"Is there not any saint of the kitchen, at all?" asked the serious-eyed
little demoiselle sorting herbs under the pear-tree. Old Jacqueline,
gathering the tiny fagots into her capacious apron, chuckled wisely.
"There should be, if there isn't. Perhaps the good God thinks that the
men will take care that there are kitchens, without His help." She
hobbled briskly into the house. Helêne sat for a few minutes with hands
folded, her small nose alert as a rabbit's to the marvelous blend of
odors in the hot sunshiny air.
It was a very agreeable place, that old French garden. There had been a
kitchen-garden on that very spot for more than five hundred years; at
least, so said Monsieur Lescarbot the lawyer, and he knew all about the
history of the world. A part of the old wall had been there in the days
of the First Crusade, and the rest looked as if it had. When Henry of
Navarre dined at the Guildhall, before Ivry, they had come to Jacqueline
for poultry and seasoning. She could show you exactly where she gathered
the parsley, the thyme, the marjoram, the carrots and the onion for the
stuffing, and from which tree the selected chestnuts came. A white hen
proudly promenading the yard at this moment was the direct descendant of
the fowl chosen for the King's favorite dish of _poulet en casserole_.
But the common herbs were far from being all that this garden held.
Besides the dozen or more herbs and as many vegetables which all cooks
used, there were artichokes, cucumbers, peppers of several kinds,
marigolds, rhubarb, and even two plants of that curious Peruvian
vegetable with the golden-centered creamy white flowers, called
po-té-to. Jacqueline's husband, who had been a sea-captain, had brought
those roots from Brazil, and she,--Helêne,--who was very little then,
had disgraced herself by gathering the flowers for a nosegay. It was
after that that Jacqueline had begun to teach her what each plant was
good for, and how it must be fed and tended. Helêne had grown to feel
that every plant, shrub or seedling was alive and had thoughts. In the
delightful fairy tales that Monsieur Marc Lescarbot told her they were
alive, and talked of her when they left their places at night and held
moonlight dances.
Lescarbot's thin keen face with the bald forehead and humorous eyes
appeared now at the grille in the green door. He swept off his béret and
made a deep bow. "Mademoiselle la bien-aimée de la bonne Sainte Marthe,"
he said gravely, "may I come in?"
He had a new name for her every time he came, usually a long one. "But
why Sainte Marthe?" she asked, running to let him in.
"She is the patron saint of cooks and housewives, petite. A good cook
can do anything. Sainte Marthe entertained the blessed Lord in her own
home, and was the first nun of the sisterhood she founded. Moreover when
she was preaching at Aix a fearful dragon by the name of Tarasque
inhabited the river Rhone, and came out each night to devastate the
country until Sainte Marthe was the means of his--conversion."
"Oh, go on!" cried Helêne, and Lescarbot sat down on the old bench
under the pear-tree and began to help with the herbs.
"Sainte Marthe was an excellent cook, and the first thing she did when
she founded her convent was to plant a kitchen-garden. On Saint John's
Eve she went into the garden and watered each plant with holy water,
blessing it in the use of God. People came from miles around to get
roots and seeds from the garden and to ask for Sainte Marthe's recipes
for broths and cordials for the sick. Often they brought roots of such
plants as rhubarb and--er--marigold, which had been imported from
heathen countries, to be blessed and made wholesome." Lescarbot's eye
rested on the potato plant, which he distrusted.
"Well. The dragon prowled around and around the convent walls, but of
course he could not come in. At last he pretended to be sick and sent
for Sainte Marthe to come and cure him. As soon as she set eyes on him
she knew what a wicked lie he had told, and resolved to punish him for
his impudence. Of course all he wanted of her was to get her recipes for
sauces and stews so that he might cook and eat his victims without
having indigestion--which is what a good sauce is for. Sainte Marthe
promised to make him some broth if he would do no harm while she was
gone, and just to make sure he kept his promise she made him hold out
his fore-paws and tied them hard and fast with her girdle, while he sat
with his fore-legs around his--er--knees, and her broomstick thrust
crosswise between. Then she got out her largest kettle and made a good
savory broth of all the herbs in her garden--there were three hundred
and sixty-five kinds. She knew that if he drank it all, the blessed
herbs would work such a change in his inside that he would be like a
lamb forever after.
"But one thing neither she nor Tarasque had thought of, and that was,
that the broth was hot. Of course he always took his food and drink very
cold. When he smelled its delicious fragrance he opened his mouth wide,
and she poured it hissing hot down his throat, and it melted him into a
famous bubbling spring. People go there to be cured of colic."
Helêne drew a long breath. She did not believe that Lescarbot had found
that story in any book of legends of the saints, but she liked it none
the worse for that.
"I wonder if Sainte Marthe blessed this garden?" she said.
"I have no doubt she did, and that is why it flourishes from Easter to
Michaelmas. But I came to-day for a potato. Sieur de Monts desires to
see one and to understand the method of its cultivation."
"Oh, I know that," cried Helêne, eagerly, and she took one of the queer
brown roots from the willow basket by the wall. "See, these are its
eyes, one, two, three--seven eyes in this one. You must cut it in
pieces, as many pieces as it has eyes, and plant each piece separately;
and from each eye springs a plant."
"Ah!" said Lescarbot gravely, and he put the potato in his wallet.
For two years Pierre du Guast, Sieur de Monts, and the valiant gentlemen
Samuel de Champlain, Bienville de Poutrincourt, and others of his
company, had been striving to maintain a settlement in the grant of La
Cadie or L'Acadie, between the fortieth and forty-sixth degrees of north
latitude in the New World, of which the King had made De Monts
Lieutenant-General. De Monts engaged Champlain, who had already
explored those coasts, as chief geographer, and the merchant Pontgravé
was in charge of a store-ship laden with supplies. Fearing the severe
winter of the St. Lawrence, the party steered south along the coast and
anchored in a tranquil and beautiful harbor surrounded with forest,
green lowlands, and hills laced with waterfalls. In his delight with the
place Poutrincourt declared that he would ask nothing better than to
make it his home; and he received a grant of the harbor, which he named
Port Royal. The expedition finally came to rest on an island in a river
flowing into Passamaquoddy Bay, where they began their settlement. Their
wooden buildings--a house for their viceroy, one for Champlain and other
gentlemen, barracks, lodgings, workshops and storehouses,--surrounded a
square in the middle of which one fine cedar was left standing, while a
belt of them remained to hedge the island from the north winds. The work
done, Poutrincourt set sail for France, leaving seventy-nine men to
spend the winter at Ile Sainte-Croix. Scurvy broke out, and before
spring almost half the company were in their graves. Spring came, but no
help from France. It was June 16 before Poutrincourt returned with forty
men, and two days later Champlain set sail in a fifteen-ton barque with
De Monts and several others, to explore the coast and discover if
possible a better place for the colony. They went as far south as Nauset
Harbor, and Champlain made charts and kept a journal quaintly
illustrated with figures drawn and painted; but De Monts found no place
that suited him. Then he bethought himself of the deep sheltered harbor
of Port Royal, and they removed everything to that new site, on the
north side of the basin below the mouth of a little river which they
called the Équille. Even parts of the buildings were taken across the
Bay of Fundy. But a ship from France brought news to De Monts that
enemies at court were working against his Company, and leaving Pontgravé
in command he and Poutrincourt returned home, to see what they could do
to further the interests of the colony in Paris. Among other things
Champlain, who had tried without success to make a garden in the sandy
soil of the island, begged them to provide the settlers with seeds,
roots, cuttings and implements by which they might raise grain and
vegetables and other provisions for themselves. This would improve the
health and also reduce the expenses of the colony, and the land about
the new site was well adapted for cultivation.
Poutrincourt, foregathering with his friend Lescarbot soon after the
lawyer had lost nearly all he possessed in a suit, recounted to him the
woes of the colony, and found with pleasure that in spite of the doleful
history of the last two years Lescarbot was eager to seek a new career
in New France.
Helêne came running in one morning in the early spring of 1606, to find
old Jacqueline on the steps of the root-cellar with a heap of sprouting
potatoes beside her. Lescarbot was packing away in a panier such as she
gave him, while under the whitening pear-tree a donkey stood, sleepily
shaking his ears as he waited for orders.
"Oh, what are you doing, Uncle Marc?" she cried.
"Making ready to go to the land beyond the sunset, Mademoiselle la
Princesse du Jardin de Paradis," he said smiling. "Sit down while the
good mother gets the packets of seeds she promised me, and I will tell
you a story."
All curiosity and wonder, the little maid settled herself on the ancient
worm-eaten bench, and Lescarbot began.
"It happened one day that men came and told the King that a great realm
lay beyond the seas, where only wild men and animals lived, and that
this realm was all his. Now the wild men were not good for anything, for
they had never been taught anything, but since the winters in that
country were very cold the animals wore fur coats. The King called to
him a Chief Huntsman and told him that he might go and collect tribute
from the fur coats of the animals, and that after he had given the King
his share, the fur coats of all the animals belonged to him."
"Did the animals know it?"
"I think they did, for they were accustomed to having men try to take
away their fur coats. All the other hunters were very angry when they
found that the King had given this order, but the Chief Huntsman told
them that they might have a share in the hunting, only they must ask his
permission and pay tribute to the King; and that satisfied them for a
while.
"The Chief Huntsman sailed to the far country and built a castle for
himself and his men, and when winter came they found that it was indeed
very cold--so cold that the wine and the cider froze and had to be given
out by the pound instead of the pint. But that was not the worst of it.
There was a dragon."
Helêne's blue eyes grew round with interest.
"A dragon whose poisonous breath tainted the food and caused a terrible
plague. They prayed to Saint Luke the Physician for help, and he
appeared to them in a vision and said, 'I cannot do anything for you so
long as you eat not good food. God made man to live in a garden, not to
fill himself with salt fish and salt meat and dry bread.' But they could
not plant a garden in the middle of winter, and they had to wait. When
the ship went back to France a gallant captain--named Samuel de
Champlain--sent a letter to a friend of his in France, praying him to
send a gardener with seeds, roots and cuttings that there might be good
broths and tisanes and sauces to work magic against the dragon that he
slay no more of their folk. And, little Helêne, I am filling a pair of
paniers with those roots and those seeds, and I am going to be a
gardener beyond the sunset."
Helêne looked grave. To find her friend and playfellow suddenly dropped
away from her into the middle of a fairy-tale was rather terrifying, but
it was also thrilling. She slipped down from the bench.
"You shall have cuttings from my very own rose-bushes," said she; and at
her direction Lescarbot took up very carefully small rose-shoots that
had rooted themselves around the great bushes,--bushes that bore roses
white with a faint flush, white with a golden-creamy heart, pure
snow-white, sunrise pink and deep glowing crimson with a purple shade.
If Lescarbot had been a superstitious man, he might have been inclined
to gloom during his first sea-voyage, for the ship in which he and
Poutrincourt set sail from Rochelle on the thirteenth of May, 1606, was
called the _Jonas_. But instead he joined in all the diversions possible
in their two months' voyage--harpooning porpoises, fishing for cod off
the Banks, or dancing on the deck in calm weather,--and in his leisure
kept a lively and entertaining journal of the adventure. They ran into
dense fog in which they could see nothing; they saw, when the mist
cleared, a green and lovely shore, but before it fierce and dangerous
rocks on which the breakers pounded. Then a storm broke, with rolling
thunder like a salute of cannon. At last on July 27 they sailed into the
narrow channel at the entrance of the harbor of Port Royal.
The flag of France, with its golden lilies on a white ground, gleamed in
the noon sunlight as they came up the bay toward the little group of
wooden buildings in the edge of the forest. Not a man was to be seen on
the silent shore; a birch canoe, with one old Indian in it, hovered near
the landing. A great fear gripped the hearts of Bienville de
Poutrincourt and Marc Lescarbot. Were Pontgravé and Champlain all dead
with their people? Had help come too late?
Then from the bastion of the rude fortifications a cannon barked salute,
and a Frenchman with a gun in his hand came running down to the beach.
The ship's guns returned the salute, and the trumpets sang loud greeting
to whoever might be there to hear.
When they had landed they learned what had happened. There were only two
Frenchmen in the fort; Pontgravé and the others, fearing that the supply
ship would never arrive, had gone twelve days before in two small ships
of their own building to look for some of the French fishing fleet who
might have provisions. The two who remained had volunteered to stay and
guard the buildings and stores. There was a village of friendly Indians
near by, and the chief, Membertou, who was more than a hundred years
old, had seen the distant sail of the _Jonas_ and come to warn the white
men, who were at dinner. Not knowing whether the strange ship came in
peace or war, one of the comrades had gone to the platform on which the
cannon were mounted, and stood ready to do what he could in defense,
while the other ran down to the shore. When they saw the French flag at
the mast-head the cannon spoke joyfully in salute.
All was now eager life and activity. Poutrincourt sent out a boat to
explore the coast, which met the two little ships of Pontgravé and
Champlain and told the great news. Lescarbot, exploring the meadows
under the guidance of some of Membertou's people, saw moose with their
young feeding peacefully upon the lush grass, and beavers building their
curious habitations in a swamp. Pontgravé took his departure for France
in the _Jonas_, and Champlain and Poutrincourt began making plans.
The winter in Port Royal had been less severe than the terrible first
winter of the settlement, on the St. Croix, but the two leaders decided
to take one of the ramshackle little ships and make another exploring
voyage along the coast, to see whether some more comfortable site for
the colony could not be found. There was plenty of leeway to the
southward, for De Monts was supposed to control everything as far south
as the present site of Philadelphia; but the coast had never been
accurately charted by the French further south than Cape Cod.
Lescarbot, who was to command at Port Royal in their absence, had
already laid out his kitchen-garden and set about spading and planting
it. The kitchen, the smithy and the bakery were on the south side of the
quadrangle around which the wooden buildings stood; east of them was the
arched gateway, protected by a sort of bastion of log-work, from which a
path led to the water a few paces away; and west of them another bastion
matched it, mounting the four cannon. The storehouses for ammunition and
provisions were on the eastern side; on the west were the men's
quarters, and on the north, a dining-hall and lodgings for the chief men
of the company, who now numbered fifteen. Lescarbot set some of the men
to burning over the meadows that they might sow wheat and barley; others
broke up new soil for the herbs, roots and cuttings he had brought, and
he himself, hoe in hand, was busiest of all.
"Do not overtask yourself," warned Poutrincourt, pausing beside the
thin, pale-faced man who knelt in the long shadows of the rainy dawn
among his neatly-arranged plots. "If you are too zealous you may never
see France again." Lescarbot laughed and dug a little grave in his
plantation. "What in heaven's name are those?"
"Potatoes," answered the lawyer-gardener. "The Peruvian root they are
planting in Ireland."
"But you do not expect to get a crop this year--and in this climate?"
"I don't expect anything at all. I am making the experiment. If they
come up, good; if they do not, I have seed enough for next year."
The potatoes came up. It was an unusually hot summer, and the situation
was favorable. If Lescarbot had known the habits of the vegetable he
might not have thought of putting them into the ground on the last day
of July, but they grew and flourished, and their odd ivory-and-gold
blossoms were charming. Lescarbot worked all day in the bracing sunlit
air, and now and then he hoed and transplanted by moonlight. In the
evening he read, wrote, or planned out the next day's program.
September came, with cool bright days and a hint of frost at night; the
lawyer marshalled his forces and harvested the crops. The storehouses,
already stocked with Pontgravé's abundant provision, were filled to
overflowing, and they had to dig a makeshift cellar or root-pit under a
rough shelter for the last of their produce. The potatoes were carefully
bestowed in huge hampers provided by Membertou's people, who were
greatly interested in all that the white men did. Old Jacqueline had
said that they needed "room to breathe," and Lescarbot was taking no
chances on this unknown American product.
October came; the Indians showed the white men how to grind corn, and
the carpenters planned a water-mill to be constructed in the spring, to
take the place of the tedious hand-mill worked by two men. Wild geese
flew overhead, recalling to the Frenchmen the legends of Saint Gabriel's
hounds. The forests robed themselves in hues like those of a priceless
Kashmir shawl, and the squirrels, martens, beavers, otters, weasels,
which the hunters brought in were in their winter coats. But the
exploring party had not returned. Lescarbot, who had occupied spare
moments in preparing a surprise for them when they did return, and
carefully drilled the men in their parts, began to be secretly anxious.
But on the morning of November 14, old Membertou, who had appointed
himself an informal sentinel to patrol the waters near the fort,
appeared with the news that the chiefs were coming back.
All was excitement in a moment, although Lescarbot privately had to
admit that he could not even see a sail, to say nothing of recognizing
the boat or its occupants. But the long-sighted old sagamore was right.
The party of adventurers, their craft considerably the worse for the
journey, steering with a pair of oars in place of a rudder, reached the
landing-place and battered, weary and dilapidated, came up to the fort.
They were surprised and disappointed to see no one about except a few
curious Indians peeping from the woods.
As they neared the wooden gateway it was suddenly flung open, and out
marched a procession of masquers, headed by Neptune in full costume of
shell-fringed robe, diadem, trident, and garlands of kelp and sea-moss,
attended by tritons grotesquely attired, and fauns, reinforced by a
growing audience of Indians, squaws and papooses. This merry company
greeted the wanderers with music, song and some excellent French verse
written by Lescarbot for the occasion. Refreshed with laughter and the
relief of finding all so well conducted, Champlain, Poutrincourt and
their men went in to have something to eat and drink. Then they spent
the rest of the day hearing and telling the story of the last three
months.
It is written down, adorned with drawings, in the journals of Champlain,
and it was all told over as the men sat around their blazing fires and
talked, all together, while a light November snow flurried in the air
outside.
"So you see we lost our rudder in a storm off Mount Désert--" "And the
autumn gales drove us back before we had fairly passed Port Fortuné--"
"It came near being Port Malheur for us, and it was for Pierre and
Jacques le Malouin, poor fellows. They and three others stayed ashore
for the night and hundreds of Indians attacked them,--oh, but hundreds.
Well, we heard the uproar--naturally it waked us in a hurry--and up we
jumped and snatched any weapon that was handy, and piled into the boat
in our shirts. Two of the shore party were killed and we saw the other
three running for their boat for dear life, all stuck over with arrows
like hedgehogs, my faith! So then we landed and charged the Indians, who
must have thought we were ghosts, for they left off whooping and ran for
the woods. Our provisions were so far spent that we thought it best to
return after that, and in any case--it would be as bad, would it not, to
die of Indians as to die of scurvy?"
"But tell me, my dear fellow," said Champlain when the happy hubbub had
a little subsided, "how have your gardens prospered? Truly I need not
ask, in view of the abundance of the dinner you gave us."
Lescarbot smiled. "I think that the saints must have whispered to the
little plants," he said whimsically, "or else they knew that they must
grow their best for the honor of France. But perhaps it is not strange.
I had the seeds and roots from the garden of Helêne."
"And who is Helêne?" asked Champlain with interest. Lescarbot explained.
"It was really wonderful," he said in conclusion, "to see how careful
she was to remember every herb and plant which might be useful, and to
ask Jacqueline for some especial recipes for cordials and tisanes for
the sick. And by the way, Jacqueline told me that the sea-captains
regard potatoes as especially good to prevent or cure scurvy."
In any case the potato was popular among the exiled Frenchmen. They ate
it boiled, they ate it parboiled, sliced and fried in deep kettles of
fat, they ate it in stews, and they ate it--and liked it best of
all--roasted in the ashes. Jacqueline had said that the water in which
the root was boiled must always be thrown away, which showed that there
was something uncanny about it, but whether it was due to the potatoes
or the general variety of the bill of fare, there was not a case of
scurvy in the camp all winter.
Soon after his return Champlain broached a plan which he had been
perfecting during the voyage. The fifteen men of rank formed a society,
to be called "L'Ordre de Bon-Temps." Each man became Grand-Master in
turn, for a single day. On that day he was responsible for the
dinner,--the cooking, catering, buying and serving. When not in office
he usually spent some days in hunting, fishing and trading with the
Indians for supplies. He had full authority over the kitchen during his
reign, and it was a point of honor with each Grand Master to surpass, if
possible, the abundance, variety and gastronomic excellence of the meals
of the day before. There was no market to draw upon, but the caterer
could have steaks and roasts and pies of moose, bear, venison and
caribou; beavers, otters, hares, trapped for their fur, also helped to
feed the hunters. Ducks, geese, grouse and plover were to be had for the
shooting. Sturgeon, trout and other fish might be caught in the bay, or
speared through the ice of the river. The supplies brought from France,
with the addition of all this wilderness fare, held out well, and
Lescarbot expressed the opinion, with which nobody disagreed, that no
epicure in Paris could dine better in the Rue de l'Ours than the
pioneers of Port Royal dined that winter.
Ceremony was not neglected, either. At the dinner hour, twelve o'clock,
the Grand Master of the day entered the dining-hall, a napkin on his
shoulder, his staff of office in his hand, and the collar of the Order,
worth about four crowns, about his neck. After him came the
Brotherhood in procession, each carrying a dish. Indian chiefs were
often guests at the board; old Membertou was always made welcome.
Biscuit, bread and many other kinds of food served there were new and
alluring luxuries to the Indians, and warriors, squaws and children who
had not seats at table squatted on the floor gravely awaiting their
portions.
[Illustration: "THE GRAND MASTER OF THE DAY ENTERED THE DINING
HALL."--_Page_ 266]
The evening meal was less formal. When all were gathered about the fire,
the Grand Master presented the collar and staff of office to his
successor, and drank his health in a cup of wine.
The winter was unusually mild; until January they needed nothing warmer
than their doublets. On the fourteenth, a Sunday, they went boating on
the river, and came home singing the gay songs of France. A little later
they went to visit the wheat fields two leagues from the fort, and dined
merrily out of doors. When the snow melted they saw the little bright
blades of the autumn sowing already coming up from the rich black soil.
Winter was over, and work began in good heart. Poutrincourt was not
above gathering turpentine from the pines and making tar, after a
process invented by himself. Then late in spring a ship came into harbor
with news which ended everything. The fur-traders of Normandy, Brittany
and the Vizcayan ports had succeeded in having the privilege of De Monts
withdrawn. Hardly more than a year after his arrival Lescarbot left his
beloved gardens, and in October all the colonists were once more in
France. Membertou and his Indians bewailed their departure, and held
them in long remembrance. Wilderness houses soon go back to their
beginnings, and it was not long before all that was left of the brave
and gay French colony was a little clearing where the herb of
immortality, the tansy of Saint Athanase, lifted its golden buttons and
thick dark green foliage above the remnant of the garden of Helêne.
Yet the experience of that year was not lost. It was the first instance
of a company of settlers in that northern climate passing the winter
without illness, discord or trouble with the Indians. Later, in the
little new settlements of Quebec and Montreal, some of the colonists met
again under the wise and kindly rule of Champlain. Little Helêne lived
to bring her own roses to a garden in New France, and teach Indian girls
the secrets which old Jacqueline taught her. And it is recorded in the
history of the voyageurs, priests and adventurers of France in the New
World that wherever they went they were apt to take with them seeds and
plants of wholesome garden produce, which they planted along their route
in the hope that they might thus be of service to those who came after
them.