When Jean Vincent Followed the Trail
In 5 short Chapters
Chapter I
Many years ago in the year 1652, a little boy was born in Oleron,
France. His mother died when he was less than two years old. His
father was a rich and powerful baron of the land. He owned many
houses scattered through the provinces near the Pyrenees
Mountains. He was not an unkind father, but he was always too
busy to spend any time with his children, so he left them to the
care of servants, nurses and the Jesuit Priests.
When this boy was very little, he
trotted about the castle after his older sister and watched the
women embroider and weave by hand yards and yards of glistening
silk made from the worms that fed on the mulberry trees which
grew around the castle grounds. As he grew to be older, that was
too tame a life for him, so with his older brother, he rode on
his spirited little pony, a falcon on his wrist and half a dozen
dogs barking at his heels. He even followed the hounds and saw
them kill the wild boar, whose fierce tusks gored the dogs as
they pulled him down. In the evening, when the lords and barons
joined his father at supper, he was allowed to remain and toss
off his glass of wine and give his toast to the fair ladies
present, as if he were grown up.
Once his father took him to Paris, where
reigned one of the most powerful monarchs of all Europe, King
Louis XIV. Jean Vincent, for that was the little boy's name, was
dressed in his best doublet or jacket of blue velvet, slashed on
the sleeves, with white satin puffs showing through the slashes.
His trousers were velvet, too, and he wore white silk stockings
and pointed leather shoes with gold buckles. His hat was of felt
with a long, white ostrich feather, fastened on with another
buckle, also of gold, while lace ruffles hung over his hands, -
not much of a costume for a boy to wear to climb a tree! O, yes,
he wore a long pointed knife called a dagger or poniard, such as
a noble wore to kill if he were attacked by thieves. Often he
used it to thrust or prick a servant who did not move quickly
enough to carry out his orders.
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Jean Vincent (The Baron Castine)
in Youth |
The King liked the looks of Jean Vincent
and told his father that when the boy was twelve, he should be
made one of the gentlemen of the court.
The next year the boy's father died. His
older brother became the baron, taking, as was the custom, all
the lands and houses. Then the sister married and most of the
gold and jewels went for her marriage dot. There seemed nothing
left for Jean Vin-cent but to go up to the Court at Versailles
and remind his Majesty, King Louis, of his promise. When he
arrived at Court, Louis XIV readily agreed to take him into his
service, saying, ''Little Jean, I will soon give you a chance to
become a great warrior in our next war with England.''
An ancient court was a bad place for a
lad of twelve, for many reasons. First, in the King's household
lived so many noble gentlemen that there was not enough work for
half of them. They spent their time playing dice, drinking,
teaching cocks to light, and ferrets to catch rats, and in doing
even worse things. Jean grew very tired of it. He wanted leather
buskins and jerkins and a good stout helmet on his head.
The French were having trouble with
their colonies in Acadia, the new world over the big ocean.
Louis and his great Cardinal decided to send one of the King's
crack regiments over seas to settle all difficulties. So the
Carignan Salieres were shipped to Quebec. Jean Vincent, though
only fourteen, belonged to that regiment. It was a beastly trip
across the ocean and even the noblemen were crowded like cattle
in the small cabins of the vessels transporting them.
While Jean Vincent had a fine swagger and felt himself every bit
as brave as the colonel, there were days when he could not lift
his head and wished himself either back at court or at the
bottom of the ocean, anything to get rid of that dreadful mal de
mer, as the French call sea sickness.
At last Jean Vincent found himself in
Quebec, glad enough to be ashore and starting real life. Like
the boys of this century, he was fascinated by pirates and the
Red Man. The lure of the wild drew him and this odd little New
World town, so like and yet so unlike the towns of his own dear
France, enticed him.
The year that followed was exciting
enough to suit him. His regiment was continual engaged in
skirmishes around Quebec. He saw the many horrors of Indian
warfare. At first, to be sure, he turned sick at the cruel
practice of scalping. A painted, half-naked Indian Chief, with
his snaky war bonnet of feathers waving down his back, was not a
pleasant sight to see standing over some poor French soldier,
especially if he raised his tomahawk to bury it in the skull of
his young victim.
Chapter II
At last the Indian trouble was settled.
The Salieres were disbanded and that was why Jean Vincent found
himself, at fifteen, left stranded in New France with little
money or train-ing for a pioneer life. In his possession was one
other asset which proved to be the very best thing in his whole
life. It was the royal grant of a considerable tract of land in
a wild country many miles south of Quebec and no way to get
there.
Other young ensigns of his regiment had
been given land nearer Quebec. In the neighborhood of the fort
where Jean Vincent lived, was a holy mission of the Jesuit
Priests. Jean had heard them talking about this settlement which
had been given him by the King. Scarcely any one lived there but
a tribe of Indians called Abenakis. Jean had often been to the
chapel to confess his sins, for he was a good Catholic.
One day in the late summer he gathered
all his belongings at the barracks and put them in a stout sea
chest which had a rude lock. He sent this over to the cabin of
Father Bigot, meaning to ask him if he would send it by the
first French ship sailing for Pentagoet. Jean, that youngest
ensign in the Salieres, was certainly good to look at, as he
stood tapping at the Jesuit's cabin door. He had the dash and
dare of youth, the '' devil-may-care" and imperious way of the
French nobility of that date. The bright uniform of the already
disbanded King's regiment gave an added glitter and authority to
his boyish figure.
At his knock the holy man opened the
door. ''Bon soir, Reverend Father," said young Jean, making the
sign of the cross as he spoke.
The priest, a man of delicate frame,
clad in a long black robe with a cord tied about his waist,
motioned for the lad to enter. Jean Vincent stood near the
table.
''Father Bigot, they tell me in the
parish of St. Anne, that you are the only one now in Quebec, who
knows about the shores of Pentagoet which is to be my new home.
I have come to ask you how I may best arrive at that
settlement."
''Be seated, my son," said the priest. ''God has directed your
footsteps here at this opportune moment. Tomorrow at dawn three
Algonquins who belong to the Abenaki tribe will start for
Pentagoet. They are Indian runners who brought messages to our
Governor that a band of the Iroquois are on the war path. I will
send a message by them commending you to their powerful chief,
Mataconando. They will also show you the way to your new
possessions.
Jean expressed his thanks and the Holy
Father continued: "My son, you are over young, yet. Carry
yourself with humility, make a good accounting to his Majesty by
the manner in which you rule your land and the savage tribe
which is settled there. See that you lead them to God."
Chapter III
The next morning, at the first cock's
crow, from the little cabin of the old Indian woman, Monique,
who lived beneath the shadow of the Jesuit mission, silently
started two stalwart Indians, followed in single file along the
trail by two lads. The younger was Jean Vincent. He wore knee
breeches of stout cloth, heavy leather gaiters with moose-hide
shoes. To be sure, a soft blue silken shirt or blouse tied by a
black kerchief was next his skin, but it was completely hidden
by a thick leathern jerkin. He was slender, about five feet nine
in height. He had good features, dark brown hair, a keen blue
eye and a laughing mouth full of strong white teeth. He appeared
to have the bright, joyous disposition usual with the French. On
his back he wore a pack done up in a blanket, an arquebuse or
old-fashioned musket was slung over his shoulder. In his belt
was a hunting knife and a small hatchet.
The lad walking behind him so silently,
was larger, a handsome Indian of seventeen. He, too, had a
pleasant mouth with big white teeth, but he marched along
without saying a word or even giving a smile. He wore a full
Indian suit of deer skin, slashed and fringed. Slung beside his
pack was a strong bow and a quiver of cruel arrows. A scalp-ing
knife was in his belt.
Only occasionally did the Indian runners
ahead turn to speak to them. Most of the conversation with Jean
Vincent was carried on by signs. They knew a few words of French
and he knew some words of the Iroquois language which they
understood. So they filed on through the Plains of Abraham until
they reached the banks of the St. Lawrence. Quietly, the head
Indian drew out his canoe from its hiding place. He motioned to
Jean Vincent to take the seat arranged for a passenger. The
others, kneeling, plied their paddles with swift, sure strokes,
until they reached Port Levis, eleven hundred yards across on
the bank opposite Quebec. They carried around the Falls of
Chaudiere which fell, one magnificent leap of 135 feet, and
began the ascent of the Chaudiere River.
The sun was bright and the September air
was fresh with tonic. Jean Vincent was enjoying the canoe ride,
but why such gloom? His companions made him weary. O, for a jest
with a fellow officer of his regiment!
About sundown, they reached a small
stream, branching from the main river, winding like a shining
snake through fields growing sere and brown. The sheltering
knoll of hemlocks and red cedars was perfect for a camping
ground. The packs were unstrapped. One of the older Indians took
out a line and fish hook which he had carved from bone, lighted
his pipe and began to smoke as he fished from a neighboring
rock. The other Red Man took two sticks which he rubbed very
briskly together and soon a tiny spark fell to the little heap
of dry pith he had gathered, and in a moment more a fire of bark
and twigs burnt merrily.
The lad had found some saplings growing
against a big boulder, facing the water. He bent these over and
fastened them for an Indian shelter called a wickie-up. He cut a
few boughs from the hemlocks and cedars and threw them into the
little hut. At first, Jean Vincent stood doing nothing, then he
began to help the boy cut boughs. When their work was done, he
pointed at the Indian boy and said to him, first in French and
then in Iroquois, ''What's your name? ''
Without a smile the older lad said, ''Wenamouet.''
''Where do you live?" ventured Jean
Vincent.
"Pentagoet," said the other.
''I like you,'' said Jean, ''and I am
going to live there, too. Please be friends with me."
To his surprise Wenamouet's features
flashed into a dazzling smile.
"I like you now. I talk little French.
Father Bigot, he told me."
Thus began their friendship.
They helped the fishermen until they had
a string of perch, which they broiled over the live coals of the
fire. Then they flung their tired bodies on the sweet hemlock
boughs. For a moment Jean Vincent watched the twinkling stars
shining between the branches of their shelter and soon was deep
in sleep.
Chapter IV
So they went on for a week or more. Up
the Chaudiere to Sartigan, from there to the Big Pond (Lake
Megantic). Partridge and game were plentiful and the rivers
teemed with fish. All three Indians knew both by instinct and
experience, where to get the best fish. The French lad was happy
in the life on the trail and friendship was slowly but surely
cementing between him and Wenamouet. The day they completed the
passage of the chain of lakes in the shadow of Mt. Bigelow
before making the trail for Dead River, Jean Vincent and
Wenamouet left the older men fishing and went deeper into the
woods to follow a red-winged blackbird and see what small game
was at hand. They had lost their trail on the border of a swampy
stretch, when a long, piercing yell sounded across the tops of
the swaying pines.
''What's that?" said Jean in a hushed voice.
''H'st!'' said Wenamouet, with his lips
close to Jean's ear, ''Iroquois war whoop. I have seen signs all
about. They trailed here today."
On their return to their camping ground,
they found it deserted, except for a broken arrow and an
Iroquois mask over which they stumbled. The mask was a strange
bit of wood neatly fitted with two halves of a copper kettle,
with two holes left for eyes. Their Indian runners had surely
been taken captive by the hostile tribe and all food, blankets,
and even the canoe had disappeared.
Two sorry lads sat among the boughs that
night, not daring to have a fire, scarcely daring to breathe.
They were on the alert at the crackling of every twig. The
forest was alive with noises. Amid the sobbing of the wind in
the branches, sounded the lonesome call of the loon in the bog.
A wolf raised his hideous voice from the fastnesses of the
mountain. Every now and then came the weird, blood-curdling
whoop of the Iroquois as they wound their way along the carry
with their sullen, half dead captives, the sound ever growling
fainter as they left the Abenaki's trail to go westward to seek
the Mohawk trail.
Toward dawn Jean fell asleep. Not for
several hours did he wake to the peaceful twitter of small birds
and the dancing sunlight through the inter-laced branches. His
young friend stood over him, gently shaking him.
''Arise, sluggard, it is time to eat,
''' said Wenamouet, pointing to a wild duck which he had just
brought from the marsh. In a moment Jean Vincent was ready to
help. They plunged the bird into the brook until its feathers
were dripping wet, then buried it in the hot coals of the fire
which the Indian boy already had made. In a short time they
pulled it out, easily skinned off the outside and the meat was
done to a turn, without scorching.
All day they wandered over the carry,
often losing the trail, then finding it again, until they
reached Dead River. The French lad had been considering all day
their dilemma. Not a sign of human habitation, no canoe, no
supply of food, no definite trail, what would become of him if
anything should happen to his young friend? Could the Indian boy
find the trail so blindly blazed?
''Wenamouet, can we ever get to
Pentagoet alone?" asked he, wistfully.
''I think I lead right," said the
Indian.
''Have you ever been over it before?"
queried Jean Vincent.
''Ninny, how come Wenamouet at Quebec?"
he answered.
''Where do we go now and how can we go
up this river, you call Dead, without a canoe?" insisted Jean.
''Indian show stupid paleface,'' laughed
the copper-colored lad. ''Come help me now," he continued, ''I
command, too. My father heap big chief, before he went to Happy
Hunting Grounds. I have right to wear eagle feathers in hair
just as much as little French lord."
He led the way into the deep woods,
where he selected six good-sized logs which were lying rotting
on the ground. They managed to drag them out, one at a time, to
the river bank. There Wenamouet cleared the decayed leaves from
the hollow inside, placed the logs together, tied them securely
with stout thongs, which he unwound from under his deerskin
hunting jacket. They made a good firm raft. With their hatchets
and hunting knives, they hurriedly shaped a passable paddle and
a pole. On this frail craft, they launched forth down the river,
Wenamouet paddling and Jean Vincent helping with the pole at all
dangerous turns. Barring an occasional upset, they made good
time in reaching ''The Forks'' where Dead River meets the
Kennebec. Here the trail divided. The Abenaki's course lay up
the river to Moosehead Lake. The trail that Benedict Arnold
covered a hundred years later was down the Kennebec.
Chapter V
After several days of paddling the raft
on the river and of nights spent in the woods along the bank,
they came to Moosehead. Jean Vincent was appalled at the thought
of venturing on the rough water with that tiny log raft. Even
the Indian boy shook his head thoughtfully when he saw the great
waves crested with foam kicked up by the October winds sweeping
over the mountain tops. Then a piece of luck came their way.
Wenamouet found, under a low spreading willow near the lake's
outlet, a good, strong canoe with two new paddles. It was the
first time Jean had seen him express any emotion. Wenamouet
began to tread the measure of an Indian dance. Clapping his
hands, he grunted, ''Ugh, my father, he ask the Great Spirit to
help his son," and he repeated some sort of prayer in a dialect
that the French boy could not follow.
With this help in a time of great need,
the two boys continued swiftly on their way. Wenamouet realized
how much more of the trail remained to be covered and he was
anxious to hasten along before November ushered in her ice and
snows. The nights were growing cold. They had but the thin
blankets about their packs.
It was a short carry from the top of
Moosehead Lake to the west Branch of the Penobscot. A long
paddle followed to Chesuncook Lake, where they were obliged to
carry at many impassable places until they came to Lake
Pemadumcook. By this time November was at hand. The nights grew
bitter and only their roaring campfires kept them from freezing.
They were now in the land of the Abenakis and were no longer
afraid of hostile tribes.
The rabbit had changed its brown coat
for its winter one of white. The squirrels and all small animals
had drawn into their winter holes. Food grew very scarce. Two
days and nights went by without a morsel of any kind to eat.
Then they found some withered acorns, so bitter, but something
to ease the gnawing pangs of their hunger. Jean Vincent was
ready to give up. Then passed two more days absolutely without
food. Wenamouet saw Jean Vincent chewing at a piece of leather
cut from his leggings. The Indian stomach is accustomed to long
winter fasts in hard years, but not so the French.
''Sacre Bleu!" said Jean in quaint
French oath, ''Wenamouet, shoot me with this arquebus as soon as
you will, but I beg of you don't scalp me."
Faint, dizzy, unable to stand or drag
one foot after the other, the boy threw himself on the ground
and began to moan in his agony. Wenamouet wanted to comfort him,
but he knew they must keep on. Death was staring them in the
face. If only they could reach some Indian village, where they
could get food and a bit of rest.
Then Wenamouet uttered a cry of glad
surprise and Jean opened his eyes to see his companion run to a
rock which showed through the light coating of snow. Wenamouet
began to peel off some moss, having a red, shell-shaped leaf,
covered with caterpillars and spiders. He took a piece of bark
and made a dish to hold water. Then, from the camp fire which he
had made to warm Jean, he took red-hot rocks and these he
dropped into the water until it boiled and from the moss and hot
water he made an insipid tasting soup, which was nourishing
enough to bring renewed life and hope to Jean.
Then Wenamouet taunted him to get the
boy's courage back, saying, ''Shall I tell the pretty squaws at
Pentagoet, that the French blackbird showed the white feather on
the Abenaki trail? Come, little brother, take heart once more
and I will tell you the story of the Great Moose."
So all the way to Mattawamkeag, the true
friend, the Indian lad, kept Jean's mind from his bodily ills by
stories of Indian lore. All the way from Quebec he had been
teaching him woodcraft, how to blaze a trail, the habits of
game, where the best fish hide, all the things the Indian learns
through his early boyhood.
At Mattawamkeag, the Sagamores of the
Indian village welcomed them with hospitality. They gave them
food and let them rest in the wigwam until their strength
returned. Wenamouet accused Jean Vincent of taking notice of the
handsome Indian girls, who wore their hair braided in a becoming
style and wore deerskin dresses, richly embroidered with
porcupine quills and shells. He confessed they did make an
attractive picture to a lad lost in the wilderness for two
months.
Straight down the grand old Penobscot,
still in their borrowed canoe, they paddled. A carry at Bangor,
a tussle with the wind and rapids at Bucksport narrows and Jean
Vincent as he came out into the glory of the broad, open bay,
felt as if he must be nearing the ocean. Wenamouet steered their
birchen craft with long, graceful strokes through the back cove
and into the narrow channel between the red-green marshes,
around the sandy point into the deep, blue harbor. Jean saw the
gently curving beach, fields sloping to the water ^s edge, a
babbling brook lined with small fruit trees, and, back against
the cool evergreens, a hill sloping each way to a white beach; a
fort, a chapel, a house or two, and here and there in quiet
domesticity, a wigwam with a thin line of smoke floating
peacefully upward.
''What place is this?'' asked Jean
Vincent.
''Pentagoet," said Wenamouet.
As Jean Vincent, Baron Castin of St.
Castin, stepped from the canoe to the beach, hope and happiness
filled his boyish soul with a sweet content.
How he ruled his Abenakis, how he gained
a wife and what befell his friend Wenamouet is a story that has
already been twice told.
Louise Wheeler Bartlett
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