand in his moccasins…”
But Jean-Baptiste and Joseph knew Angélique’s arguments were only a pretext for keeping Membertou on land. Joseph tried to call on her pride. “It will make him into a man. What’s more, his wanting to come along shows he’s adopted me!
Still worried, she implored, “Promise me you’ll take good care of him; watch he doesn’t catch cold.”
She had her reasons for being afraid. Membertou had almost succumbed to a bad fever not that long after Joseph’s arrival in Ruisseau. He owed his survival to the care he received from Angélique, who was skilled in the use of medicinal herbs to treat the sick. Several people said she had power in her hands – a fluid her hands gave off that speeded healing. Warm vibrations that made Joseph’s skin prickle when she caressed him.
“You smell like a wild rose bush,” he murmured, trying to reassure her and take her mind off her worries.
Angélique’s only answer was to snuggle closer. She loved him, was still fascinated by his laughing eyes and the way they caressed life and those around him… with an ever-present hint of irony.
* * *
Jean-Baptiste’s patience ran out. They were already well into the month of May and, because of the northeaster, the ice was stuck between Ile Caraquet and Ruisseau. Every morning, he watched the ice pack struggle to hold on to the shore. Every evening, he scanned the heavens to see if the stars were bright or pale, if the moon had lost its halo, or if the “puppets” were dancing. He was hoping for a southwester squall.
Finally, the time for their departure came. The Mi’kmaq came to bid the fishermen farewell. For the occasion, a proud Fiery Elouèzes wore his wampum belt decorated with symbols representing the great Mi’kmaq empire, which covered the districts of the Gaspé peninsula and the Maritimes, and those of Gaspé, Restigouche, Miscou, Poquemouche, and Miramichi. The Phantom Ship set off into the blue of the sea and sky. In the distance, the Gaspé coastline was tinged with hues of emerald and violet. The crystal crests of the waves held a hint of mystery, and the sea was still carpeted with a few glaciers doing a little jig: they were the hangers-on, loath to leave their cradle. Off Chipagan, the schooner crossed paths with a birch canoe outfitted with a small sail. Off Miscou, at the level of the Banc des Orphelins, they met up with several Norman and Basque ships arriving from Europe; some were of Nordic or Dutch design: bulging sides, flat struts, rounded shapes – heavy ships, like hookers and galiots, capable of transporting large cargo loads. Others, like Joseph’s schooner or the Portuguese and Spanish caravels and pinnaces, had more delicate, streamlined hulls, square sterns, and struts that weren’t quite as flat. Jean-Baptiste traded fresh rations in exchange for gold Louis from the European crews, who had been living off sea biscuits, salt beef, lard, peas, and beans for weeks on end.
There was an abundance of cod, and the crew of the Phantom Ship was forever pulling up lines weighted with three-pound lead and two fishhooks. Sometimes the schools of cod were so dense they seemed to buoy up the ship. There was one small problem, however; the hooks were too crooked. The cod swallowed them and then had to be slit open up so the hooks could be retrieved. The crew worked hard; they spent entire days fishing and preparing the cod. On deck, wearing his big leather apron, Jean-Baptiste had the cut-throat’s job (he’d cut the fishes’ throat and slice open their stomach) and Foaming Bear, the beheader’s job (ripping out fish guts to work off his anger). He had to be sure to put into a separate barrel the livers, which, once filtered, would be used to make medicinal oils. The dressers job, removing the cods’ dorsal fin, was left to Seawolf, a young sea-loving Mi’kmaq, while Joseph’s job was to cover each row of fish with a layer of salt to preserve the fish until the ship returned to Ruisseau, where they’d be cured; the process was called dry curing. Membertou was less active. In fact, he spent most of his time perched on the top mast table, drawing pictures on the sails of the white whales he saw off in the distance!
Jean-Baptiste thought he’d have to throw back any giant cod they caught since it didn’t cure well, but he had the good fortune of crossing paths with a boat from St. Malo, which did prepare giant cod (by wet or green curing; the cod was slit open and salted but not dried), which the Parisians loved. A trade took place: two small cod for every big one. Jean-Baptiste began dreaming of the trip he would make to Quebec to sell his cargo of dried cod for fifteen livres4 the hundred-weight5. After three days at sea, the fishermen returned to Ruisseau with the schooner loaded as full as it could be; it was so heavy they risked running aground on the Banc des Orphelins! The tribe had not been idle during their absence. They had built what was called a scaffold6 – a large floor topped by two gables and a roof covered with a ship’s sail -where a cut-throat, a beheader, and a dresser could prepare the fish caught just off the coast. Attracted by the prospect of an effortless meal, a flock of seagulls was already circling the schooner. The Mi’kmaq had also upended rocks – called the cod-drying shore – on which to dry the cod. It was a delicate operation. So delicate, the whole enterprise just about ended up in disaster. They used too much salt, which burned the cod. Then when a heat wave coupled with high humidity hit the region, they didn’t turn the cod on shore often enough. Eventually, they hit upon the proper dose of salt, sun, and wind. Jean-Baptiste could start to dream again about the gold coins that would soon jingle in his treasure chest.
* * *
Joseph had abandoned his schooner to bring in the hay at Pointe-de-Roche, where three rocks stood like sentinels beside the oyster flats. Angélique was there as well. She was particularly proud of her pumpkins; she had followed the native tradition of soaking the seeds in water before sowing them in birchbark boxes that she kept for a while in a warm spot. Transplanted into the vegetable garden, the orange pumpkins stood out against the backdrop of wild hay. Membertou chased after the wild rabbits for fun. Little Geneviève babbled in her hammock, while her mother, wearing a conical rainhat made of woven pine branches, hummed native lullabies as she sewed a red and blue fabric cross on her child’s blanket to place her under heaven’s protection.
“What’s all this about?” Joseph asked, surprised.
“Maybe the missionaries are right. My happiness with you has helped me find forgiveness for the ones who hurt my father. I don’t want to feel hatred and bitterness anymore.”
Joseph, happy and at peace with himself, with nature, and with God, led her by the hand. The tide was low. The oysters lay soaking up the sun. Their delicious flesh-filled shells stretched as far as the eye could see.
“One day, when the French are firmly established in America, our grandchildren will trade with the motherland. They’ll take crates of oysters to La Rochelle and bring back fine wine.”
Angélique saw things differently. “I’m afraid our children will be faced with wars and occupation, just as Jean-Baptiste said the other day. France is neglecting our country too much. What will become of us?” she worried.
Joseph took her into his arms; his comforting warmth calmed her fears. Rocked by the scent of freshly cut hay and by the sea air, they stretched out at the foot of a small golden haystack. That was very likely the day that little Marie-Joseph, nicknamed Josette, was conceived.
