WARBIRD
WARBIRD
Jennifer Maruno
Text © 2010 Jennifer Maruno
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
Cover design by Emma Dolan, illustration by Jock MacRae
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for our publishing activities.
Napoleon Publishing
an imprint of Napoleon & Company
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
14 13 12 11 10 5 4 3 2 1
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Maruno, Jennifer, date-
Warbird / Jennifer Maruno.
ISBN 978-1-926607-11-5
I. Title.
PS8626.A785W37 2010 jC813’.6 C2010-904974-8
for David Tyler Travis
ONE
Sillery, 1647
Marie Chouart called across the farm yard. “Etienne, viens ici.”
His mother sounded excited. But before he could go, he had to finish shooting his beaver. It was really a chicken, but in his mind he was Samuel de Champlain, the great Canadian explorer. Under an imaginary cap of raccoon, tail still attached, Etienne peered down his musket-shaped branch.
“Etienne,” his mother called again. This time she did not sound happy.
The black mottled chicken scratched and pecked in the crusty dirt floor of the hen house. “Hold still,” Etienne commanded the fowl in front of him. “Bang,” he bellowed. Then he patted the small tin attached to a cord across his shoulder. This was his flask of gunpowder. He removed the pouch hanging from his belt. The chestnuts inside had the clatter and feel of bullets. Etienne leaned his musket against the wall and stashed his ammunition pouch in an empty nesting box.
As he rounded the end of the yard, he saw his mother talking to a man in a long black robe. A great wooden cross hung around his neck.
Madame Chouart turned once more to call, this time with the face of a rain cloud.
“Me voici, ma mère,” Etienne said, running to her side. “Here I am.”
Marie Chouart took her son by the arm and pulled him to her large white apron. Her hand pushed the straw from his golden locks, forcing him to look down at the man’s feet. The Jesuit wore deerskin shoes with the design of beaded flowers.
“He is usually such an obedient child,” Etienne heard her say.
The man in the black robe placed a finger beneath Etienne’s chin and raised it. “You look as if you were sleeping with the chickens,” he said.
Etienne found himself staring into a pair of eyes darker than the St. Lawrence River.
“Take Father Lejeune into the house,” his mother directed with a nudge of her knee. “I must remove the bread.” She reached for the wooden paddle, taller than his father, leaning against the stone oven.
Etienne’s boots clacked across the wooden floor of their clapboard house. The Jesuit made no sound at all. Etienne pointed to the bench by the fire, then he poured water from the brown jug. The only sound was the crackling of the early morning fire.
The door swung open. Etienne’s father, François Chouart, smelled of earth and animals. The rolled sleeves of his linen shirt revealed strong reddened arms. Seeing the Jesuit by the fire, François nodded and groped for his pipe on the mantle.
Etienne’s mother entered with a basket holding several rounds of bread. “You will stay for a meal?” she asked the priest, putting the basket on the table.
“Your offer is kind,” the Jesuit replied. “But preparations are underway. I must return.” He rose from his chair. “A pair of hens is gift enough.”
His father, filling his pipe, furrowed his brow. “Only one pair?” he asked.
Etienne knew by the tone of his father’s voice that he was not pleased. Each time an expedition left Sillery, the mission petitioned his farm for supplies. No money exchanged hands.
“Your generosity overwhelms us,” the priest said, rising. “But there is only room for a very small cage.”
“Did you bring a cage?” asked Etienne’s father, his eyes narrowing.
The Jesuit extended his palms upward and shrugged.
Giving a deep sigh, Etienne’s father put down his pipe and went outside.
“You will take some bread,” Marie Chouart announced, removing all but one loaf from the basket. “We have some apples left,” she muttered, turning to the wooden bin by the door and lifting the lid. She filled a small burlap sack with withered apples. Then using the bone-handled iron knife, she cut a large wedge of tourtière, wrapped it in cloth and put it the basket.
“I will never be able to carry all of this,” the Jesuit commented. “Perhaps . . .” he began.
But Marie knew her husband would be angry if she offered to walk back to the mission house. Last time she had returned home in a panic, frightened by an unexpected encounter with a group of Algonquins.
“Etienne is almost eleven,” she said. “He will help.” Her brow furrowed. “But you must keep him until morning,” she said. “He is still too young to be out at night.”
Father Lejeune picked up the basket and sack of apples. Etienne took the twig cage from his father. In it sat Francine, the smallest of the hens, and Samuel, a rooster the same size.
“They will be less afraid with me,” Etienne told his mother, smiling at the pair of black Houdans. “Samuel,” he whispered into the beard of the mottled rooster, “you will be like the great Champlain.”
The Jesuit regarded the boy with interest. “You know of Champlain?”
“Of course,” the boy answered. “I was named after Champlain’s great friend.”
“That is not true,” his mother interrupted. “He was named after my uncle.” She shook her head in exasperation. “He speaks of nothing but life in the wilderness.”
“One day,” Etienne announced, “I will go exploring.” He put his arms around his mother’s waist. Looking up into her face, he said, “And I will trap enough pelts to make us rich.”
“You will make me proud by doing your duty to God,” she said, removing his hands. “Off you go to the mission.”
Etienne was always happier away from the farm. Winter had finally passed, and he had already spotted his first duck. He jammed his wide-brimmed hat down onto his head and adjusted the small tin at his side. He might find something interesting to put in it. On the way back, he would walk to the edge of the bluff overlooking the St. Lawrence. The ice in the river had already begun to melt. The Algonquin might be hauling in nets of squirming silver eels. He might be able to watch canoes laden with stacks of fur heading for the great warehouses along the Mont Réal wharf.
“Do not spend all the next day