Warbird Read online

  WARBIRD

  WARBIRD

  Jennifer Maruno

  Text © 2010 Jennifer Maruno

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

  Cover design by Emma Dolan, illustration by Jock MacRae

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.

  Napoleon Publishing

  an imprint of Napoleon & Company

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  www.napoleonandcompany.com

  14 13 12 11 10 5 4 3 2 1

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Maruno, Jennifer, date-

  Warbird / Jennifer Maruno.

  ISBN 978-1-926607-11-5

  I. Title.

  PS8626.A785W37 2010 jC813’.6 C2010-904974-8

  for David Tyler Travis

  ONE

  Sillery, 1647

  Marie Chouart called across the farm yard. “Etienne, viens ici.”

  His mother sounded excited. But before he could go, he had to finish shooting his beaver. It was really a chicken, but in his mind he was Samuel de Champlain, the great Canadian explorer. Under an imaginary cap of raccoon, tail still attached, Etienne peered down his musket-shaped branch.

  “Etienne,” his mother called again. This time she did not sound happy.

  The black mottled chicken scratched and pecked in the crusty dirt floor of the hen house. “Hold still,” Etienne commanded the fowl in front of him. “Bang,” he bellowed. Then he patted the small tin attached to a cord across his shoulder. This was his flask of gunpowder. He removed the pouch hanging from his belt. The chestnuts inside had the clatter and feel of bullets. Etienne leaned his musket against the wall and stashed his ammunition pouch in an empty nesting box.

  As he rounded the end of the yard, he saw his mother talking to a man in a long black robe. A great wooden cross hung around his neck.

  Madame Chouart turned once more to call, this time with the face of a rain cloud.

  “Me voici, ma mère,” Etienne said, running to her side. “Here I am.”

  Marie Chouart took her son by the arm and pulled him to her large white apron. Her hand pushed the straw from his golden locks, forcing him to look down at the man’s feet. The Jesuit wore deerskin shoes with the design of beaded flowers.

  “He is usually such an obedient child,” Etienne heard her say.

  The man in the black robe placed a finger beneath Etienne’s chin and raised it. “You look as if you were sleeping with the chickens,” he said.

  Etienne found himself staring into a pair of eyes darker than the St. Lawrence River.

  “Take Father Lejeune into the house,” his mother directed with a nudge of her knee. “I must remove the bread.” She reached for the wooden paddle, taller than his father, leaning against the stone oven.

  Etienne’s boots clacked across the wooden floor of their clapboard house. The Jesuit made no sound at all. Etienne pointed to the bench by the fire, then he poured water from the brown jug. The only sound was the crackling of the early morning fire.

  The door swung open. Etienne’s father, François Chouart, smelled of earth and animals. The rolled sleeves of his linen shirt revealed strong reddened arms. Seeing the Jesuit by the fire, François nodded and groped for his pipe on the mantle.

  Etienne’s mother entered with a basket holding several rounds of bread. “You will stay for a meal?” she asked the priest, putting the basket on the table.

  “Your offer is kind,” the Jesuit replied. “But preparations are underway. I must return.” He rose from his chair. “A pair of hens is gift enough.”

  His father, filling his pipe, furrowed his brow. “Only one pair?” he asked.

  Etienne knew by the tone of his father’s voice that he was not pleased. Each time an expedition left Sillery, the mission petitioned his farm for supplies. No money exchanged hands.

  “Your generosity overwhelms us,” the priest said, rising. “But there is only room for a very small cage.”

  “Did you bring a cage?” asked Etienne’s father, his eyes narrowing.

  The Jesuit extended his palms upward and shrugged.

  Giving a deep sigh, Etienne’s father put down his pipe and went outside.

  “You will take some bread,” Marie Chouart announced, removing all but one loaf from the basket. “We have some apples left,” she muttered, turning to the wooden bin by the door and lifting the lid. She filled a small burlap sack with withered apples. Then using the bone-handled iron knife, she cut a large wedge of tourtière, wrapped it in cloth and put it the basket.

  “I will never be able to carry all of this,” the Jesuit commented. “Perhaps . . .” he began.

  But Marie knew her husband would be angry if she offered to walk back to the mission house. Last time she had returned home in a panic, frightened by an unexpected encounter with a group of Algonquins.

  “Etienne is almost eleven,” she said. “He will help.” Her brow furrowed. “But you must keep him until morning,” she said. “He is still too young to be out at night.”

  Father Lejeune picked up the basket and sack of apples. Etienne took the twig cage from his father. In it sat Francine, the smallest of the hens, and Samuel, a rooster the same size.

  “They will be less afraid with me,” Etienne told his mother, smiling at the pair of black Houdans. “Samuel,” he whispered into the beard of the mottled rooster, “you will be like the great Champlain.”

  The Jesuit regarded the boy with interest. “You know of Champlain?”

  “Of course,” the boy answered. “I was named after Champlain’s great friend.”

  “That is not true,” his mother interrupted. “He was named after my uncle.” She shook her head in exasperation. “He speaks of nothing but life in the wilderness.”

  “One day,” Etienne announced, “I will go exploring.” He put his arms around his mother’s waist. Looking up into her face, he said, “And I will trap enough pelts to make us rich.”

  “You will make me proud by doing your duty to God,” she said, removing his hands. “Off you go to the mission.”

  Etienne was always happier away from the farm. Winter had finally passed, and he had already spotted his first duck. He jammed his wide-brimmed hat down onto his head and adjusted the small tin at his side. He might find something interesting to put in it. On the way back, he would walk to the edge of the bluff overlooking the St. Lawrence. The ice in the river had already begun to melt. The Algonquin might be hauling in nets of squirming silver eels. He might be able to watch canoes laden with stacks of fur heading for the great warehouses along the Mont Réal wharf.

  “Do not spend all the next day at the mission,” his father snapped. He had a quick temper, especially when it came to chores. “There is work to be done.”

  The boy and the priest trudged down the lane in the late afternoon sun. Etienne paused for a moment to lower the cage of chickens to the ground. “Are you going north too?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately, I must remain here,” Father Lejeune told him, putting down the bag of apples. “My duties limit me to teaching the natives that roam these forests.”

  The mission house lay on the road to Kebec. As they approached the stone walls, Etienne spotted a boy slumped against the wooden fence. A pair of boots tied by their laces hung around his neck. Next to him was a draw-string sack. A soft, tight-fitting cap covered his hair. Tears streaked his dirty face.

  This house is always full o
f travellers, Etienne thought. Everyone stops to receive the priest’s blessing before their voyage to the pays d’en haut, the northern wilderness.

  Father Lejeune took the crying boy by the hand and led him inside. “Remember,” the Jesuit told him, “it is a good choice. Your parents will rest in peace knowing you are doing God’s work.”

  Etienne looked at the boy’s tight, buttonless coat. Unlike Etienne’s roomy woollen one, it hugged the boy as if meant for someone smaller. “Are you travelling to Mont Réal?” he asked. Etienne’s parents did not like the muddy streets and noisy markets, but he did.

  The boy shook his head. He gave a look of such sorrow that Etienne’s heart lurched. “Sainte-Marie,” he said, dropping his pack to the floor.

  “Sainte-Marie,” Etienne repeated. He could hardly believe his ears. This boy was travelling to the farthest mission north, in the middle of the wilderness. “How old are you?”

  “What does that matter,” the boy responded. He rubbed his eyes with his fists. Etienne glanced at his dark-ringed eyes.

  A sullen darkness grew inside Etienne’s heart and filled his chest. It was his dream to go north, to explore and live among the natives. “That’s not fair,” he complained.

  Father Lejeune stopped to stare at him.

  Etienne tried to shrug it off, but all he could think about was this boy’s journey. While he slept under the stars, with the voyageurs, Etienne would be in his own miserable bed.

  But the thought of sleeping in his bed gave Etienne an idea. If he could convince Father Lejeune to let the boy come back to the farmhouse for the night, his plan just might work.

  TWO

  The Switch

  The next morning the mission house buzzed with activity. The voyageurs told tales of canoe races as the clerk wrote down their names.

  “How did you get such a chance?” Etienne whispered wistfully.

  The boy, hunched close to the fire, stared back with red-rimmed eyes. “Such a chance,” he repeated in a mocking voice. “As an orphan apprentice, it is my only chance.”

  Etienne had to fight to keep the excitement from his voice. “You need a good night’s rest, away from all this,” he said. He leaned in close. “I have an idea.”

  “Leave me alone,” the boy said, pushing Etienne away.

  “Why don’t you come back to my farm?” Etienne suggested, tugging at the boy’s arm. “My mother is a good cook. You can sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  “They won’t let me leave the mission,” the boy muttered. “I made a vow to serve God.”

  “It’s only for the night,” Etienne told him. “You can meet up with them in the morning.”

  Father Lejeune praised Etienne for his thoughtfulness. He agreed to wait for the boy at the fork in the road at dawn the next day.

  Etienne’s socks and shirts flapped on the line as the boys approached the farm. His mother stepped away from the kitchen table to greet them, her hands covered in flour.

  “Bonjour?” she said, cocking her head to one side, giving the boy a warm smile.

  “Father Lejeune wants him to stay the night,” Etienne said. “Tomorrow he travels north.”

  “Are your parents far away?” she asked.

  The boy looked down. “They were buried at sea before we reached Kebec.”

  Etienne’s mother uttered a small cry and pulled the boy to her in a floury embrace. Then she pushed him back, pulled off his stocking cap and ran her fingers through his hair.

  “So pale, so thin, so tired,” she said, clicking her tongue. “You have no family here?”

  The boy’s eyes glazed. “My family is the churchyard now,” he said.

  “He is going to the mission of Sainte-Marie, as a donné,” Etienne explained. “He will learn a trade while helping the Fathers.” He took the boy’s cap from his mother’s hand and the drawstring sack. He placed them on the bench beside the door. On top he tossed his small tin pouch.

  His mother handed Etienne a basket. “Collect the eggs,” she told Etienne. “Then the two of you have a good wash before dinner.”

  “It’s seems strange,” Etienne told the boy as they headed to the chicken coop. “You don’t want to go, and I would give anything for such an adventure.”

  “You wouldn’t like it there,” the boy said. He shoved open the wooden door of the coop. “The Jesuits live among the savages.”

  “I know all about savages,” Etienne bragged. “I’ve helped them fish for eels.”

  At dinner that night, his father hardly noticed the stranger at their table. He was too busy complaining. “I expect you to haul rocks tomorrow,” he said to Etienne. “While I felled trees, you spent the day doing nothing.”

  The boy picked at the plate filled with tourtière and bread. Etienne noticed him touching his fingers to his temple. Headache, he thought.

  “We are the same age,” Etienne said to his father. “Isn’t that strange?”

  His father only shrugged as he chewed.

  “Someone might mistake us for brothers,” Etienne said to his mother.

  Marie Chouart looked from one boy to the other. Both had thick yellow hair, a splash of freckles across their noses and deep blue eyes. A look of surprise flashed across her face. “C’est vrai,” she said. She pushed the bread basket towards the boy, but he refused.

  After dinner, Etienne’s father smoked his pipe on the porch while his mother tended the oven. Etienne and the boy mounted the ladder to the loft. The boy removed his clothing and curled up on the straw mattress. Etienne covered him with the quilt his mother had made.

  “I can hardly bear to move my eyeballs,” the boy whispered, “my head is so bad.”

  “I don’t think you should go tomorrow,” Etienne said. “You should stay behind.”

  The boy moaned. “I must go,” he said turning away. “I made a vow.”

  Etienne picked up the boy’s clothes. In the dark, no one will know the difference. He pulled off his own clothes, put on the boy’s and sat on the floor to wait. At the sound of the rooster, I will be up and out the door. The boy could work the farm with my father. The thought of the adventures that lay ahead made Etienne grin from ear to ear. He closed his eyes to imagine buckskins and beavers.

  A weak crow came from the yard as the rooster readied to greet the sun. The creak of the farmhouse door startled Etienne fully awake. His father headed outside to use the latrine.

  The boy groaned and flung off the quilt.

  Etienne closed the wooden shutters and fastened them. He did not want the boy to wake up. He tucked the quilt about the boy’s neck, and waited for him to roll over and go back to sleep.

  Etienne put on the boy’s coat. He raced to the bench and stuffed his hair beneath the woollen cap just as his father stepped onto the porch. Etienne turned his back, pretending to be busy with the knotted bundle his mother had left for the boy’s breakfast. His father paused, yawned and grunted. Etienne grabbed the bag and ran outside with his heart racing. He got to the road just as the rooster gave the sun a full, throaty welcome.

  The sky looked like the St. Lawrence River, light with snow, dark with cold. Etienne fought his fear of the eerie shadows as he made his way to the crossroads. He waited for men with torches and the laden ox-cart to pass. Father Lejeune followed in his square cap and long black cape.

  Etienne joined him, keeping his head low.

  At the river bank, a man in a beaver hat waited with a rifle. The strong, kelpy smell of the St Lawrence filled Etienne’s nostrils. He pulled the cap down over his ears to keep out the damp.

  “You the orphan?” the man asked.

  Father Lejeune placed his hand on Etienne’s shoulder. “He is in God’s hands,” he said.

  A hand shoved Etienne towards the dark river. The steep path to the river was still slippery with winter runoff. In the shadows it was hard to find footing. A man stumbled, almost knocking Etienne off his feet. When the clouds parted, the sun greeted the St. Lawrence with clear, early light. F
our large canots de nord, about twenty-five feet long, with ends shaped like crescents, were moored offshore. Behind them, almost too small to see, a small birch-bark canoe rocked at the end of a pole.

  THREE

  The Journey

  Alerte!” the harsh voice belonging to the man in the beaver hat called out. Three different sizes of painted paddles, coils of ropes, oilskins and large sponges littered the ground. Short, stocky men in feathered red toques and knee-high deerskin leggings moved like ants along the shore. Some stuffed sacks with blankets, bolts of scarlet cloth and calico, then hauled them to their shoulders and waded out to the large canoes. Others followed carrying muskets, kegs of shot or bags of flour and dried peas. All worked quickly and quietly.

  There was the noise of a stumble and a squawk. “Chickens?” the harsh voice questioned. “Last year it was pigs. There is no room. Leave them.”

  “No,” Etienne cried out. “They must go. They are for the fathers at the mission.”

  “Then you carry them,” the man with steely grey eyes thundered. He pushed the cage into Etienne’s arms and shoved him towards the shore. “It’s bad enough we have to take children.”

  Etienne took a deep breath and walked towards the water. Why can they not draw the vessels up to the shore? Which one do I get into? There were four canoes in the water.

  “Take off your boots,” a voice said from behind. Before Etienne could tie them about his neck, his feet left the ground. “Remember to keep still,” said the man carrying him. “The boat is frail. We don’t need to spring a leak before setting off.” He lowered Etienne into the birch-bark canoe and leaped in behind him.

  Etienne’s seat on the sacks of supplies was not comfortable. The top edge of the canoe was less than four fingers from the water.

  A second man handed him the chicken cage then hopped in behind him, making it tip.

  A great circle appeared on the water and dark swells rose at each side. Etienne stared into the dark water, willing it back into calmness.