The Canadian Civil War: Volume 1 - Birth of a Nation

I called Picard the next day and was able to arrange another meeting with the President for early December. Apparently there was some thrashing about in his political party that was taking more of his time, but he was still interested in my project and willing to make time for it. I was relieved to hear all of that. I still wondered if I had crossed some line in my conversations with him about LaSalle, but apparently things were back on track.

  During my wait, there was lacrosse. The social scene in Green Bay is built around the lacrosse season, with big parties before and after each game, and status awarded based on which luxury box one used at Lambeau Field. I knew it was important for me to be seen at these matches, so I used our corporate box and tailgated before and after the game like the locals. The combination of buffalo jerky and cheap Bordeaux wine is the official food at these affairs so I had loathed them in the past, but things were different this year with Elise at the matches. For one thing, she dragged me out of the company box. December is cold in Green Bay, and the boxes are warm, but she didn’t care.

  “There is no sense going to a match if you are going to sit in a box,” she claimed. “You might as well watch it on TV” (which, by the way, seemed like an excellent idea to me.) We hadn’t been in our nice warm luxury box ten minutes when she grabbed my arm and led me down a thousand stairs to the playing field. Somehow she knew someone who let us onto the field so we could stand down near the goals. There were cameramen running around us and balls flying through the air, and it was cold! But Elise grabbed my arm in both of hers and wouldn’t let go. So I stood on the field for over three hours while my subordinates at the company ate our corporate buffet and kept their feet near the electric heaters. The expression “she’s got a hold on me” took on a whole new meaning that afternoon.

  But lacrosse matches only provided some entertainment on Sundays. In between matches I decided to take the President’s advice and drive up to Sault St. Marie and St. Ignace. I invited Elise. I liked the idea of us being alone for a couple days in the wilds of the frozen north, but she had a seminar to cover. She seemed to take her college work more seriously than I had thought French students did. So I decided to go alone. Roads in New France all lead to Green Bay. Highway 1 takes the route down the Wisconsin River and thence down the Mississippi. Highway 2 leads north to the Sault and then along the top of the Great lakes east to Montreal and Quebec. Highway 3 leads along the bottom of the Great Lakes to Chicago and Detroit and Duquesne. The exception are the war roads (the French call them “defense” roads) that run along the western edge of the Appalachians and the eastern edge of the Rockies, so they can move troops against us wherever they choose.

  I had never taken Highway 2 out of Green Bay. Until the president mentioned it, no one had ever suggested that I should. This is an area empty of population and empty of aesthetic value. At least that is what I had always heard. But I had the time, so why not see where the Jolliet voyage had begun? I left after breakfast one day and started north.

  The drive is simple enough. The western shore of Green Bay is flat. The first hour is mostly working class suburbs. The nobility like to live to the east and south of Green Bay where there are plenty of hills to place their chateaus. Why have a chateau if it can’t dominate the landscape? To the north is peasant country. After an hour even the poor houses disappear. From then on it is all trees. The big pines have long been taken for building. What are left are plantations of pine in long rows, or masses of poplars. Both are apparently taken for paper pulp. I passed a few log trucks on the way. There were houses along the way, but they rapidly decreased in quantity, and I soon felt pretty alone on the highway.

  The day was pretty typical for early December. The sky was leaden gray, and the wind pushed the trees around. Periodically the road ventured alongside the Bay, where I saw one and two foot waves crashing endlessly on small stones. I had checked the forecast and they said no snow for the next couple days, but the feeling in the air was that snow could begin at any minute. I kept the Citroen’s heater pushed to high, and hoped the car wouldn’t leave me stranded out here in the middle of nothing.

  Periodically I would find a small town and feel some relief at being near civilization again. Marinette, Escanaba, Manistique… I drove past rows of small houses and small cafes and was back out of town within minutes. I had lunch in Manistique. My map showed that there was nothing much ahead, so I better eat while I could. There were several cafes set up near the highway, each with a view of Lake Michigan. They looked like they were built to enable outdoor dining during the summer, but not even the French were crazy enough to eat outside on a day like this. I found a table inside, ordered a sandwich, and stared out at the water.

  It seemed to go on forever. I knew that from where I was sitting, I was essentially at the top end of Lake Michigan. Chicago was due south of me some hundreds of miles. Between us were an infinite number of choppy gray waves. I was glad to be off the water, huddled in this silly café in this sad little town.

  Two older men at the next table tried to strike up a conversation, something about their boat and going out fishing. I had a bit of trouble understanding them, and thought maybe there was a problem with my French, when I began to realize that my French was better than theirs. I commented upon the waves and the wind and once we had agreed that it would be a tough day for fishing, they left me to my thoughts. Small town people making small talk with strangers. I wondered what kept them up here in such an empty place, but didn’t ask. I ate my sandwich and got back into my car.

  I decided to go to Sault St. Marie first. It was late afternoon by the time I got there. By then I had seen every acre of jack pines I hoped to ever see again. Given that this is a major link between Green Back and Quebec, you would think there would be more traffic and more people, but they must all take the southern route. I can’t blame them. I was pleased to see my first traffic light in hours, seeing the red, amber, and green as a “welcome home” sign. I was back among people. I pulled into the first hotel I could find on Portage Avenue across from St. Marie’s River. Some day I will count all the Portage Streets and St Marie’s this and that’s in Canada, and astound the world with the number.

  I had this idea that I would get up the next morning and try to drive along the shore as close as I could to the route that Jolliet took down to see Marquette in St. Ignace. It was about sixty miles or so, and I thought I could do it. I found a café near the locks and huddled over my maps. Periodically I looked up and saw huge ore ships drop outside my window. They were dropping from Lake Superior which was up river slightly to my left, to Lake Huron, down river slightly to my right. It looked to me like the locks were taking them down about twenty feet.

  The wine was pretty good and I had a few while eating a good veal dish. Maybe it was the wine, but I began to get interested in the number of boats dropping in front of me. The process was slow – almost an hour to get the boat in, dropped, and out – but it seemed like there was an endless stream of them. Finally I asked the waiter if the locks were always so busy. It was just the opening the boy had been waiting for. Of course they were busy, he pointed out, loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear. With the shipping season due to end in ten days, the ore was needed in plants to the south. I gave him a polite “thank you” and went back to my wine. Life must be very simple when one can achieve social status in a community by knowing the date the shipping season ends.

  So this was the current state of Sault St. Marie. From trading post and mission to locks for ships. The resources of the west continued to pass through the town, but now they just paused for an hour before moving on. I went back to my maps.

  The river connecting the two lakes ran southeast out of town through a series of small passages. For some reason St. Marie River became Nicollet River, but it didn’t look like the water could tell the difference. It just kept flowing southeast around a point of land until it opened into Lake Huron. There
were some roads along the way but none followed the shore the entire distance. Instead, I found a larger road, Caribou Lake Road. It went east out to De Tour Point and De Tour village. How could I pass up a chance to visit De Tour? Once there, I saw a road that ran southwest along the upper shore of Lake Huron, directly to St. Ignace. I folded up my maps and left the café. Another ore boat was leaving the lock. No doubt they were hurrying to beat the ten-day deadline. If the captain didn’t know when that day was, he could just stop in and ask the waiters in the café – all experts in lake shipping.

  The weather was worse the next day – more cold, more wind, darker skies. I made sure the gas tank was full before I left town. I amused myself thinking that I was driving to a De Tour and not around a detour. Or at least I amused myself that way for a few minutes. Once I turned off onto local roads and found myself once again surrounded by endless forests, the joke seemed much less amusing. I knew a major highway was just a few dozen miles behind me, but it felt much farther. We don’t have many empty places like this in the U.S. I drove down the road, probably much too slowly, but there was little traffic around and I wasn’t taking any chances on missing a turn.

  Finally (it was really much less than an hour), I found De Tour. The village was just a few houses in rows, and I drove past them to the edge of the water. It was too cold and windy to get out of the car. I sat along their main street and looked up and down the river. A large ferry boat sat on shore ready to take cars across the river to a large island. No one seemed to be getting on board. Why would they? That side of the river looked just as desolate as this side. An ore boat was making the turn just a hundred yards from my car, turning west to continue through to Lake Huron and points south. If it noticed the village along the way, it was probably just to check the lighthouse and other electronic navigation devices as it made its way out into the great lake. I didn’t stay very long either.

  The road east to St. Ignace stays along the lake nearly the whole way. This is a scenic route, just two lanes of blacktop, with places to pull out and look at the lake, or park and go down to the beach. But on a blustery, cold day like this the road was empty. I drove slowly and paid little attention to my driving. Instead, I watched the water along the shore and tried to imagine two men in a birchbark canoe paddling along on a day like this. How many miles would they make in a day? Five? Ten? Coming south down St. Marie’s River, they at least had some shelter from a west wind if they hugged the shore, but out here paddling along the edge of Lake Huron, they were exposed to the full force of the wind and waves. They arrived in St. Ignace on December 8. When did they leave? Five days before? Six? Eight? Two men paddling through the wind and icy water for about a week.

  Why? Jolliet wanted to tell Marquette that they would be going south in May. And he wanted to tell him personally. So he and a friend spent a week going to St. Ignace and a week going back, just to personally deliver a message. When he arrived in St. Ignace what he would get for his efforts would be a few nights in an Indian village and some conversation with the Father. Was that acceptable to Jolliet? He was a young man, just twenty seven. Maybe he burned with excitement about the trip and wanted to share it. Maybe he felt the weight of his first command and wanted to make sure it got off to a good start. After three centuries, who could tell? The one certainty was the cold water, the icy wind, and the strain on his knees and back.

  I took about two hours getting to St. Ignace. I just followed the water. St. Ignace occupies a bend in the shoreline by the Straits of Mackinac. Just through the straits to the west is Lake Michigan. The town is three streets wide, all parallel to the shore. What was once an Indian village is now a tourist village. Every second business either sells fudge or sells ferry rides out to Mackinac Island. The island that couldn’t raise corn does a better job raising summer tourists.

  I parked by one of the ferry docks and tried to decide what to do next. I knew that the bark chapel of Marquette was long gone, and even the wooden chapel built years after his demise was gone as well. There was a museum in his honor, but I knew it would contain no original artifacts of the day. There would just be colorful dioramas designed to explain the period to an endless sequence of grade school kids on class tours.

  Could I get out to the island? Tourist season was long over, so I wasn’t sure if the ferries even ran, but I decided I would at least find out. I pulled my coat tight around my throat and walked to the ferry office. Given the waves I could see piling up against the shore, I was half hoping the ferry was closed for the season. But I found out it still ran a few times a day to get workers on and off the island. I bought a ticket for the next run and was out on the island by 2.

  The island is actually quite attractive. They have a quaint rule – no cars, so everything is done with horses. Even with the tourists off the island the workmen hauled their tools and building supplies around on horse-drawn carts. Basically there is one street that wraps around the island’s eight mile circumference, and the place is easy to explore.

  I started with the fort. Near the harbor and back up the side of a hill is an old fort the French built to protect the entrance to Lake Michigan (and Green Bay) from evil Americans. The fact that we had never come near the place did not prevent them from preserving the fort as a reminder of their past vigilance. They had a few old cannons about the place and had whitewashed the stone walls. I had no real interest in a fort that had never been used in battle, but the climb up to the top of the front steps gave me an excellent view of the harbor. I thought the wind was going to blow me off the hill, and my eyes quickly teared from the cold, but it was worth the effort just to look. Who knew if the old cannon in the fort really would have been useful against us Americans. For the French stationed there, it would have been heaven just to wake up each morning to such a view.

  When I couldn’t stand the cold any more, I carefully climbed back down the hundreds of steps to the street and explored the town. The shops here also had an odd affinity for fudge, with one store bragging it had over twenty flavors of it. Fortunately, all these places were closed for the winter. So were the souvenir stores with the Indian artifacts made in China. What saved the place was the hotels. All were made of wood, all were nearly a century old, and all had huge porches. They were so attractive they almost looked American. On an impulse I decided to check if any were open and spend the night if it was possible.

  The biggest hotel on the island is the Grand (named with typical French modesty), and I started to walk towards it when I saw another hotel along the beach – the Iroquois. I loved the irony of naming a French hotel after the Indians who had hounded them for over a century. I immediately made for the hotel, determined to stay there if it was possible. And I was lucky. Not only were they still open for a few more days, but they had one of the few restaurants still functioning on the island. As for the name, when I asked about the source, the hotel clerk informed me that “it had always been called Iroquois” as if that explained anything. From the look on his face I could see I wasn’t going to get anything more from him on the subject.

  Since ninety percent of the hotel was empty, I had no trouble getting a large room with windows facing south across Lake Huron. To my right were the Straits leading to Lake Michigan and the huge bridge crossing over them. I had barely put my coat down when the first ore boat lumbered past. It had better hurry, I thought, just nine more days until shipping season ends.

  How do you spend a December evening on a deserted island? It turned out the hotel restaurant had a huge fireplace and very good wine. Four or five hours passed beautifully. Periodically I glanced out the window to see the lights of ships going past, but mostly I watched the fire dance. It was more than enough for me that night.

  By the time I got up the next morning, the few workmen who were staying in the hotel had already gone off to various building and remodeling projects, and I had the hotel to myself. The clerk at the front
desk told me I had already missed the one ferry of the morning. It would be noon before I could get back to St. Ignace. The clerk was a slightly older man, and I took a chance to ask him about Marquette.

  “I don’t suppose there are any items on the island from when Father Marquette lived here, are there?”

  “Ah, you do know your history,” he replied. “Most people want to know the history of the fort or of the Grand Hotel. It is surprising how few know that Father Marquette lived here for nearly a year. But I am afraid we have nothing to show for that period. Indian camps in those days were pretty basic – just trees and bark and campfires. And then they weren’t here very long. In the years afterward there were lots of Indians who camped out here while hunting or fishing, so who is to know which camp is which? Not that it matters. When the fort was built, the town was built right where the old Indian camps were.”

  “And nothing ever turns up, say during construction?”

  “More of the island is being built up now that the nobility have decided this is the place for their trophy chateaus, and periodically something will turn up. Green Bay is pretty good about sending archeologists up to look, but nothing very significant has been found yet.”

  “Yes, “ I said, “It has been a very long time.” I had two hours to wander around the town, but there really wasn’t anything else that held my attention. I sat and drank a cup of espresso, and eventually the ferry arrived.

  The ride back turned out to be more memorable than I would have liked. The waves were several feet high and while the ferry was a catamaran – two hulls spaced for stability – the waves knocked it about pretty good. I was almost thrown to the floor at one point. The French were never noted for their boat designs, but I suspected this particular ride was the result of the wind and the currents coming out of the Straits of Machinac. Massive volumes of water moved out of Lake Michigan and into Lake Huron through a five-mile gouge in the land. Vessels of all sizes felt the forces below. Fortunately, after fifteen or twenty minutes we came into the lee of the harbor and the boat settled down.

  As I got into my car and started the four-hour drive back to Green Bay, I had this odd thought about the island. Marquette had moved a tribe of Indians there because the place was too remote to be attacked by either the Iroquois or the Sioux. Its isolation was its safety. A hundred years later the French were fortifying the island because it was at the entrance to their empire on the Mississippi. From empty spot on the map to lynchpin of the empire in one century – that’s quite a change for any piece of ground.

  How much of my trip did I share with the President when I saw him the next week? Nothing. He knew where I had been, and I knew he knew where I had been. Why bring it up? We met in his study again. This time before we even sat down, I took on the role of dutiful servant and brought him a cup of coffee before pouring one for myself and sitting across from him.

  “When last we met,” I began, “You described the initial preparations for the trip. Louis had gotten his instruction in Quebec, had gathered his men at Sault St. Marie, and then had taken a short trip down to St Ignace to tell Father Marquette that he would be the seventh member of the expedition. Did anything else happen that winter before they left?”

  “No, it was a typical winter camp. They talked, they hunted, they chopped wood. The sun sets up there soon after four, and stays down for over sixteen hours. It is a good time to rest. By April the days were longer, and by May the ice was off St. Marie’s river. They could start.”

  “Father Marquette had all winter to prepare,” I noted. “So I assume there was no delay expected in St. Ignace.”

  “You are right. The Hurons were very sorry to see Marquette leave, but he told them one of his Jesuit brothers would be coming to be their priest. Oddly, he did not promise that he would be returning to them. For of course, he didn’t.”

  “His belongings were a bit odd, but the Jesuits had traveled over so much of the country that they knew how to pack all his spiritual necessities so that they would both stay dry and be easy to portage. Marquette put most of what he needed in a metal box. There used to be jokes about sacramental wine, but it was so heavy the priests carried barely more than thimble-fulls when they traveled. They needed a bible, a cassock, candles, communion cup and bread, and a few yards of cloth that Marquette used very effectively as a dramatic backdrop when he told the story of Christ. That was it. They carefully stored his box and a few clothes in one of the canoes, and then he got in. And yes, they gave him a paddle and expected him to paddle just as much as the other men. He would have been insulted if they hadn’t let him help.”

  “How good is your imagination?” He suddenly asked.

  “I think it’s fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Well there is much we know, and much we don’t know. For instance, May 17, 1673 is one of the most important days in our history, but we don’t know many basic things about their day. Did it rain? Was it cold? Their first hours of paddling took them through the Straits of Machinac. Were the currents rough? They were paddling roughly west into the wind. How much wind did they face that day and subsequent days? You would love to go back in time, even for a few hours just to sense what they were feeling that morning. These men were traders, not poets, but you have to believe they started that morning with a particular sense of the moment. It was the start of an adventure for them, and an historic turning point for their nation.”

  “Had any of them paddled to Green Bay before?” I asked.

  “No. There had been a trading post and mission at Green Bay for several years now, and while it was much smaller than the one at the Sault, some dozen or so traders had been down there and back. But it turned out none of this group had been among them. No doubt they had talked with these traders when they stopped at the Sault, and so they had some idea of the route as far as Green Bay, but none of Louis’ partners had made the trip themselves.”

  “The route itself is more complicated than it might appear. The simple thing to do would be to just follow the northern shore of Lake Michigan, and it will eventually lead right down Green Bay. But Bay de Noc is along the shore line, and it would take several days to paddle around it. Or you can paddle across the mouth of it, but the entrance is dozens of miles across, a pretty long distance for small canoes to be out of the sight of land. Have you ever paddled a canoe?”

  “Like most kids, I did some canoeing in summer camp” I replied, “But I have never done any real canoe trips.”

  “You should some time. There is an area just west of Lake Superior that has hundreds of interlocking lakes. We have kept the area natural and don’t allow any motors on the lakes. You can paddle for a hundred miles and the lakes look like they did in the time of Louis and Marquette. It is a great experience. Many young French men consider it a rite of passage to paddle from one end to the other. It takes about two weeks.”

  “Yes, I am sure it is very interesting.” Actually I was beginning to worry that the President was going to wander into some unrelated topic.

  “What you learn if you ever take a longer canoe trip is how difficult it is to see. Your eyes may just be three feet off the water, so your range of vision is not very great. If you go more than a few hundred yards from shoreline, the shore can disappear quickly. All it takes is a little fog, or damp air, and there is nothing left to see. You try to keep your canoes straight, but it is easy to get off course. You also have to worry about a sudden wind coming up with you so far from possible shelter, and then too, birchbark canoes leak. Should you suddenly lean too far to one side and tear a seam, dry land is a long way off.

  “I think I get the idea,” I said. “You want to stay close to shore, and in an ideal world, the shore would cooperate by being nice and straight.”

  “Nicely put. Yes, the northern shore of Lake Michigan doesn’t cooperate.” He laughed as he emphasized “cooperate.” “So Louis had been given what he no doubt thought was pretty s
trange advice from traders who had made the trip before. He could hug he western shore, but that meant a long, uncomfortable paddle past the mouth of Bay De Noc. Or he could essentially island-hop over to the eastern shore of Green bay and come down what is now called Door County.”

  “The Doorway to our Nation’s Capital” I quoted the advertising slogan for the Door Peninsula.

  “That’s better than calling it Death’s Doorway as the ship captains referred to it for centuries. Given the currents and winds, lots of ships never made it through there. But of course Death’s Doorway isn’t likely to catch on as an advertising slogan. In any event, we know the first week or so was pretty straightforward – they just needed to follow the shoreline. They were headed west, so they were almost always directly into the wind, but that also meant that they had fewer worries about waves coming from the side and swamping them. Canoeists like to face the wind. They stayed far enough off shore so that they would not be surprised by Indians who might be in the area, but they were close enough so that if the weather turned, they could get onto shore pretty fast.”

  “I drove along that shore a week or so ago. It is mostly rocks,” I said.

  “Yes, rocks and birchbark don’t go well together, but at least it is a low shore. They could jump off their canoes a few feet from shore, and drag or carry the canoe up over the rocks and onto the shore. The more dangerous shoreline is along the western edge of Lake Michigan, where cliffs make it almost impossible to beach a boat in a storm. Of course they wouldn’t know about that for a few months. For the first week of their trip, they had pretty good shoreline to follow.”

  “The more complicated part of the expedition came when they got a little west of where Manistique is currently located. By the way, Manistique is a little odd in that no Indian village was there. Lots of the little towns north of Green Bay are built where old Indian villages were. Traders came in, other businesses followed, and a town grew up. Not Manistique. Louis and his band never saw an Indian that first week. They would paddle most of the day, pull their canoes up on shore, and hunt for an hour or so before settling down for the night. On their third day out they got a moose that lasted them for nearly a week.”

  “About two days west of Manistique they got to the point that the other traders had tried to explain to Louis and the rest. Suddenly the shoreline fell away to the west. They had come to Big Bay de Noc. Years later Louis would come back and map the area, but for now he saw that following the shore line would take them back east around the bay. Paddling directly across the Bay, well, he had no idea how far that would be (it turns out to be over fifteen miles), but he couldn’t risk paddling that far across open water. They would be helpless in a storm.”

  “What the traders had told him to do instead, was to steer southwest and island hop. The islands were two to five miles apart, so it was still a pretty risky venture for men in small canoes, but they could see from island to island and could beach on them if they had to. They beached their canoes at what is now called Point Jolliett, and talked over the alternative routes.”

  “They had immediate agreement on a couple points. The first was that this was not a place to rush ahead. They would camp for the night and watch the weather. This was May and so they had already encountered some rain earlier in the week, but had so far faced no storms. If the morning dawned quiet, they would begin one of the routes. If there was any threat of bad weather, they would stay in this camp for as many days as seemed prudent.”

  “They also agreed that this area needed to be mapped carefully. The situation they faced was unique. They had all canoed for thousands of miles around the Great lakes, but they had never been faced with this much open water before. This was a dangerous place. Even if Green Bay remained nothing more than a small trading post, others would come this way and face this decision. And if Green Bay turned out to be the entrance to a major water route to China, then thousands would pass this point. They didn’t have the time now to map all of what would later be called Big and Little Bay de Noc, but they would paddle at least a little ways around the point to get a general idea of the geography.”

  “I think, by the way, that most historians give Louis and his party too little credit for decisions like that. He didn’t just discover the Mississippi. He created maps that would allow others to safely get to the Mississippi and back. It meant they traveled more slowly, but I think it greatly increased the value of his accomplishments.” The President looked intently at me at that movement, and I could see what he intended for me to remember. Louis not only paddled canoes – he made maps. Here was the most over-rated explorer in the history of birchbark, and Claude was worried that he didn’t get enough credit for actually making a map of where he had been! Wow! My hero. I scribbled some notes to indicate I was capturing this incredible insight. Claude seemed satisfied and continued his story.

  “The next morning was wet, but not stormy. So they paddled around the point and into Big Bay de Noc. They would not attempt to paddle all the way around the Bay, but they would go half a day to look for major land features, make their maps, and then return to Jolliet Point. The rain increased slowly all day, and I am sure they were miserable out on the water, but they followed their plan and mapped the first twelve miles of Big Bay de Noc, as far as Fayette harbor, which would later become an iron-making center. Then they turned around and headed back to where they had camped the night before.”

  “Did all seven of them go?” I asked. “It would seem more efficient for them to send just one canoe around the point while the rest of them stayed at camp.”

  “Yes, all of them went. I am sure all of them would have liked a quiet day in camp rather than another day of paddling in the rain, but it just wasn’t safe to divide the group. There was a reason why Louis always came back with every man he left with. If he had left two or three men in camp, they would have been vulnerable to any hunting party that might have come along. Similarly, two or three men in a canoe would have been vulnerable to any hunting camp they might have happened upon. LaSalle divided his force and left cemeteries all over our country. Louis never left a man behind.”

  “That night they checked and rechecked their canoes, and watched the weather. They had determined to take the route recommended by other traders, and island hop over to the western shore of Door County. Father Marquette heard all their confessions and they held a short service. I am sure all of them went to sleep with some apprehension.”

  “The next day fortune smiled on them. The day dawned bright with not a cloud in the sky and barely a breath of wind. For men who would be facing at least two days out in open water, it was a great sign. They quickly ate a breakfast of grilled moose and loaded their canoes.”

  “Their plan was to paddle southwest as they had been told, and when they came near an island, to go around on the eastern, or leeward shore. They had rudimentary ways of measuring distance, but they thought what would be most useful would be to gauge the time it took to get from island to island, since the time out in open water is what would cause the greatest danger.”

  “The first stretch was not very reassuring. The distance to the first island was a bit over two miles, and paddling across relatively flat water, they needed a significant part of the morning to cover the distance. Part of the problem was the current. Waters flow north and east out of Green Bay. The wide end that they were crossing does not have the currents of some other places on the Great Lakes, but there is enough of a current to force them east of where they wanted to go. They were grateful for smooth water. “

  “The first island is more than two miles long. Once there, they stopped briefly in the lee of the island and Louis made his notes and did a quick sketch. Rather than continue south, they actually paddled north along the island while Louis did his mapping, and then returned south to the tip of the island. It was a pretty spring day, and I suspect the men enjoyed being out in the sun. They certainly didn’t complai
n about the extra paddling they were doing in order to map their route.”

  “Then it was off to the next island, a much smaller rock about one mile south. This was much less attractive, and worse, it was apparent that the next hop was going to be much longer. South of the second island was mostly open water. There were smaller islands intermittently, but they were barely more than rocks – no place to put in during a storm. The distance to the third significant island in the chain is almost five miles. They spent most of the afternoon paddlng the distance and fighting the currents, but fortunately, not having to fight much of a wind.”

  “We call the third island Gull Island. That’s because only gulls would want to ever go there. No, that’s not fair. I have no idea why we call the island Gull Island. Maybe some Indians called it that, maybe some map makers were running short of more attractive names. It’s a pretty big island – over a mile long and nearly as wide, but no one goes there so it sits empty with a name no one gives much thought to. For Louis and his party, it was a welcome stop. They put in and had a late lunch. Louis climbed to a crest on the island and mapped it. Ultimately the rest of the party joined him at the crest. Everywhere they looked was open water. They were now halfway across the mouth of Green Bay, but they had no way of knowing that. All they saw was the miles of open water they had crossed and the miles they had left before they reached the next island. No doubt they looked carefully at the sky to see if trouble was brewing in the west. So far, the sky remained clear.”

  “The next hop was the longest. It is roughly five miles from Gull Island to Rock Island. The current is strongest here, and the seas are always the highest. Even on a calm day like this one, their canoes bobbed in the water as the men struggled against their paddles. Working with all their strength and with total concentration, they crossed the water by the end of the afternoon. I don’t know of any Olympic athletes who could have done better. Of course for that matter, I don’t know anyone silly enough to take a canoe out through that passage.”

  “They arrived at Rock Island hot and tired. The north end of the island is pretty forbidding, so they paddled around toward the south, looking for a place to beach and rest. Once they approached the south end of the island they saw that they were really just a half mile from a much larger island. Should they rest on Rock Island, or paddle on? I am sure their bodies were telling them to stop on Rock Island, but their experience told them that storms can come up without warning, and the larger the island they were on, the safer they would be.”

  “So they paddled another half mile to what is now called Jolliet Island. They found a good harbor almost immediately upon getting to the island, and they gratefully beached their canoes. There are sixteen hours of daylight in this latitude in the spring, so they still had several more hours of sun, but their day was done. I challenge any man to make the same voyage they did. A few try it each year, but very few.”

  “Jolliet Island is just a couple miles off the tip of Door County, so they had essentially completed their crossing, but of course they didn’t know that. They just knew they were safely ashore on an island that would protect them in a storm. They set up camp and then Claude and Andre went out to see if there was anything on the island to hunt. It was only after an hour or so of walking around that they began to realize the size of the island. In fact, it was so big they wondered if they had already completed the crossing to the main land. It was a happy camp that night as they considered their success in crossing the open water and hoped that their crossings were over. Father Marquette held a service after dinner and all seemed especially devout.”

  “The next morning Louis let the men get a somewhat later start. It was another beautiful spring day and their situation seemed ideal. The waters were still calm, and they were either on the mainland, or on an island large enough to maintain them for a reasonable amount of time. They felt safe here. They also felt that pride that comes from knowing you have accomplished something significant. So Louis let them sleep and putter around the camp until the sun was well above the treetops.”

  “At last they reloaded their canoes and pushed into the water again. As was their habit, they paddled along the lee side of the island, with Louis making notes for his map. The island is nearly five miles across, so it took them much of the morning before they rounded a point on the southeastern edge of the island and discovered that they were on an island. I am sure they were all somewhat disappointed. But then, they could also see that the next land mass was just two or three miles out. They didn’t know how many more crossings they would have to make, but at least this next crossing would not be a long one.”

  “Rather than make the crossing though, Louis decided that they would completely circle the island while he mapped it. The island is roughly the size of Mackinac island, so maybe Father Marquette influenced him, but in any case, they paddled the entire perimeter of the island. It was reassuring. As opposed to Gull and Rock Island, Jolliett Island was not only larger, but it was wooded and seemed to have a variety of wildlife on it. Within a century in fact, the island would be home to farmers. But for now, Jolliett could safely tell other voyaguers that the island would offer sanctuary if needed.”

  “They camped that night near the southern end of the island so they could begin the crossing to the next land mass at dawn. They were reassured that the distance to the next land mass appeared short, troubled that there was yet more open water to cross. How many more islands would they have to paddle around before they came to solid shoreline? Claude saved the day. He was only out of camp for ten minutes when he shot a huge bull moose. It took all seven of them to drag it back to camp. They ate their fill that night. They went to sleep with greasy fingers and greasy clothes and the smell of meat over all the camp. It seemed God continued to smile on them.”

  “Dawn brought a cold, wet fog. They built up the fire and ate another huge helping of moose meat. The land mass to the south that had been so clear to them yesterday, was now invisible as they sat hunched over their meat. Should they wait for the fog to clear? Try to cross now before the weather got worse? They would need to be in their canoes for over an hour. The weather could change a great deal in that time. In this fog they could see nothing of the sky that might warn them of weather conditions.”

  “Louis let them sit and wait. They had food, they had shelter, there was no reason to move on to greater risk. They stayed in camp until nearly noon. Finally the air cleared and they could see their destination, and they could see the sky. Once again the sky was clear. They could make the trip in safety. That was Louis for you. He was a patient man, and he didn’t put his men at unnecessary risk. They had lost half a day, but they hadn’t lost a man or a canoe.”

  “The trip over to Door County was so simple it is hardly worth mentioning. The only problem they faced is an ironic one. They always paddled along the lee side of an island. It gave them protection from the wind, and enabled them to beach their canoes if necessary, without fear of having the waves throw them against rocks. They had now reached Door County, but of course they didn’t know that. The tip of the peninsula could just as easily have been an island, so they started paddling along the lee shore. That took them along the Lake Michigan shore, not the Green Bay shore. After an hour of paddling, they became pretty confident that they had now reached the mainland, so they backtracked and started down the western shore of the peninsula. They had arrived at the waters of Green Bay.”

  “Traders had told them that once they reached this point they could be at the Green Bay trading post at the mouth of the Fox in just two or three days. No doubt Louis could have made that distance in that time or less, but he was here to map. So they took their time. That afternoon they paddled for just a few more hours before beaching for the night. Louis needed to carefully draw out the shorelines he had just seen. He knew that many others would need to know what to look for when they had arrived at the Door Peninsula. He
was also confident now that the passage through the islands was the right way to go, so he rechecked his notes and made all the observations he could about that route, writing well past sun down. His party had already documented a safe path to Green Bay.”

  The President paused here, which was almost my undoing. I was having a terrible time staying awake, and as long as he spoke, I could just fiddle with my pen. Now he had stopped for some reason, and I was required to focus my attention enough to make eye contact. I tried to think of something he had said about the voyage that was at least reasonably interesting. So far, seven grown men had taken two days to paddle from one island to another in perfect weather. I hoped he wasn’t hoping to sell the movie rights to this yarn. All he had at the moment was bedtime reading.

  “So,” I said, scrambling desperately to show some interest. “They must have felt pretty good, having made it across all that open water.”

  “I am sure they did, as did the thousands who later followed in their path. I told you a few people try to emulate their passage every summer. Maybe it is a gesture of respect, maybe it is just bravado. Either way, I have never seen a group of canoeists try to make the trip without a larger boat nearby in case they get into trouble.”

  “That would seem wise.” I nodded and hoped he would go on. Americans and British have been sailing through the Straits of Magellan for centuries, facing eighty foot seas and hundred mile an hour winds. How long did he expect me to sit here in awe of seven men who had paddled a few miles between islands? What more did he want from me? Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to get it. Finally he decided to continue.

  “The rest of the trip to Green Bay was uneventful except for one side-trip. They followed the western shore of the Door Peninsula the first day. The water is relatively quiet and the beaches are mostly sand. It took one day to get down to what is now called Sturgeon Bay, and then they did something that might have been thought silly. They decided to paddle across the Bay to the Menominee River. This is a significant river and there was an Indian tribe with a permanent settlement just a few miles up river from the bay. It was a risk to paddle the fifteen or so miles, but the weather was still good, and they wanted to save some souls for Christ.”

  “So early the next morning, they paddled northwest across Green Bay. The trip was uneventful, but took most of the day. And then once they landed, they didn’t know whether the river would be up or down the shore from their location. They decided to paddle north a few hours, and finally saw the river as the sun was getting pretty low. It would be a terrible idea to paddle into the Indian camp in the dark, so they made camp for the night. With Indians so near, they decided to not make a campfire and to post guards. As a result they were cold and tired when they launched their canoes the next morning to reach the Indian camp.”

  “It took them less than an hour to reach the camp and to have their first surprise of the journey. There waiting for them was a Frenchman – Louis Auberville. They all knew Louis as a fellow trader who had come to the Sault several times in the past three years. He had gone off last year with two other traders and they hadn’t seen him since. Here he was in a Menominee Indian village, and there behind him was a young woman and a baby. The scene told them most of what they needed to know before they even reached shore. The scene also told them they were about to have trouble with Father Marquette.”

  “Fornication is a grave sin, my son,” Marquette shouted as he leapt from the canoe still two yards from shore. The current was strong here and he was almost swept away, but he caught himself and dragged himself up the muddy bank. “What have you done here?” he asked when he reached the place where Auberville was standing.

  “Father, I ask your blessing.” He replied, and instantly Marquette regained his composure.

  “Let us together ask the forgiveness of Christ,” was Marquette’s response, and he led Auberville and his woman off to Auberville’s hut where they could talk and pray with some privacy. Auberville went with him back into the cluster of huts, but he also cast his eyes back at Louis and the others to see who they all were. You see Auberville had two very large problems. Marquette instantly saw the first problem – the life of sin with an unmarried woman. This was a problem for which Auberville might well pay in the life-hereafter. But he had another problem for which he might pay in the here and now. He had never been granted a license to trade in this region. Louis and his men had a legal right to trade – it was the payment they would receive for undertaking this voyage of exploration. Auberville had done like many others and just filled his canoe with trade goods in the hope of coming back to Quebec some day with a canoe filled with beaver pelts. Now he had been caught. Louis and his crew had every right to strip Auberville of all his goods on the spot and punish him in any way they wished. Auberville had lots of praying to do.”

  While Auberville went to his hut with Marquette, Louis and his men beached their canoes and pulled a bundle of gifts from one of their packs. The people of the village gathered around the party and stood waiting for their chief to make his formal entrance.”

  “Greetings, French brothers,” the chief said as he slowly walked through the crowd. He appeared to be in his early forties and was dressed in deer skins. His hair had been hastily rubbed in grease for the occasion. His greeting was in a variation of Algonquin that all the Frenchmen knew.”

  “We are pleased to see you so well and to see the wealth of your village,” Louis replied. This began a series of formal greetings that ended with the chief inviting everyone to his hut for food. There is no need for me to go into detail about their conversation. Suffice it to say the chief and his tribe were happy to see these French visitors, they were pleased with the gifts, and they were happy to trade many of the beaver pelts they had expected to carry all the way to the Sault.

  “The real concern of everyone was Marquette and Auberville who were still ensconced in Auberville’s hut. The village had never been visited by a priest before, but many of the tribe had traveled to other locations and listened to the priests there. They had expected a lecture on God, but had instead seen the priest accuse a Frenchman. This was all very confusing.”

  “Hours passed. Louis and his men ate, traded, and waited. Finally Auberville, Marquette, and Auberville’s woman and baby came out of their hut, all of them headed for the river. Most of the village followed along to see what would happen. It was a confusing scene to all of them. The two Aubervilles kneeled at the edge of the water and stayed kneeling while Marquette found and blessed some water, and brought his holy water and Bible to the river. There he baptized the child, and blessed the man and woman. The French wondered if he was going to marry them on the spot, but he did not. Nevertheless his blessing made both of the Aubervilles very happy, and also brought the smile back to Marquette’s face. For his friends who had never seen him angry, this had been a very unexpected morning. Now things seemed to be right with the world.”

  “What had gone on in that hut? Auberville had told his story. Auberville and two companions had gone off to trade last spring. They had heard there was beaver in the area and that a large tribe was in these parts. They found the Menominees at this spot and had traded goods for over a week. During that time Auberville had met the woman he now called Annette. She was a young widow. Indian villages were filled with young widows. Life was hard for braves. If they didn’t get killed while hunting, they got killed in raids on other villages. Most tribes had half again as many women as men. There was no sin in sex for the Indians, so other men came to these women. Sometimes they ended up as second wives, sometimes they stayed in the orbit of their parents. “

  “Auberville and his friends spent time with several young women and no doubt enjoyed their visit to the village. For the other two, the nights were just fun. For Auberville, something happened when he met Annette. She was about his age, taller than average and well built, and she met his stare. While other girls w
ould look at the ground when men walked by, Annette returned his look. He saw in her eyes strength, calm, purpose, and intelligence. They talked the first night, adjusting to each other’s twists in the common Algonquin dialect. The next day he skipped trading and went for a walk with her. By the third day he knew he would never leave her.”

  “After five days the trading was all done and the other two men wanted to leave. Auberville decided to stay. Why not take her back to Quebec, they asked? Maybe some day he would, he replied, but for now he wanted to stay here – with her. So they left and he stayed. He had hunted and fished with the tribe, but never strayed far from the village. Two months ago their child had been born – a son. Young Jacques was healthy and happy and so were his parents. They asked Father Marquette to baptize their child and to marry them in the church. He instantly agreed to the baptism but would not marry them since she was not a Christian. But he did agree to ask Christ’s blessing on them and on their family. He would teach her as much as time permitted and help her learn to be a Christian. When she was fully converted, he would perform their marriage. All that had been worked out in the hours they spent on their knees in the hut, talking, listening, and praying.”

  “As it turned out, it would be seven more years before their marriage would be consecrated. Louis and Marquette left the village after two days, and we know that Father Marquette was never able to return. So her religious training waited for years until the mission at Green Bay grew and she was able to go there and take her vows as a Christian and her vows as a wife. In the meantime she and Auberville had four more children. As it turned out, the most famous of the children was the youngest daughter -- Marie. She seemed to have inherited some of her father’s trading blood, and set up the first permanent trading post in the village, earning a permanent place for her name on the trading post and later on the city – Marinette.”

  “While the party was only in Marinette for two days, some have argued that much of Louis’ future directions were based on what he saw there and on the relationship he discovered between Auberville and Annette.”

  “Surely his mother’s situation also contributed,” I said. “After all she was also married to a man who had been married to an Indian woman, and she was raising the children of that marriage.”

  “Yes, that may have contributed as well,” he agreed. There was a slight smile on his face that indicated he was pleased with my comment. I had apparently said the right thing.

  “And they left Marinette after two days?” I hoped I could nudge him along. We had been talking for two hours and had yet to get the explorers to the settlement at Green Bay.

  “Yes, they continued down the western shore of the Bay. They spent two days paddling along a shore line that is virtually the same three centuries later. The first night they camped near the present city of Oconto, and the second evening they pulled into the Fox River and the mission there. But, maybe that is a good place for us to adjourn our narrative. I am sure Picard will be coming for me any minute. He is a stern task master.”

  “Well, I thank you once again for your time. This has helped me a great deal in understanding Louis’ voyage. I hope we can pick up the narrative again soon.” And then Picard did appear. I hadn’t seen the President move his hand, but I assumed he had some signal he could give to get Picard in. I was just as glad. I had been sitting a long time and wanted to review my notes.

  As I left, I noticed the hallway and waiting areas were even more crowded than they had been for my last visit. I am no expert in French politics, but I recognized enough faces as I exited the house to wonder if the President was as retired now as he had been last summer. But then who can understand the French?

  Chapter 9

  Discovery of the Wisconsin River