He was genuinely pleased at the idea and let himself be won over by her suggestion. “We could sell our furs in Quebec for a profit, take merchants the oysters that have been piling up at Pointe-de-Roche3, come back with tools, fabric, apples, cider. What a wonderful idea! Why didn’t I think of it myself?”
He knew why; he was well aware that fear paralyzed him, a fear stronger than his desire to find out the truth about Emilie. It might affect my happiness with Angélique, he thought.
Guessing at the direction his thoughts had taken, Angélique said, “No matter how hard you try to hide it, I know she’s still on your mind.”
He had to confess there was some truth to her observation. “But that’s only normal, after all. I don’t know what has become of her; the mystery haunts me… But don’t worry, I’m happy with you, and I have no intention of running away.”
* * *
One fine November morning, Joseph saw a ball of fire racing across the sea off the island, changing its speed, shape, and direction as it went. Inside the fireball was a jet-black ship with large white sails and, on its bridge, seamen running.
“The phantom ship!” Saint-Jean exclaimed. “Well have bad weather tomorrow.”
“What is it?” Joseph asked.
“No one really knows; the closer you get, the farther away it moves. They say it’s a phantom ship that belonged to a Portuguese explorer and that the Indians burned in revenge for a raid on their shores.”
The weather was indeed terrible the next day. Northwesters raged furiously, making the trees facing the cape twist and groan; at one point, it seemed like the camp would take to the air. The next morning the shore reappeared, strewn with debris and flotsam. Lobsters and crabs clung to the tall grass along the shore. This manna from heaven meant Angélique was able to put up all the supplies needed for winter; the surplus would be used to fertilize the earth.
The winter promised to be fierce. Around late November, a huge white sheet blanketed the frozen bay in lacey creases. The sky looked as though it had been punched through with holes. Joseph and Angélique were at their happiest when storms raged over the Baye des Chaleurs. Stretched out on his bed of furs in front of the hearth, where embers burned under the ashes, and with the scent of Angélique in the air, Joseph felt a wave of serenity wash over him.
Angélique examined Joseph’s lithe body. There was something she had often noticed – at the smithy, in the sweat lodge, as he built their house, or as they caressed each other outdoors or by the fire – on his chest above his heart, Joseph bore a skilfully wrought tattoo.
“I left Nantes in 1717 when I was two. My nursemaid died during the crossing… The tattoo must be an indication of my origins. I’ve always wondered about it, and I hate riddles…”
“It looks like a coat of arms, like the ones the nobles have. I’ve often thought you must be the bastard son of a king or prince,” she said laughing.
“My parents must have been wealthy. When I arrived in Canada, a carefully wrapped violin was found in the trunks. Not just any violin either – a Stradivarius.”
“Perfect, you’ll be able to celebrate with a tune,” Angélique murmured. “Because our baby in my womb is in a hurry to be born; I can feel it kicking.”
Joseph laid his hand on the mound of Angélique’s belly, which rippled with the stirrings of life.
“If it’s a girl, we’ll call her Geneviève,” Angélique suggested.
“And if it’s a boy, we’ll baptize him René-Gabriel in your father’s honor.”
The cabin groaned as an especially strong gust of wind punctuated Joseph’s wish.
“The weather doesn’t get this bad in Quebec,” Joseph complained.
“This is unusual. We expected a bad winter though, because of how high the bees built their hives in the trees. But it won’t last; there’ll be a lull in January, and we’ll be able to go on the trapline.”
“Do you trap the same animals found around Quebec?”
“I think so: mink, ermine, marten, red fox, muskrat, but mostly beaver. It pays, too. Before, the French – some of them anyway – gave worthless objects in exchange for our furs: mirrors, necklaces, alcohol to get the Indians drunk before robbing them. But ever since my father started looking after the trade, they’ve had to pay us with weapons, munitions, tools, fabric…”
Angélique spoke with feeling, proud to have a father who knew how to stand up for himself.
* * *
In February, Joseph went with Saint-Jean to the woods to choose two white pines for his schooner’s masts. Before chopping them down, they waited for the waning phase of the moon, when the sap barely runs. Joseph spent the winter in a state of euphoria, revising almost daily his plans and calculations for his ship. His joy was all the greater with the swelling of Angéliques belly and the approaching birth.
In Aprils budding season, Geneviève was born, a rosy bundle of life like a dancing electrical storm off Pointe-de-Roche. That same evening, while the baby slept soundly, Joseph played his violin. In the melting snow, he danced on and on along the cliffs; he hadn’t danced like this since Emilie had left him, a wild, crazy, exuberant dance, which led him to believe that in another time and place, someone in his family must have had a dancer’s gift. Joseph was happy – a little girl for him, for Angélique, for the two of them. As for Membertou, he was a bit hesitant and jealous at first because of all the attention being lavished on the baby, but it didn’t take long before he started helping his mother look after Geneviève.
In May, Saint-Jean traded furs with merchants from La Rochelle in exchange for ironwork, oakum, sails, pitch, Riga hemp, and other invaluable building material. They also took advantage of the opportunity to stock up on rum from Martinique, which made the work go by more agreeably. Saint-Jean already had a store of wood: logs had been soaking for a long time in a ditch at the mouth of Saint-Jean Creek since the sea water there made them exceptionally resistant. Pinewood for the bridge, oak and beechwood for the ribs, gunwales, and yards, and hemlock for the keel. He laid the wood out to dry for part of the summer and, by the fall of 1741, the schooner was beginning to take shape. This was Joseph’s first boat, but he had spent so much time watching the shipbuilders in Quebec at the Cul-de-Sac shipyard that he felt capable of building a three-decker warship. What’s more, his partner was an old hand. During his stay in convict prison, Saint-Jean had spent a great deal of time repairing galleys. Moreover, the Mi’kmaq were happy and eager to help. They showed them how to use the tools and do the caulking and the tarring. The sight of his two-master measuring sixty-two feet long from stem to stern and eighteen feet wide, with a draw of eleven feet, two decks, and a castle fore and aft, made Joseph feel as free as the cormorants that plied the bay.
The travel demon bit him, infecting him with a thirst for adventure. Excited by the prospect of setting out onto the high seas like his childhood hero Sinbad the Sailor, he baptized his ship the Phantom Ship. To the prow, he added the carved dragon that had decorated the Viking drakkar run aground not far off Miscou.
1. From the Mi’kmaq word “sepagunchiche” meaning “duck crossing.”
2. Prince Edward Island today.
3. A point of land one league north of Ruisseau.
Chapter 5
Sedentary fishing is seen