I was done in New Orleans! Much as I liked the warmth and beauty of the city, there was another beauty I had been away from for three weeks now. As soon as I got back from my interview with President Jolliet, I felt like throwing my clothes in a suitcase and catching the next flight north. With luck, I could get back to Green Bay by that evening.
But I held back. For the past several days I had been thinking of driving north rather than flying. I could take the Mississippi highway and see the lands the President had been describing to me. I could probably drive to Green Bay in two days. If I stopped to look at some of the main historic places, I could do the trip in four. Four more days away from Elise. I reminded myself I was a professional historian. Who knew when I would be able to take such a trip again? I should see the river I was writing about. I called Elise that evening and the longer we talked the more I wanted to jump on a plane, but in the end I made the responsible – if not the romantic – choice. I would see her in four days.
Our business agent took care of closing up the apartment. I called the car rental agency and warned them I would be keeping their car a few more days. I did not tell them I would be taking it to Green Bay. I was sure this was going to cost me a huge fee when I got north. Oh well. My decision was made. I would see the Mississippi north to Green Bay.
The next morning I was up early and had the car loaded and headed out of town by eight. If I moved fast enough, maybe I would see Elise in three days rather than four. The Mississippi Highway is easy to follow, and I made good time. The highway is actually several miles from the river along most of its route, but there are regular views of the river, and I got a good sense of the general topography – flat with a few rolling hills.
My first destination was the junction of the Arkansas River and the Mississippi. Somewhere in that vicinity the voyageurs had turned back. I thought I could reach it in about five hours. As I drove, I watched the cotton and cane fields around me, and thought back to yesterday’s interview. Even the president admitted that the journey had its share of rough spots. They had the wrong latitude for the river that was to mean so much to both our countries. They didn’t even know they had found the Ohio. And then there was the Indian trouble. Why the sudden hostility? What was at work there?
And there were the odd musings of the President. Because Louis did not make it to the gulf, the Jolliets had been attacked politically. Was that what he had said? It was an odd comment, and the more I considered it, the more I sensed he was talking not about Louis, but about present day Louisiana and his personal relations with the Huguenots. He needed a lever to give him personal strength in his dealings with the south, and he didn’t have it. But there was Claude – the first Claude – who had fed the Huguenots. That would seem to help. Or didn’t it? This was a family that used its personal history for political ends, and it was coming up short. Why? I needed to hit the library again as soon as I reached Green Bay. This puzzle had too many missing pieces.
Meanwhile, I made good progress up the river. The French may not be good at anything else, but give them a long flat valley with no real hills, and they can make a highway. I was near the junction of the Mississippi and the Arkansas River in under five hours. The highway runs along the east side of the river here. The Arkansas comes in from the west, so I was not going to get a clear view of the junction on the other side of the Mississippi, but then, Louis didn’t get much of a view either. This is where their main concern was Indians. I started looking around for a place to get off the highway and feel the mood of the place.
Then I found Christmas. Imagine giving a town that name. I got off the highway and drove down the main street of Christmas, looking for lunch and for a better view of the Mississippi. I found a spot on the edge of the river and parked. Boy was I glad to get out of that car. I was used to French engineering with all the resultant squeaks, rattles, and vibrations, but you’d think they could at least make seat cushions. Not on this car. My legs were already going to sleep after just five hours behind the wheel. I stood up and grasped the top of the car while blood finally got down to my feet. What do you call the dummy in high school who can never learn the simplest algebra equations? A French engineer.
The river bank was raised for a levee, and I climbed up the grass embankment to get a look. I knew from my map that the river had moved west here. The river was slow enough this far south that it was winding more and more – becoming a snake river like the upper Fox. But here it periodically threw a new loop around a hill and left an old loop to become a stagnant pond. This is what had happened west of Christmas. I could see the old loop about a mile to the west. Beyond that somewhere was the current channel. All around was marsh grass and short trees. It looked like all of this flooded in the spring when the river was up, but here in February it was just mile after mile of marshland.
Somewhere around here Louis and his party had lost their courage. Claude had mentioned swamps and forests. Those appeared to be long gone. I could see a good distance from where I stood, and everywhere I looked was farm land. The forests were gone, the swamps drained. The ground for miles around had been tilled, waiting for the spring planting. There was nothing frightening here now. And the Indians? Who knew. Maybe they had moved on, maybe they had been killed by their enemies, maybe they sold gas down at the truck stop. There was nothing left now to give any sense of what the voyageurs had experienced. This was just one more farm town in an endless string of farm towns.
I did a quick walk through of the town to see if they had any commemorative displays to mark the end of Jolliet’s voyage. But I saw nothing. There were a couple small stores that sold Christmas items, apparently making a living from the town’s name, two very small cafes, and a grocery. And there was one oddity. I noticed the name of the main street – LaSalle Boulevard. I must have looked silly standing there, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the sign. My mind just wouldn’t register it. LaSalle? I turned to look to see if there was a cemetery in sight. No. Just a sign for main street. Why?
I had thought to get lunch here, but the more I looked at those sad little cafes, the less I wanted to get stuck eating a two hour lunch in this town complete with bad food, bad wine, and poor service. So I headed for the grocery. I would buy a couple baggettes and get back on the highway. I found some reasonably fresh bread near the back of the store. I was nearly alone there. This turned out to be lucky for me, since the few people in the store were all staring at me. I was the only person there not wearing white. Uncomfortable as I was, I am a professional historian, so I decided to talk history with the man at the checkout register.
“I see your main street is named after LaSalle. Did he found this town?”
“No, but he was the first person to travel the river, so we named the street out of respect for him.” He bagged my bread and gave me change quickly. I was used to small town folks wanting to have endless conversations with strangers. But this man had no interest in any kind of conversation. Maybe that’s why I pushed him.
“But if my map is right, Louis Jolliet and Father Marquette got this far south in 1673.”
“Was your map printed by the Pope?” The other people in the store seemed to think that was pretty funny. I took my bag, thanked him for his time, and slowly walked out the door. I was damned if I would be the butt of some clown’s joke. I stood just outside the grocery, ate a bit of my baggette, and then walked with all the control I could muster back to my car. What the hell was wrong with these people? I drove out of town as slowly as I could, but once I got back onto the highway I hit the gas.
The map was accurate. Their journals were accurate. There was no question that Jolliet’s party got this far south. Historians had had three centuries to review the data available. There was no possibility of fraud. I knew that before I had started my research. I might be able to find some flaw in Louis’ character, but complete fraud? No. Yet that is what these people believed.
The people in white. The white people. I kept the car headed north and slowly got control over my breathing. About half an hour out of town I saw a sign I welcomed:
“You are leaving Louisiana. Come visit again soon.”
I doubted that would be the case for me. About a mile farther along I found an even better pair of signs:
“Welcome to Missouri” and “You are riding on the Claude Jolliet Highway.”
I exhaled slowly and felt much more comfortable. It was evening by the time I got to St. Louis. There is a huge bridge that takes the highway east to west over the river and into the heart of St. Louis. They have a gigantic arch on the shore of the Mississippi. I had heard of it – the “Gateway to the West.” It was actually in the wrong spot. The Missouri River is a few miles north of downtown St. Louis, but then symbols don’t need to be accurate. I suspected it was downtown away from the Missouri because that’s where local business leaders wanted it.
I found a hotel near the Mississippi in the older part of town. Where else would an historian stay? Across the street from my hotel was a restored section of old buildings called LaClede’s Landing. I tossed a suitcase into my hotel room and then immediately headed across the street to LaClede’s. They had done a great job of restoration. The streets were cobblestone, the street lights were globes on top of poles, looking like they might still be powered by gas. I knew few of the buildings were original, but the architects had done a fine job of matching the building styles of the early 1800s. The idea was to match the flavor of this district when riverboats had docked down the hill and trappers and traders filled the saloons and hotels night after night.
The district is about four blocks square and I walked through all the streets before deciding where to eat. Then I picked a place none of my friends would have expected – Pierre’s Rot Gut Saloon, Buffalo Steaks Our Specialty. I decided I wanted to eat buffalo. The inside was decorated to look like saloons of 1800 would have looked. Not being a saloon historian I had no idea how accurate they were, but I was in a funny mood. I just wanted to be around loud talk and people who laughed. And people who wore real colors.
I was greeted by a man wearing a fur hat. Raccoon? Beaver? “Do you want liquor or victuals?” He asked in a loud voice with a hard edge. Actually he sounded more like a Disneyland pirate than a saloon keeper, but his old style French was pretty good.
“Both, and lots of them.” I shouted. “I’ve come four hundred miles up river today and I need food.” I have never in my life taken on a role like that, at least not sober. But it was fun. “And make it fast.”
“I’ll have a girl bring you a bottle,” he shouted back, “But you will wait on the food until the cook is ready.” He led me to a table and threw a menu down. “And don’t spit on the floor.” I took a chair and began to read the menu. It was one of those “theme” menus. They served “rot gut brandy” and “red eye bordeaux.” They also had buffalo steaks in all sizes.
“I see you can read.” The waitress said as she got to my table. She looked like a college girl, but had put on layers of makeup to take on her role. “Do you want red eye or rot gut?”
“I want a bottle of your best red eye, and a buffalo steak so big it fills the plate.
“Since you can read I suppose you are also the kind that will want a fork and a napkin and a glass for your wine. Am I right?”
“Yes, and I want it fast.” And the service was fast. She had a bottle of very good Bordeaux at my table in minutes, complete with a glass that she noted was “mostly clean.” My part in the play ended then. I settle back, drank my wine, and enjoyed the shouting around me. Would trappers and traders have been so boisterous two centuries ago? I hoped so. All of them were headed for months of hardship in the west, and many of them would never return.
And in 1673? Those men might have been loud that night too, as they sat along this shore, within a mile or two of where I sat now. For weeks they had seen new sights around each bend in the river. Herds of buffalos, flocks of geese, fish to feed a nation. And they had found a river going west. Even Marquette, the missionary, might have been loud that night. They had found a way that led to the Pacific, so easy to follow he might well be able to do it in his lifetime. The world had opened itself to them and it was abundant.
By the second glass of wine my attitude turned and I began to think of what they didn’t know sitting in that rude camp. The Missouri went far, but not far enough. It would get France a fortune in furs, but no passage to the Orient. And our voyageurs? They would be stopped just two hundred miles south. There Father Marquette would be nearly killed. And worse, three centuries later the residents would deny he had ever found that shore.
But, I mused as I had my third glass of wine and worked my way through my buffalo steak (which is actually pretty good. A bit dry, but not tough at all), their celebration was still appropriate. They had come far, seen much, and lived to tell their stories.
The next morning I drove for Chicago. A major highway links St. Louis with Chicago, so I was there is only five hours. The highway runs roughly parallel to the Illinois River, but I made no attempt to look for the river. What I wanted to see was the prairie. The land is flat. While it is hard to believe, it is even flatter than Wisconsin. And it was all being farmed. Except for a few trees right around farm houses or around small farm towns, the land was all being used for crops. It was bare soil now, covered with an inch or two of snow, but come summer it would raise an incredible amount of food. Hour after hour I drove across that rich land. I have never seen anything like it.
Finally I came to the large cities by Lake Michigan – first Jolliet, and then Chicago. I drove through their business districts just to see what was there. It was probably a mistake to get off the main highway. I got lost pretty fast and spent half an hour finding the highway again. I had no real interest in the cities anyway. We have bigger cities in the U.S. I knew no one here and we did no business here. If anyone asked, I could say I had seen Chicago now. That accomplished, I drove north, trying to stay along the western edge of Lake Michigan.
What I wanted to see was the lake shoreline. I had heard stories of the cliffs that had been such a danger to early travelers. What did they look like? I discovered that seeing the shore was not easy. The main highway ran some miles west of the shore, so I had to take local roads in and out of small towns, ducking into residential districts to get a glimpse of the water. It took forever. Finally, by evening I was tired of the whole thing. I had driven all the way from St. Louis, had gone into the big cities of the Lake, and driven down every lane that might get near the water. I had had enough. I found a hotel in a little town called Sheboygan and spent the night.
The next morning my luck changed. I found a couple shoreline parks and was able to get a good look at the lake. Were there cliffs? Yes, in places. I would guess the height to be about one hundred feet. But there were also lots of beaches, and of course there were rivers entering the water where anyone in a canoe could paddle upstream a bit to be out of the storm. It looked like the cliffs were an intermittent problem. For those who had traveled the lake before, they would know where the shore was accessible and where it was blocked by cliffs. A little experience would solve the problem. Of course for the first few, there would be no experience to lean on. They would have to paddle on, hoping they could find a break in the cliffs before the storm overcame them.
I made that brilliant observation before noon and then felt like I had done my last professional duty as an historian. Now I could do what I really wanted – steer that silly French car to Green Bay by the quickest route I could find. I was there before three. Before I got my first bag into my apartment I was on the phone to Elise. She was out, at the university no doubt, but I left a message and hurried to unpack my car. By five I had all my things unpacked, had claimed my mail, and had checked in at the company. I sat by the phone and waited. Fortunately, my
wait was just a few minutes. She was home, she wanted to see me, she wanted to cook me dinner. I was to get there at seven.
I don’t know what possessed me, but we had been apart so long it felt like a first date. I took a shower, put on a good suit, and stopped at a store for a bottle of wine, two baggettes, and some salad fixings. I was at her door exactly at seven.
“Shawn.” She opened the door and leapt into my arms. I had never had a woman do that. I was so surprised I almost dropped the wine. Fortunately I held onto the bottle and wrapped my arms around her. She looked good, smelled good, and felt good. I held her for a very long time. Finally she eased herself away and we stood looking at each other. She was beautiful. Even though we were staying in, she had put on a party gown, had done up her hair, and was wearing a necklace and earrings. I was so glad I had thought to wear a suit.
I closed the door, put down my packages, and we sat on her couch. She put her arms around my neck and I wrapped mine around her shoulders, and we sat together and talked. I don’t remember what we said. It was silly stuff mostly. I described my trip, she talked about a few mutual friends, but it wasn’t the talk that mattered, it was being together. We must have sat like that for an hour – maybe two. I know I was in no hurry to move.
Finally she reminded me that she had promised me dinner, and she got up to get started. In the months we had been together, we had worked out kitchen etiquette. There are really four choices to be made. The man can cook. I always thought that was stupid. There was a brief period in America when men were encouraged to cook, to clean, to raise the kids and I suppose pick out the wall paper. Fortunately that fashion went away with disco music. I did cook on occasion. Once in New Orleans when Elise had stayed over, I made crepes for breakfast. But it had nothing to do with expanded gender roles. I knew where the fixings were and where the pans were in my kitchen, so I cooked.
Second, the woman can cook while the man watches. I liked that. I liked being wherever Elise was, and watching her… well, I liked that too. But it didn’t seem fair.
The next option was to share the cooking. How many relationships has that ended? Too little room, two people looking for the same pan or same spatula… No, we knew right away that this was a recipe for disaster.
So we picked option four. I made the salad. I just needed a corner of the kitchen, I could do it without getting in her way or burning things, and it gave me a reason to be close to her. That’s what we did that night. I poured the wine I brought, worked on the salad, and talked to Elise. She was making soup. I waited until she had sautéed the ingredients for the soup and had put them all in the pot. Then I finished the salad and came around behind her. She let me wrap my arms around her waist while she stirred. I had never felt so good as I did at that moment.
Then I spoiled it all by opening up my mouth. What an idiot. I picked the absolute worst topic of conversation in the world.
“So, how do you like being a teacher?” I could instantly feel her stiffen in my arms. Oops. What had I done now?
“This is my first class, and I think it will be my last. I value statistics. They don’t.”
“So it is a required course?” She nodded and I knew the problem. I had taught several history classes while working on my Ph.D. The worst was an American History course required for all school teachers in the state of Virginia. They had all taken history in high school, had hated it there and hated it in college too. Not only could I not excite them about the events that had happened at their doorsteps, but after staring at their bored faces for several semesters, I felt myself losing my own excitement for the times.
“Is the course too hard for them?” I asked. The French have a well-earned reputation for being abysmal in math.
“They will never know. They have to work the problems and do the assignments before they will even know if the mathematics is easy or complicated. I write the problems on the board, they copy them down, and they hope what they have copied down will appear on the test in exactly that form. They will memorize, but not learn.”
“I would think with you as a teacher, it would at least be an inspiration to the women in the class.”
“No, I had one woman tell me after class that statistics is an American subject. The French should not have to learn it. She wanted to know if I was an American.” Now I began to stiffen. This conversation was going in a very bad direction. Fortunately, God smiled on me. I asked a question so stupid that it made Elise laugh.
“Ah, has anyone else been saying that maybe you are too American?” I held my breath waiting for her to tell me that our friendship was causing her trouble.
“I see.” She started laughing. “You wonder about us?”
“Yes.” That was all I could manage to say. She turned off the stove, put down her spoon, and turned around to face me.
“You should never read Shakespeare. But you Americans love him, do you not?” I nodded in agreement. I had no idea where this conversation was going, but at least she seemed happy. I kept my arms around her waist and hoped for the best.
“Shakespeare makes you all sad. Teenagers are all silly Hamlets wondering if they should be or not. Politicians are all MacBeth, and old folks all think they are Lear, abandoned by the young. And lovers?” She paused for effect. “They are all Romeo and Juliet destined to die in confusion. You are Capulet and I am Montague, or is it the other way, and we can never find love. That is what Shakespeare does to you.”
“And the French?” I asked.
“We read the greatest playwright in the world – Moliere. All his plays are beautiful. Silly people do silly things, but in the end they find love and happiness. No one dies, no one goes crazy, everyone finds love. That is the perfect play. And that is the French way.”
“I like the French way.’ I said.
“I am glad.” She kissed me, and I kissed her, and you can guess where things went from there. We never did eat that soup. I left the next morning a very happy man.
Our pattern over the next few weeks was to spend several evenings a week together, either at her apartment or at mine. The social scene was still in transition – the elites were still straggling back into Green Bay and the opera season had not begun yet. We went to a couple parties, but they seemed pretty muted since Lent is observed in at least some fashion.
I also tried to respect Elise’s time. She had an amazingly good attitude, but I knew she was experiencing some stress while completing the final drafts of her dissertation and preparing for its defense. And there was the class she taught, which didn’t seem to be going any better. She would sit over a stack of papers and groan as she graded. So I stayed out of her hair several nights a week, and often when we were together I sat reading while she graded her papers.
During the day I alternated between work and the library. Things at the office were also quiet with so many lead customers on vacation, but I puttered around there for a few hours each day before going over to the National Library to read and dig through the archives. I found myself drawn away from the Jolliets and towards the Huguenots. This was dangerous. Many a piece of historical research never got finished because the historian got sidetracked once and then again and then again… There is so much to read and so much to learn, for those of us who find history exciting it is easy to follow one trail after another and never complete the original research. But I wanted to know more about these people, and I thought I would need to know more anyway to understand Claude’s interactions with them in the early 1700s. There was much to learn.
In the second week of March, Picard called me and arranged my next interview with the President for the following week. I drove down there on a rainy March day with the wind and the dampness making it feel colder than it had felt in January. When I got to his home I discovered much had changed. An elaborate security system had been constructed over the winter. It was no longer possible to drive into his circl
e drive and park by the house. Concrete planters had been placed to block the driveway. A small parking lot had been created across the road, and I had to park there. Then, before I could get out of the car, I had to have my identification checked and my name found on a guest list. A guard walked with me to the house. In short, security here was now almost as tight as it had been in Louisiana.
Another security guard was waiting for me inside the door, and he stood with me until Picard came over and greeted me. For the next part of this story to make sense, I need to describe Jolliet’s house. The front entrance is in the middle of the house, and opens into a fairly large two story foyer. To the right side of the foyer are several chairs and a couch where visitors can wait for their appointment with the President. Two men were sitting there as I came in that morning. The President’s study is to the left of the foyer, the idea being, I guess, that visitors would be contained in the front middle part of the house, while family members could enjoy the rest of the house in private.
Picard and I were standing just inside the front door and making small talk when we began to hear loud voices in the President’s study. The door was closed and the room is well insulated, so it was unusual to hear any sound from the study. But this morning, not only were the voices audible, but they kept getting louder. After a few seconds Picard turned from me and took a few steps towards the door of the study. At that point he was knocked sprawling across the floor and four security guards rushed into the room. One stopped just outside the study door and aimed a machine pistol at those of us in the waiting room.
“If you move, I will shoot,” he said. Move? I could barely breathe. The three other guards had crashed through the study door. Two threw the visitors, two men dressed in white suits, up against a book case while the third threw the president back into a corner and stood with his back firmly against the President, his machine pistol aimed at the visitors. There was suddenly complete silence in the room except for one guard who gave brief, direct orders to the men. “Do not move. Put your hands on the wall.” Each man was searched and then they were ordered to sit on the floor.
Two more guards came flying in at this point, and they pulled the President out of the study and down the hall. The rest of us stood frozen. Finally Picard picked himself up and went in to talk with one of the guards. They had a brief whispered exchange, and then Picard came out of the study, closing the door behind him.
”It will take the security people a time to sort this incident out. In the meantime they have told me that all today’s appointments are cancelled. I am sorry. I will call you in the next several days to reschedule your visits.” The guard, meanwhile, moved away from the front door, but he kept his gun aimed at us while we left. I was scared out of my mind and was happy to get out to my car and back out to the highway. Unfortunately, my hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t drive very far and had to pull over for a time while I fought to control my breathing. I wish I could say I was all right again in two or three minutes, but it was more like fifteen before I was fit to drive. Even then, I suspect I was a menace on the highway, not really being aware of the cars around me.
By the middle of the afternoon I had settled down enough to head for the library, and I was there in the stacks when my cell phone rang. This was odd, since I had just gotten the phone the day before. I was still working my way through the instruction manual and learning all the features, so I hadn’t even given the number to Elise yet, the only person I wanted to be able to reach me night or day. No one else was going to get this number, but here it was, ringing in the library. I answered as much as anything else, just to stop the noise.
“Hello?” I answered while I looked around to see if I was disturbing anyone.
“Msr. Murphy, it is Picard. President Jolliet would like to speak with you.” Then there was a brief silence and the President came on the line.
“Msr. Murphy, it is Claude Jolliet. I understand you were here this morning during our little disturbance.”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, you should know it was really nothing – just a bit of confusion. But I understand that your meeting with me was cancelled. That is too bad. I wonder if you would care to visit me this evening instead – for dinner? And feel free to bring Elise if you would like. The three of us can have a quiet meal and discuss the old days.”
“That would be excellent, Mr. President. I am grateful for the invitation.”
“Very good. About seven thirty then?” And the call ended. It didn’t take me long to understand how an ex-president of Canada could find the number of a brand new phone. My immediate concern was reaching Elise. I quickly dialed her office number and held my breath while the phone rang. She was in! I explained the situation and she said she would be happy to go. We agreed I would pick her up at six-thirty so we would have plenty of time for the drive south.
I then drove home as quickly as I could, feeling like a kid invited to a party. A private dinner, just Elise and me and President Jolliet. I showered again, pulled out my best suit, and decided to wear the shirt Elise had given me for church. I was ready a full hour before I needed to be, and paced the apartment nervously watching the clock slowly inch towards six.
When I got to Elise’s I found her ready – and beautiful. She wore a long gown of a darker shade of red – silk, I think, with half sleeves and a fairly high neckline. Her hair was up and she wore both earrings and a necklace that appeared to be diamonds. She was beautiful, and elegant. I just stood there, a man with a Ph.D., the official biographer of the Jolliet family, and the best I could think to say was “Wow.”
That was apparently the right thing to say, for she smiled and gave me a long kiss. Then she handed me her fur cape, I placed it around her shoulders, and we were off. On the drive down I described the incident of the morning, but Elise didn’t seem all that concerned. Security people were paid to over-react, was her appraisal of the incident. She chatted happily about events of the day, calming me in the process. By the time we reached the estate, I was in a much better mood.
As we approached the house, I was preparing to drive towards the new parking lot, but a guard stopped me, checked our identification, and then motioned me towards the driveway. Two of the concrete planters had been moved, and a car that stood in their place, backed out so that I could pull right up to the front door. There a servant waited to open Elise’s door. I left the car there, with the keys in the ignition in case someone would want to move it, and then joined Elise. She took my hand and we walked into the chateau.
A servant had just taken our coats when I heard the president coming up a hallway. “It is so nice of the two of you to come all this way to visit me,” he said as he came into the room.
“Uncle Claude.” Elise ran the last couple steps to him, wrapped her arms around him and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. They exchanged pleasantries while I stood dumbfounded. Uncle Claude?
“I am Elise’s godfather,” Jolliet explained as he held Elise. “Elise’s family and my family go back many generations.” Both he and Elise paused and looked at me then. Clearly, they were waiting for me to make some connection. Her name was Elise DuPry. Had there been a President DuPry? A minister in one of his administrations? DuPry. I knew that name. Where had I heard it before? And then it hit me like a bolt of lightning. Claude DuPry! Her ancestor had been Louis Jolliet’s right-hand man during the voyage down the Mississippi. Was it even possible that the families had stayed in contact through three centuries? Apparently it was.
“You are a descendant of Claude DuPry?” I asked them, feeling like a student who is trying to pass an oral exam.
“Yes.” And both of them smiled like they were very happy I had passed the test. Then Jolliet let go of Elise and led us through the house.
“Let’s see if we can find a comfortable place to sit in this drafty old house,” he said as he led off down a hallway. Elise took my hand a
nd managed a quick kiss on my cheek as we followed. I can’t imagine what I looked like, confused and overwhelmed, I imagine. She simply looked beautiful, and kept hold of my hand to provide some well-needed reassurance for me.
We ended up in the sun room. There was no sun, of course, the sun sets at six in March, but we did have a very nice view of the lights across the lake – the buildings of Oshkosh, and the Mississippi Highway snaking down from the north. Jolliet sat is a comfortable wing-back chair, and Elise pulled me down next to her on a couch, her hand still locked on mine. A servant immediately brought us each a glass of red wine.
“We have a standard toast that is perfect for this occasion,” Jolliet said, raising his glass towards Elise. “To the beauty of Canada.”
“If I may add,” I said, also raising my glass towards Elise “To the beauty and surprises of Canada.” That drew a laugh from both of them, and removed any concerns about how I was handling this news. The conversation then moved on to other matters, with Elise scolding the President.
“You are retired now. Why do you have assassins in your house?”
“The only dangerous people in my house are the security guards the state makes me retain. One slammed me against a corner so hard I think I will be bruised. You are probably too young to recall,” Jolliet said, turning to me, “But once when I was traveling abroad some fool took a shot at me. He hit a poor reporter and never came close to me, but my security team knocked me down and jumped on top of me to shield me with their bodies. I landed so hard I broke an arm.” He and Elise laughed about the arm as if he was telling a great joke. “For the next weeks, every time I was out in public, people wanted to know if that was where I was shot. My guards were so embarrassed by what they had done, they dreamed up a wild conspiracy that was being planned against me, when all they really wanted was to keep me out of sight until the cast came off. They are good men, but very excitable.”
“But Shawn tells me there was shouting in your study.”
“Now, Msr. Murphy,” Jolliet said, wagging a playful finger in my direction. “You must be more careful with state secrets, especially with a god-daughter who worries too much. I was the one doing the shouting. Governor Mitterand sent up two of his lackeys to tell me lies. I wanted to make sure he never did that again. Those two men had the scare of their lives, and I think they will hesitate to carry false messages again.” He winked at Elise and smiled with satisfaction as he finished that story.
“But Uncle Claude,” Elise asked, “When will you really retire?”
“Oh, but I am retired. That’s what makes me so valuable. Everyone knows I do not have the political strength to run for President again, so now I can be used by both major parties as an ambassador for special assignments.”
“And if I can venture a guess, “Elise continued, ”Your current mission involves a very dangerous place where people love to wear white.”
“It seems sad, does it not, to be an ‘ambassador’ to part of one’s own country. But this is where great care is needed.”
“If my research is correct, more care will be needed in the future.” Elise then outlined her migration studies and the impact that would have on Louisiana.
“Six point four years?” He asked. “I fear much trouble will come before then. But your study gives us more to think about. Have you spoken about it to Minister de Shazer? I assume you plan to work in the Interior Ministry after you graduate. He should know both about the study and about the fact that it will be public in the near future. It will be public, won’t it?”
“Yes, all dissertations are public. There is really nothing we can do about that.” They talked more about the study and migration patterns, and I realized how little I knew about Elise. I thought I knew her family, but I had only met one generation. And I had never talked to her about her career after college. This was a very surprising woman. But now that I thought of it, of course she would work in the Interior Ministry. Where else would a woman with her skills work? As if reading my mind, and trying to get a message to me, she now took my hand in both of hers.
“Shall we see if the cook has found some food for us?” Jolliet asked as they finished their migration discussion. A servant who had been standing out of sight now stood at the entrance to the room and told the President that dinner was ready if we wished to dine. He then led us down a hallway to the formal dining room. It seemed a bit silly for the three of us to sit at one end of this huge table, but I was glad he chose to lead us there. The room was beautiful. The ceiling was inlaid with a variety of woods in beams and panels supporting a pair of chandeliers. The walls were wainscoted with beautiful oak paneling on the bottom and landscapes of various sites in Canada hung on the top half. Since there were just three of us, the chandeliers were left off and we ate by candlelight. Elise, who was clearly enjoying her evening with her uncle, seemed to glow in the candlelight.
“What is fortuitous about this evening,” Jolliet said as we were nearing the end of our meal, “is that we were going to talk about the journey back up the Mississippi today. This is a good part of the story to tell with Elise present, since some of it involves her ancestor, and I suspect I may even know some parts of the story that she does not.”
“Oh oh, it sounds like I may have to defend the family honor.”
“Only if I start talking about Claude’s cooking.” They then bantered back and forth, joking and teasing, and enjoying each other’s company.
“As you can imagine, the first day on the journey north was a hard one.” Claude began when he and Elise had stopped their teasing. “They wanted to put as many miles as they could between them and the Arkansa Indians, so they paddled for nearly twelve hours. As night approached they pulled into the west bank of the river and set up camp as if they were done for the day. Then when the sun had fully set, they got back into their canoes and paddled even farther north. They were now well north of the two villages, but it made no sense to take chances. They anchored their canoes off shore and slept in their seats. At dawn they were moving again.”
“Paddling against the current was more work obviously, but they still made good time, covering twenty to twenty-five miles a day. In part, they could move faster since they had mapped all this area on the way south. Their only responsibility now was to paddle north, and paddle north they did.”
“By the third day they felt safe enough to build a campfire and to go hunting for some game. Fresh meat and a hot meal made all of them feel better. From this point on they were much more relaxed. As Louis writes about it, you get the impression of school kids on an outing. They had done the serious work of the voyage, now they could enjoy the river. They hunted, they fished, they paddled. Each day got them closer to home. It would not surprise anyone that they should feel a bit giddy.”
“Maybe this would be a good time to tell you more about the personalities of the men on the river. Elise can listen and tell you if I am exaggerating. Shall we?
“Yes, please do.” I answered. “I am curious about these men.”
“Jacques Largillier was a devoted disciple of Father Marquette. In fact he would be with him until his death. He was always the first man to prayers and the last man to get up off his knees. He always rode in Marquette’s canoe, and always looked for ways he could help the good Father. Around a campfire he rarely said a word, and no one had ever seen him take a drink. He was strong, and he worked hard, and if he was on guard duty, you could sleep at peace, because you knew he would be alert for every minute of his time.”
“Pierre Moreau was a trader’s trader. You assumed he would be rich one day. He knew the best sources for all trade goods and always got the best prices for his furs. Around a campfire, though, he could tell funny stories, most of them so good he could tell them three or four times, as he often did as they went down the river, and they were as good the third time as the first. He was also a strong man, and a good man to have on your bow when you
went into rapids.”
“Jean Tiberge was a man who would be totally ignored these days. He had no education, was slow of speech, and always looked a bit surprised. He could go days without saying a word. But when you came to a portage, he always carried the most packs.”
“Jean Plattier was the camp cook. Here was a man with talent. Whatever they shot, he could dress and cook as well as any man on earth. He had brought salt along on the voyage, a great need given the amount of sweating they did, and he had also thought to bring some other seasonings with him, and even a bit of cooking oil. While the others had spent their evenings cleaning their muskets and sharpening their knives, he had spent the winter nights tying up packets of spices. By the time they got back to Quebec, every man was singing his praises and he had the pick of any trade group from then on.”
“I think I know who comes next,” Elise interrupted. “Just remember Shawn, I will have the ride home to give you a complete description of my forefather if some corrections are needed.”
“We shall see,” Jolliet replied. “Yes, next comes Claude DuPry. Claude was the hunter. He was the first man to learn how to kill a buffalo, and he was the man who was most quick to kill a deer or a moose or any other game that came near them. And I should say he was a bit of a naturalist. He always wanted to study what he had killed. He didn’t just gut a deer, he looked for the position of the heart, even though he had already killed dozens in his career. After the first buffalo, he spent nearly a day examining the beast from every angle. With him along, the group would never be hungry. How’s that?” He asked Elise. Anything you care to add?”
“No, that was very good.” She nodded at her uncle. “It is true he was noted for both. He could hit many an animal at great distance – people were astounded by his eyesight and careful aim, but he was also a thoughtful man. You see that pair of traits today with most of our men being hunters, and many of our men in the medical field.”
“So, now that I have safely passed that shoal…” Jolliet smiled at his god-daughter. “Let me continue with the two other members of the group. I have described Marquette as a man who spoke many languages, and as a man who risked his life to bring Christ to the Indians, but there is more. It turned out he was fun to have around a campfire. He still remembered some of the plays he had learned as a boy in France, and with very little encouragement, he recited long passages into the night, sometimes even standing and acting out portions. Jolliet was the only other man to have any level of formal education, so he was the only one who knew some of the plays. But all of them found the plays fascinating. Marquette probably recited some passages a dozen times over the months going down and back up the Mississippi. He had a gift.”
“And Louis? He sang around the campfire. Even his greatest enemies would admit that he had one of the finest voices of his time. He had gotten some training while in college in Quebec, but he had a natural talent. He sang some of the songs they knew and some of the songs he had learned during his time in Paris. Whatever he sang, they loved. He and Marquette were destined to part that fall, but for the brief time they were together, two of the greatest talents in Canada shared campfires in the wilderness.”
“Every night they were farther from danger and closer to home, so every night the singing got a bit louder, and the acting lasted a bit longer. As tired as they were from eight or ten hours of paddling against the current, this was a happy group.”
“After a few days they passed the Missouri River again, and came around the ox-bow. The paddling was hard, but they knew what to expect, so they managed well enough. Then they came to a place where they needed to make a decision. They found a small group of Indians who appeared to be waiting for them. Marquette held up the calumet and was shown one in return, so they paddled ashore to meet these Indians. They were Illinois. They had been told by Peorias of their passage, and they had been waiting by this shore for nearly a month in hopes of seeing the Frenchmen.”
“Here were the Illinois! This was the tribe they had been looking for and had nearly given up hope of finding. Marquette quickly explained the purpose of the voyage and learned where the main Illinois village was located. It would be six or seven days to paddle up the Illinois River, but the Indians assured them that the Illinois ran almost to the great lake, and that they could take that lake up to the Sault. That seemed too much to hope for, but even if they had to return the whole way and resume traveling up the Mississippi, the Illinois was a significant tribe that needed to be visited. They started up the river immediately, with the Indians walking along the shore.”
“It took them six days to paddle the two hundred miles up the Illinois to the village at Kaskaskia, the great village of the tribe, but it was time well spent. They were able to speak with the Indians who had greeted them, so they learned much about the village and the people. By the time they arrived to a huge welcome, they were already convinced that this was the tribe they were hoping to find. A large tribe, it was clear there were several thousand Illinois. With large fields of corn and squash, they built their cabins and stayed in one place for much of the year, the perfect circumstances for missionaries who would have a stable congregation to preach to. This was a tribe with significant possibilities.”
“Do you want to explain that you and I might have turned out very differently had things gone differently with the Illinois?” Elise asked.
“Now I was saving that part of the story.” He then turned to me. “You know some of us like a bit of drama. While others, like to rush ahead and spoil everything. And the truth is…” Jolliet now turned back to Elise. “The Illinois had nothing to do with the way things turned out. It was all Intendent Colbert. And that decision wasn’t made until the next year, so let me save it until then.”
“Okay, I yield.” Elise replied. “Tell the story your way, but I think the end result had nothing to do with Colbert, but with God.”
“God?” Jolliet and I asked in unison.
“Of course. It was God who made the Mascoutin women more beautiful than the Illinois women.” What could we say to that? The three of us laughed and sipped some wine and talked of other matters. Some time during the evening the dishes had been cleared and cognac had been set out, but we continued to sip the fine Bordeaux. I looked across the table at Elise smiling and laughing with her uncle and thought how perfect she looked in the candlelight. She must have seen I was staring, for she turned just briefly, gave me the perfect smile, and then went back to talking with her uncle. I will carry that smile with me for many years.
“I think we are done with history for tonight, don’t you think?” Jolliet finally asked me.
“Yes. But I want to thank you for this evening. It was kind of you to invite us over.”
“The pleasure was mine. Most evenings I sit and talk politics with old men and fat women. Tonight I had the company of a beautiful woman and a man who cares for the history of my country. I hope we can do this again soon.”
After about fifteen more minutes of small talk we were out of the house and into my car. It was right where I had left it, parked by the front door. I drove back to Green Bay with one hand on the wheel, one arm around Elise, and a profound hope that Elise would invite me up to her apartment when we got back to town.
Chapter 14
1673 - The Illinois