A VOYAGEUR OF BRITTANY
The closing quarter of the fifteenth century in Europe has usually
been regarded by historians as marking the end of the Middle Ages. The
era of feudal chaos had drawn to a close and states were being
welded together under the leadership of strong dynasties. With this
consolidation came the desire for expansion, for acquiring new lands,
and for opening up new channels of influence. Spain, Portugal, and
England were first in the field of active exploration, searching for
stores of precious metals and for new routes to the coasts of Ormuz
and of India. In this quest for a short route to the half-fabulous
empires of Asia they had literally stumbled upon a new continent which
they had made haste to exploit. France, meanwhile, was dissipating her
energies on Spanish and Italian battlefields. It was not until the
peace of Cambrai in 1529 ended the struggle with Spain that France
gave any attention to the work of gaining some foothold in the New
World. By that time Spain had become firmly entrenched in the lands
which border the Caribbean Sea; her galleons were already bearing home
their rich cargoes of silver bullion. Portugal, England, and even
Holland had already turned with zeal to the exploration of new
lands in the East and the West: French fishermen, it is true, were
lengthening their voyages to the west; every year now the rugged old
Norman and Breton seaports were sending their fleets of small vessels
to gather the harvests of the sea. But official France took no active
interest in the regions toward which they went. Five years after the
peace of Cambrai the Breton port of St. Malo became the starting point
of the first French voyageur to the St. Lawrence. Francis I had been
persuaded to turn his thoughts from gaming and gallantries to the
trading prospects of his kingdom, with the result that in 1534 Jacques
Cartier was able to set out on his first voyage of discovery. Cartier
is described in the records of the time as a corsair--which means that
he had made a business of roving the seas to despoil the enemies of
France. St. Malo, his birthplace and home, on the coast of Brittany,
faces the English Channel somewhat south of Jersey, the nearest of the
Channel Islands. The town is set on high ground which projects out
into the sea, forming an almost landlocked harbor where ships may ride
at ease during the most tumultuous gales. It had long been a notable
nursery of hardy fishermen and adventurous navigators, men who had
pressed their way to all the coasts of Europe and beyond.
Cartier was one of these hardy sailors. His fathers before him had
been mariners, and he had himself learned the way of the great waters
while yet a mere youth. Before his expedition of 1534 Jacques Cartier
had probably made a voyage to Brazil and had in all probability more
than once visited the Newfoundland fishing-banks. Although, when
he sailed from St. Malo to become the pathfinder of a new Bourbon
imperialism, he was forty-three years of age and in the prime of his
days, we know very little of his youth and early manhood. It is enough
that he had attained the rank of a master-pilot and that, from his
skill in seamanship, he was considered the most dependable man in
all the kingdom to serve his august sovereign in this important
enterprise.
Cartier shipped his crew at St. Malo, and on the 20th of April, 1534,
headed his two small ships across the great Atlantic. His company
numbered only threescore souls in all. Favored by steady winds his
vessels made good progress, and within three weeks he sighted the
shores of Newfoundland where he put into one of the many small harbors
to rest and refit his ships. Then, turning northward, the expedition
passed through the straits of Belle Isle and into the Gulf of St.
Lawrence. Coasting along the northern shore of the Gulf for a short
distance, Cartier headed his ships due southward, keeping close to the
western shore of the great island almost its whole length; he then
struck across the lower Gulf and, moving northward once more, reached
the Baie des Chaleurs on the 6th July. Here the boats were sent ashore
and the French were able to do a little trading with the Indians.
About a week later, Cartier went northward once more and soon sought
shelter from a violent gulf storm by anchoring in Gaspé Bay. On the
headland there he planted a great wooden cross with the arms of
France, the first symbol of Bourbon dominion in the New Land, and the
same symbol that successive explorers, chanting the _Vexilla Regis_,
were in time to set aloft from the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the Gulf of
Mexico. It was the augury of the white man's coming.
Crossing next to the southerly shore of Anticosti the voyageurs almost
circled the island until the constant and adverse winds which
Cartier met in the gradually narrowing channel forced him to defer
indefinitely his hope of finding a western passage, and he therefore
headed his ships back to Belle Isle. It was now mid-August, and the
season of autumnal storms was drawing near. Cartier had come to
explore, to search for a westward route to the Indies, to look for
precious metals, not to establish a colony. He accordingly decided to
set sail for home and, with favoring winds, was able to reach St. Malo
in the early days of September.
In one sense the voyage of 1534 had been a failure. No stores of
mineral wealth had been discovered and no short route to Cipango or
Cathay. Yet the spirit of exploration had been awakened. Carrier's
recital of his voyage had aroused the interest of both the King and
his people, so that the navigator's request for better equipment to
make another voyage was readily granted. On May 19, 1535, Cartier once
more set forth from St. Malo, this time with three vessels and with a
royal patent, empowering him to take possession of new lands in his
sovereign's name. With Cartier on this voyage there were over one
hundred men, of whom the majority were hardened Malouins, veterans of
the sea. How he found accommodation for all of them, with supplies and
provisions, in three small vessels whose total burden was only two
hundred and twenty tons, is not least among the mysteries of this
remarkable voyage.[1]
[Footnote 1: The shipbuilders old measure for determining tonnage was
to multiply the length of a vessel minus three-quarters of the beam by
the beam, then to multiply the product by one-half the beam, then
to divide this final product by 94. The resulting quotient was the
tonnage. On this basis Cartier's three ships were 67 feet length by 23
feet beam, 57 feet length by 17 feet beam, and 48 feet length by 17
feet beam, respectively.]
The trip across the ocean was boisterous, and the clumsy caravels had
a hard time breasting the waves. The ships were soon separated by
alternate storms and fog so that all three did not meet at their
appointed rendezvous in the Straits of Belle Isle until the last week
in July. Then moving westward along the north, shore of the Gulf, they
passed Anticosti, crossed to the Gaspé shore, circled back as far as
the Mingan islands, and then resumed a westward course up the great
river. As the vessels stemmed the current but slowly, it was well into
September when they cast anchor before the Indian village of Stadacona
which occupied the present site of Lower Quebec.
Since it was now too late in the season to think of returning at once
to France, Cartier decided to spend the winter at this point. Two of
the ships were therefore drawn into the mouth of a brook which entered
the river just below the village, while the Frenchmen established
acquaintance with the savages and made preparations for a trip farther
up the river in the smallest vessel. Using as interpreters two young
Indians whom he had captured in the Gaspé region during his first
voyage in the preceding year, Cartier was able to learn from the
Indians at Stadacona that there was another settlement of importance
at Hochelaga, now Montreal. The navigator decided to use the remaining
days of autumn in a visit to this settlement, although the Stadacona
Indians strenuously objected, declaring that there were all manner
of dangers and difficulties in the way. With his smallest vessel and
about half of his men, Cartier, however, made his way up the river
during the last fortnight in September.
Near the point where the largest of the St. Lawrence rapids bars the
river gateway to the west the Frenchman found Hochelaga nestling
between the mountain and the shore, in the midst of "goodly and large
fields full of corn such as the country yieldeth." The Indian village,
which consisted of about fifty houses, was encircled by three courses
of palisades, one within the other. The natives received their
visitors with great cordiality, and after a liberal distribution
of trinkets the French learned from them some vague snatches of
information about the rivers and great lakes which lay to the westward
"where a man might travel on the face of the waters for many moons in
the same direction." But as winter was near Cartier found it necessary
to hurry back to Stadacona, where the remaining members of his
expedition had built a small fort or _habitation_ during his absence.
Everything was made ready for the long season of cold and snow, but
the winter came on with unusual severity. The neighboring Indians grew
so hostile that the French hardly dared to venture from their narrow
quarters. Supplies ran low, and to make matters worse the pestilence
of scurvy came upon the camp. In February almost the entire company
was stricken down and nearly one quarter of them had died before the
emaciated survivors learned from the Indians that the bark of a white
spruce tree boiled in water would afford a cure. The Frenchmen dosed
themselves with the Indian remedy, using a whole tree in less than
a week, but with such revivifying results that Cartier hailed the
discovery as a genuine miracle. When spring appeared, the remnant of
the company, now restored to health and vigor, gladly began their
preparations for a return to France. There was no ardor among them for
a further exploration of this inhospitable land. As there were not
enough men to handle all three of the ships, they abandoned one of
them, whose timbers were uncovered from the mudbank in 1843, more than
three centuries later. Before leaving Stadacona, however, Cartier
decided to take Donnacona, the head of the village, and several other
Indians as presents to the French King. It was natural enough that
the master-pilot should wish to bring his sovereign some impressive
souvenir from the new domains, yet this sort of treachery and
ingratitude was unpardonable. Donnacona and all these captives but one
little Indian maiden died in France, and his people did not readily
forget the lesson of European duplicity. By July the expedition was
back in the harbor of St. Malo, and Cartier was promptly at work
preparing for the King a journal of his experiences.
Cartier's account of his voyage which has come down to us contains
many interesting details concerning the topography and life of the new
land. The Malouin captain was a good navigator as seafaring went in
his day, a good judge of distance at sea, and a keen observer of
landmarks. But he was not a discriminating chronicler of those things
which we would now wish to understand--for example, the relationship
and status of the various Indian tribes with which he came into
contact. All manner of Indian customs are superficially described,
particularly those which presented to the French the aspect of
novelty, but we are left altogether uncertain as to whether the
Indians at Stadacona in Cartier's time were of Huron or Iroquois
or Algonquin stock. The navigator did not describe with sufficient
clearness, or with a due differentiation of the important from the
trivial, those things which ethnologists would now like to know.
It must have been a disappointment not to be able to lay before the
King any promise of great mineral wealth to be found in the new
territory. While at Hochelaga Cartier had gleaned from the savages
some vague allusions to sources of silver and copper in the far
northwest, but that was all. He had not found a northern Eldorado, nor
had his quest of a new route to the Indies been a whit more fruitful.
Cartier had set out with this as his main motive, but had succeeded
only in finding that there was no such route by way of the St.
Lawrence. Though the King was much interested in his recital of
courage and hardships, he was not fired with zeal for spending good
money in the immediate equipping of another expedition to these
inhospitable shores.
Not for five years after his return in 1536, therefore, did Cartier
again set out for the St. Lawrence. This time his sponsor was the
Sieur de Roberval, a nobleman of Picardy, who had acquired an ambition
to colonize a portion of the new territory and who had obtained the
royal endorsement of his scheme. The royal patronage was not difficult
to obtain when no funds were sought. Accordingly in 1540 Roberval, who
was duly appointed viceroy of the country, enlisted the assistance of
Cartier in carrying out his plans. It was arranged that Cartier with
three ships should sail from St. Malo in the spring of 1541, while
Roberval's part of the expedition should set forth at the same time
from Honfleur. But when May arrived Roberval was not ready and
Cartier's ships set sail alone, with the understanding that Roberval
would follow. Cartier in due course reached Newfoundland, where for
six weeks he awaited his viceroy. At length, his patience exhausted,
he determined to push on alone to Stadacona, where he arrived toward
the end of August. The ships were unloaded and two of the vessels were
sent back to France. The rest of the expedition prepared to winter at
Cap Rouge, a short distance above the settlement. Once more Cartier
made a short trip up the river to Hochelaga, but with no important
incidents, and here the voyageur's journal comes to an end. He
may have written more, but if so the pages have never been found.
Henceforth the evidence as to his doings is less extensive and less
reliable. On his return he and his band seem to have passed the winter
at Cap Rouge more comfortably than the first hibernation six years
before, for the French had now learned the winter hygiene of the
northern regions. The Indians, however, grew steadily more hostile
as the months went by, and Cartier, fearing that his small following
might not fare well in the event of a general assault, deemed it wise
to start for France when the river opened in the spring of 1542.
Cartier set sail from Quebec in May. Taking the southern route through
the Gulf he entered, early in June, the harbor of what is now St.
John's, Newfoundland. There, according to Hakluyt, the Breton
navigator and his belated viceroy, Roberval, anchored their ships side
by side, Roberval, who had been delayed nearly a year, was now on his
way to join Cartier at Quebec and had put into the Newfoundland harbor
to refit his ships after a stormy voyage. What passed between the two
on the occasion of this meeting will never be known with certainly. We
have only the brief statement that after a spirited interview Cartier
was ordered by his chief to turn his ships about and accompany the
expedition back to Quebec. Instead of doing so, he spread his sails
during the night and slipped homeward to St. Malo, leaving the viceroy
to his own resources. There are difficulties in the way of accepting
this story, however, although it is not absolutely inconsistent
with the official records, as some later historians seem to have
assumed.[1]
[Footnote 1: Justin Winsor, _Narrative and Critical History of
America_, vol. iv., 58.]
At any rate it was in no pleasant humor that Roberval now proceeded
to the St. Lawrence and up to Cap Rouge, where he took possession of
Carrier's post, sowed some grain and vegetables, and endeavored
to prepare for the winter. His company of followers, having been
recruited from the jails of France, proved as unruly as might have
been expected. Discipline and order could only be maintained by the
exercise of great severity. One of the malefactors was executed;
others were given the lash in generous measure. The winter, moreover,
proved to be terribly cold; supplies ran low, and the scurvy once
again got beyond control. If anything, the conditions were even worse
than those which Cartier had to endure seven years before. When spring
arrived the survivors had no thought of anything but a prompt return
to France. But Roberval bade most of them wait until with a small
party he ventured a trip to the territory near what is now Three
Rivers and the mouth of the St. Maurice. Apparently the whole party
made its way safely back to France before the autumn, but as to how or
when we have no record. There is some evidence that Cartier was sent
out with a relief expedition in 1543, but in any case, both he and
Roberval were in France during the spring of the next year, for they
then appeared there in court to settle respective accounts of expenses
incurred in the badly managed enterprise.
Of Carrier's later life little is known save that he lived at St. Malo
until he died in 1557. With the exception of his journals, which cover
only a part of his explorations, none of his writings or maps has come
down to us. That he prepared maps is highly probable, for he was an
explorer in the royal service. But diligent search on the part of
antiquarians has not brought them to light. His portrait in the town
hall at St. Malo shows us a man of firm and strong features with jaws
tight-set, a high forehead, and penetrating eyes. Unhappily it is of
relatively recent workmanship and as a likeness of the great Malouin
its trustworthiness is at least questionable. Fearless and untiring,
however, his own indisputable achievements amply prove him to have
been. The tasks set before him were difficult to perform; he was often
in tight places and he came through unscathed. As a navigator he
possessed a skill that ranked with the best of his time. His was
an intrepid sailor-soul. If his voyages resulted in no permanent
establishment, that was not altogether Cartier's fault. He was sent
out on his first two voyages as an explorer, to find new trade routes,
or stores of gold and silver or a rich land to exploit. On his third
voyage, when a scheme of colonization was in hand, the failure of
Roberval to do his part proved the undoing of the entire plan. There
is no reason to believe that faint-heartedness or lack of courage had
any place in Carrier's sturdy frame.
For sixty years following the ill-starred ventures of 1541-1542 no
serious attempts were made to gain for France any real footing in the
regions of the St. Lawrence. This is not altogether surprising, for
there were troubles in plenty at home. Huguenots and Catholics had
ranged themselves in civil strife; the wars of the Fronde were
convulsing the land, and it was not until the very end of the
sixteenth century that France settled down to peace within her own
borders. Norman and Breton fishermen continued their yearly trips to
the fishing-banks, but during the whole latter half of the sixteenth
century no vessel, so far as we know, ever made its way beyond the
Saguenay. Some schemes of colonization, without official support, were
launched during this interval; but in all such cases the expeditions
set forth to warmer lands, to Brazil and to Florida. In neither
direction, however, did any marked success attend these praiseworthy
examples of private initiative.
The great valley of the St. Lawrence during these six decades remained
a land of mystery. The navigators of Europe still clung to the vision
of a westward passage whose eastern portal must be hidden among
the bays or estuaries of this silent land, but none was bold or
persevering enough to seek it to the end. As for the great continent
itself, Europe had not the slightest inkling of what it held in store
for future generations of mankind.