SAMUEL DE CHAMPLAIN IN NOVA SCOTIA
How the Cod-fishery led to the Fur-trade.--Disastrous Failure of the
First Trading-posts.--Champlain's First Visit to the New World.--His
Second, and the Determination to which it led.--The Bitter Winter at
St. Croix.--Champlain's First Voyage down the New England
Coast.--Removal to Port Royal.--Abandonment of Port Royal.
The disasters in Florida did not abate the activity of Frenchmen on the
far northern coast of America.
The earliest attraction was the cod-fishery. Then, as the fishing-folk
grew familiar with Newfoundland and the continental shores, their
attention was drawn to the skins worn by the natives. What prices they
would bring in France! Here was a field that would make richer returns
than rough and perilous fishing. In this way the fur-trade, which
became the life of Canada, had its beginning.
The first chapters of the story were gloomy and disheartening beyond
description. The dreadful scurvy and the cruel cold scourged the
newcomers. Party after party perished {102} miserably. The story of
one of these is singularly romantic. When Sable Island[1] was reached,
its leader, the Marquis de la Roche, landed forty ragamuffins, while he
sailed on with the best men of his crew to examine the coast and choose
a site for the capital of his promising domain.
Alas! he never returned. A gale swept his little craft out to sea and
drove him back to France.
When he landed, the sun of his prosperity had set. Creditors swooped
down upon him, political enemies rose in troops, and the
"Lieutenant-General of Canada and the adjacent countries" was clapped
in jail like a common malefactor. Meanwhile what of the forty
promising colonists on Sable Island? They dropped for years out of
human knowledge as completely as Henry Hudson when dastardly mutineers
set him adrift in an open boat in the bay which bears his name,[2] or
Narvaez and his brilliant expedition whose fate was a mystery until the
appearance of four survivors, eight years afterward.[3]
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Five years went by, and twelve uncouth creatures stood before Henry the
Fourth, clad in shaggy skins, and with long, unkempt beards. They were
the remnant of La Roche's jailbirds. He had at last gained a hearing
from the King, and a vessel had been sent to Sable Island to bring home
the survivors of his party. What a story they told! When months
passed, and La Roche came not, they thought they were left to their
fate. They built huts of the timbers of a wreck which lay on the
beach--for there was not a tree on the island--and so faced the dreary
winter. With trapping foxes, spearing seals, and hunting wild cattle,
descendants of some which a certain Baron de Léry had left eight years
before, they managed to eke out existence, not without quarrels and
murders among themselves. At last the remnant was taken off by the
vessel which Henry sent for them.
Shaggy and uncouth as they looked, they had a small fortune in the furs
which they had accumulated. This wealth had not escaped the notice of
the thrifty skipper who brought them home, and he had robbed them. But
the King not only compelled the dishonest sea-captain to disgorge his
plunder, but aided {104} its owners with a pension in setting up in the
fur-trade.
Such dismal experiences filled more than fifty years of futile effort
to colonize New France. Cold and scurvy as effectually closed the
North to Frenchmen as Spanish savagery the South.
Then, in this disheartening state of affairs, appeared the man who well
deserves the title of the "Father of New France," since his courage and
indomitable will steered the tiny "ship of state" through a sea of
discouragements.
Samuel de Champlain was born in 1567 at the small French seaport of
Brouage, on the Bay of Biscay. In his pious devotion and his
unquestioning loyalty to the Church, he was of the "Age of Faith," and
he recalls Columbus. In his eager thirst for knowledge and his daring
spirit of exploration, he was a modern man, while his practical ability
in handling men and affairs reminds us of the doughty Captain John
Smith, of Virginia. He came to manhood in time to take part in the
great religious wars in France. After the conflict was ended, when his
master, Henry the Great, was seated on the throne, Champlain's
adventurous spirit led him to the West Indies. Since these were closed
to Frenchmen by the jealousy {105} of the Spaniards, there was a degree
of peril in the undertaking which for him was its chief charm. After
two years he returned, bringing a journal in which he had set down the
most notable things seen in Spanish America. It was illustrated with a
number of the quaintest pictures, drawn and colored by himself. He
also visited Mexico and Central America. His natural sagacity is shown
in his suggesting, even at that early day, that a ship-canal across the
Isthmus of Panama would effect a vast saving.
[Illustration: Samuel de Champlain]
In 1603, in two quaint little vessels, not larger than the fishing
craft of to-day, Champlain and Pontgravé, who was interested in the
fur-trade, crossed the Atlantic and sailed up the St. Lawrence. When
they came to Hochelaga, on the site of Montreal, they found there only
a few shiftless and roving Algonquins.[4]
The explorers passed on and boldly essayed, but in vain, to ascend the
rapids of St. Louis. When they sailed for France, however, a great
purpose was formed in Champlain's mind. What {106} he had gathered
from the Indians as to the great waters above, the vast chain of rivers
and lakes, determined the scene of his future activity.
His next venture in the New World was made in association with the
Sieur de Monts, a Huguenot gentleman, who had obtained leave to plant a
colony in Acadia (Nova Scotia). With a band of colonists--if we can
apply that name to a motley assemblage of jailbirds and high-born
gentlemen, of Catholic priests and Protestant ministers--they sailed
for America in 1604.
Thirty years of bloody warfare in France had but recently come to an
end, and the followers of the two faiths were still full of bitter
hatred. It is easy, therefore, to believe Champlain's report that monk
and minister quarreled incessantly and sometimes came to blows over
religious questions.
This state of feeling came near to causing the death of an innocent
man. After the New World had been reached, and when the expedition was
coasting along the eastern shore of the Bay of Fundy, seeking a place
for a settlement, one day a party went ashore to stroll in the woods.
On reassembling, a priest named Nicolas Aubry was missing. Trumpets
were sounded and cannon fired from the ships. All in vain. There
{107} was no reply but the echo of the ancient forest. Then suspicion
fell upon a certain Huguenot with whom Aubry had often quarreled. He
was accused of having killed the missing priest. In spite of his
strenuous denial of the charge, many persons firmly believed him
guilty. Thus matters stood for more than two weeks. One day, however,
the crew of a boat that had been sent back to the neighborhood where
the priest had disappeared heard a strange sound and saw a small black
object in motion on the shore. Rowing nearer, they descried a man
waving a hat on a stick. Imagine their surprise and joy when they
recognized Aubry! He had become separated from his comrades, had lost
his way, and for sixteen days of misery and terror had kept himself
alive on berries and wild fruits.
The place finally selected for settlement was a dreary island near the
mouth of the St. Croix River, which now forms the boundary between
Maine and New Brunswick. It had but one recommendation, namely, that
it was admirably suited for defence, and these Frenchmen, reared in
war-time, seem to have thought more of that single advantage than of
the far more pressing needs of a colony. Cannon were landed, a {108}
battery was built, and a fort was erected. Then buildings quickly
followed, and by the autumn the whole party was well housed in its
settlement, called Sainte Croix (Holy Cross). The river they named
differently, but it has since borne the title of that ill-starred
colony.
When winter came, the island, exposed to the fierce winds blowing down
the river, was fearfully cold. Ice floated by in great masses,
frequently cutting off the settlers from the mainland and from their
supplies of wood and water. The terror of those days, the scurvy, soon
appeared, and by the spring nearly half of the seventy-nine men lay in
the little cemetery. Of the survivors the greater number had no other
desire than to flee from the scene of so much misery. They were
cheered, however, when Pontgravé arrived from France with supplies and
forty new men.
In the hope of securing a more favorable site in a warmer latitude,
Champlain, who already had explored a part of the coast and had visited
and named the island of Mount Desert, set out in a small vessel with
Monts and about thirty men on a voyage of discovery. They followed the
shores of Maine closely, and by the middle of July were off Cape Ann.
Then they entered {109} Massachusetts Bay. The islands of Boston
Harbor, now so bare, Champlain describes as covered with trees. The
aboriginal inhabitants of the region seem to have felt a friendly
interest in the distinguished strangers. Canoe-loads of them came out
to gaze on the strange spectacle of the little vessel, with its bearded
and steel-clad crew.
Down the South Shore the voyagers held their way, anchoring for the
night near Brant Rock. A head wind drove them to take shelter in a
harbor which Champlain called Port St. Louis, the same which, fifteen
years afterward, welcomed the brave Pilgrims. The shore was at that
time lined with wigwams and garden-patches. The inhabitants were very
friendly. While some danced on the beach, others who had been fishing
came on board the vessel without any sign of alarm, showing their
fish-hooks, which were of barbed bone lashed to a slip of wood.[5]
The glistening white sand of a promontory {110} stretching out into the
sea suggested to Champlain the name which he bestowed, Cap Blanc (White
Cape, now Cape Cod). Doubling it, he held his way southward as far as
Nausett Harbor. Here misfortune met the party. As some sailors were
seeking fresh water behind the sandhills, an Indian snatched a kettle
from one of them. Its owner, pursuing him, was killed by his comrades'
arrows. The French fired from the vessel, and Champlain's arquebuse
burst, nearly killing him. In the meantime several Indians who were on
board leaped so quickly into the water that only one was caught. He
was afterward humanely released.
This untoward incident, together with a growing scarcity of provisions,
decided the voyagers to turn back. Early in August they reached St.
Croix.
Discouraged as to finding a site on the New England coast, Champlain
and Monts began to look across the Bay of Fundy, at first called Le
Fond de la Baye (the bottom of the bay).
A traveler crossing this water from the west will see a narrow gap in
the bold and rugged outline of the shore. Entering it, he will be
struck with its romantic beauty, and he will note the {111} tide
rushing like a mill-race, for this narrow passage is the outlet of a
considerable inland water. The steamer, passing through, emerges into
a wide, land-locked basin offering an enchanting view. Fourteen miles
northward is Annapolis Harbor, shut in on every side by verdant hills.
This is the veritable Acadia, the beautiful land of Evangeline, and
here was made the first settlement of Frenchmen in North America that
had any degree of permanence.
The explorers had discovered and entered this enchanting basin in the
previous summer. Now its beauty recurred to them, and they determined
to remove thither. In their vessels they transported their stores and
even parts of their buildings across the Bay of Fundy and laid the
foundation of a settlement which they called Port Royal, afterward
renamed by loyal Britons Annapolis, in honor of Queen Anne.
The season proved very severe, and in the spring it was decided to
persevere in the project of planting a colony, if possible, in a warmer
region. For the second time Champlain sailed down the New England
coast.
At Chatham Harbor, as the place is now called, five of the voyagers,
contrary to orders, {112} were spending the night ashore. The word
quickly passed around among the Indians that a number of the palefaces
were in their power. Through the dark hours of the night dusky
warriors gathered at the meeting-place, until they numbered hundreds.
Then they stole silently toward the camp-fire where the unsuspecting
Frenchmen lay sleeping. Suddenly a savage yell aroused them, and
arrows fell in a shower upon them. Two never rose, slain where they
lay. The others fled to their boat, fairly bristling with arrows
sticking in them, according to the quaint picture which Champlain made.
In the meantime, he, with Poutrincourt and eight men, aroused from
their sleep by the horrid cries on the shore, had leaped from their
berths, snatched their weapons, and, clad only in their shirts, pulled
to the rescue of their comrades. They charged, and the dusky enemy
fled into the woods. Mournfully the voyagers buried their dead, while
the barbarians, from a safe distance, jibed and jeered at them. No
sooner had the little party rowed back to the ship than they saw the
Indians dig up the dead bodies and burn them. The incensed Frenchmen,
by a treacherous device, lured some of the assailants within {113}
their reach, killed them, and cut off their heads.
Then, discouraged by the savage hostility of the natives, they turned
homeward and, late in November, the most of the men sick in body and at
heart, reached Port Royal.
Thus ended disastrously Champlain's second attempt to find a lodgment
on the New England coast. But he was not a man to be disheartened by
difficulties.
Soon the snows of another winter began to fall upon Port Royal, that
lonely outpost of civilization. But let us not imagine that the little
colony was oppressed with gloom. There were jolly times around the
blazing logs in the rude hall, of winter evenings. They had abundant
food, fine fresh fish, speared through the ice of the river or taken
from the bay, with the flesh of moose, caribou, deer, beaver, and hare,
and of ducks, geese, and grouse, and they had organized an "Order of
Good Fellowship."
Each member of the company was Grand Master for one day, and it was his
duty to provide for the table and then to preside at the feast which he
had prepared. This arrangement put each one on his mettle to lay up a
good store for {114} the day when he would do the honors of the feast.
The Indian chiefs sat with the Frenchmen as their guests, while the
warriors and squaws and children squatted on the floor, awaiting the
bits of food that were sure to come to them.
In this picture we have an illustration of the ease with which the
Frenchmen always adapted themselves to the natives. It was the secret
of their success in forming alliances with the Indians, and it was in
marked contrast with the harsh conduct of the English and the ruthless
cruelty of the Spaniards. No Indian tribes inclined to the English,
except the Five Nations, and these chiefly because their sworn enemies,
the Algonquins of the St. Lawrence, were hand in glove with the French.
None came into contact with the Spaniards who did not execrate them.
But the sons of France mingled freely with the dusky children of the
soil, made friends of them and quickly won numbers of them to learn
their language and adopt their religion. From intermarriages of
Frenchmen with Indian women there grew up in Canada a large class of
half-breed "voyageurs" (travelers) and "coureurs de bois"
(wood-rangers), who in times of peace were skilful hunters and
pioneers, and in times {115} of war helped to bind fast the ties
between the two races.
In this pleasant fashion the third winter of the colony wore away with
little suffering. Only four men died. With the coming of spring all
began to bestir themselves in various activities, and everything looked
hopeful.
Alas! a bitter disappointment was at hand. News came from France that
Monts's monopoly of the fur-trade had been rescinded. The merchants of
various ports in France, incensed at being shut out from a lucrative
traffic, had used money freely at court and had succeeded in having his
grant withdrawn. All the money spent in establishing the colony was to
go for nothing.
Worst of all, Port Royal must be abandoned. Its cornfields and gardens
must become a wilderness, and the fair promise of a permanent colony
must wither. It was a cruel blow to Champlain and his associates, and
not less so to the Indians, who followed their departing friends with
bitter lamentations.
[1] A low, sandy island, about one hundred miles southeast of Nova
Scotia, to which it belongs.
[2] See "The World's Discoverers," p. 140.
[3] See "Pioneer Spaniards in North America," p. 206.
[4] At the time of Champlain's coming on the scene, fierce war existed
between the Algonquins and the Iroquois. This fact accounts for the
disappearance of the thrifty Iroquois village, with its palisade and
cornfields, which Cartier had found on the spot, sixty-eight years
earlier.
[5] These Massachusetts Algonquins evidently were of a higher type than
their kinsmen on the St. Lawrence. Far from depending wholly on
hunting and fishing, they lived in permanent villages and were largely
an agricultural people, growing considerable crops. At the time of the
coming of the Pilgrims, whom they instructed in corn-planting, this
thrifty native population had been sadly wasted by an epidemic of
small-pox.
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