TO THE PORCH OF THE WORLD

The English colonies never had a race of woodsmen like the coureurs du bois of New France.  These were a strange mixture:  French peasants, half-breeds, Canadian-born Frenchmen, gentlemen of birth with lives and fortunes gone askew, and many of the native Canadian noblesse, who, like the nobles of France, forbidden to become merchants, became adventurers with the coureurs du bois, who were ever with them in spirit more than with the merchant.  The peasant prefers the gentleman to the bourgeois as his companion.  Many a coureur du bois divided his tale of furs with a distressed noble or seigneur, who dare not work in the fields.

The veteran Charles lé Moyne, with his sons, each of whom played a daring and important part in the history of New France, ­Iberville greatest, ­was one of the few merchants in whom was combined the trader and the noble.  But he was a trader by profession before he became a seigneur.  In his veins was a strain of noble blood; but leaving France and settling in Canada, he avoided the little Court at Quebec, went to Montreal, and there began to lay the foundation of his fame and fortune, and to send forth men who were as the sons of Jacob.  In his heart he was always in sympathy with the woodsmen, and when they were proclaimed as perilous to the peace and prosperity of the king’s empire, he stood stoutly by them.  Adventurers, they traded as they listed; and when the Intendant Duchesnau could not bend them to his greedy will, they were to be caught and hanged wherever found.  King Louis hardly guessed that to carry out that order would be to reduce greatly the list of his Canadian noblesse.  It struck a blow at the men who, in one of the letters which the grim Frontenac sent to Versailles not long before his death, were rightly called “The King’s Traders” ­more truly such than any others in New France.

Whether or not the old seigneur knew it at the time, three of his own sons were among the coureurs du bois ­chieftains by courtesy ­when they were proclaimed.  And it was like Iberville, that, then only a lad, he came in from the woods, went to his father, and astonished him by asking for his blessing.  Then he started for Quebec, and arriving there with Perrot and Du Lhut, went to the citadel at night and asked to be admitted to Count Frontenac.  Perhaps the governor-grand half-barbarian as he was at heart-guessed the nature of the visit and, before he admitted Iberville, dismissed those who were with him.  There is in an old letter still preserved by an ancient family of France, an account of this interview, told by a cynical young nobleman.  Iberville alone was admitted.  His excellency greeted his young visitor courteously, yet with hauteur.

“You bring strange comrades to visit your governor, Monsieur Iberville,” he said.

“Comrades in peace, your excellency, comrades in war.”

“What war?”

“The king makes war against the coureurs du bois.  There is a price on the heads of Perrot and Du Lhut.  We are all in the same boat.”

“You speak in riddles, sir.”

“I speak of riddles.  Perrot and Du Lhut are good friends of the king.  They have helped your excellency with the Indians a hundred times.  Their men have been a little roystering, but that’s no sin.  I am one with them, and I am as good a subject as the king has.”

“Why have you come here?”

“To give myself up.  If you shoot Perrot or Du Lhut you will have to shoot me; and, if you carry on the matter, your excellency will not have enough gentlemen to play Tartufe.”

This last remark referred to a quarrel which Frontenac had had with the bishop, who inveighed against the governor’s intention of producing Tartufe at the chateau.

Iberville’s daring was quite as remarkable as the position in which he had placed himself.  With a lesser man than Frontenac it might have ended badly.  But himself, courtier as he was, had ever used heroical methods, and appreciated the reckless courage of youth.  With grim humour he put all three under arrest, made them sup with him, and sent them away secretly before morning ­free.  Before Iberville left, the governor had word with him alone.

“Monsieur,” he said, “you have a keen tongue, but our king needs keen swords, and since you have the advantage of me in this, I shall take care you pay the bill.  We have had enough of outlawry.  You shall fight by rule and measure soon.”

“In your excellency’s bodyguard, I hope,” was the instant reply.

“In the king’s navy,” answered Frontenac, with a smile, for he was pleased with the frank flattery.

A career different from that of George Gering, who, brought up with Puritans, had early learned to take life seriously, had little of Iberville’s gay spirit, but was just such a determined, self-conscious Englishman as any one could trust and admire, and none but an Englishman love.

And Jessica Leveret?  Wherever she had been during the past four years, she had stood between these two men, regardful, wondering, waiting; and at last, as we know, casting the die against the enemy of her country.  But was it cast after all?

Immediately after she made a certain solemn promise, recorded in the last chapter, she went once again to New York to visit Governor Nicholls.  She had been there some months before, but it was only for a few weeks, and then she had met Dollier de Casson and Perrot.  That her mind was influenced by memory of Iberville we may guess, but in what fashion who can say?  It is not in mortal man to resolve the fancies of a woman, or interpret the shadowy inclinations, the timid révulsions, which move them ­they cannot tell why, any more than we.  They would indeed be thankful to be solved unto themselves.  The great moment for a man with a woman is when, by some clear guess or some special providence, he shows her in a flash her own mind.  Her respect, her serious wonder, are all then making for his glory.  Wise and happy if by a further touch of genius he seizes the situation:  henceforth he is her master.  George Gering and Jessica had been children together, and he understood her, perhaps, as, did no one else, save her father; though he never made good use of his knowledge, nor did he touch that side of her which was purely feminine ­her sweet inconsistency; therefore, he was not her master.

But he had appealed to her, for he had courage, strong, ambition, thorough kindness, and fine character, only marred by a want of temperament.  She had avoided as long as she could the question which, on his return from service in the navy, he asked her, almost without warning; and with a touch of her old demureness and gaiety she had put him off, bidding him go win his laurels as commander.  He was then commissioned for Hudson’s Bay, and expected, on his return, to proceed to the Spaniards’ country with William Phips, if that brave gentleman succeeded with the king or his nobles.  He had gone north with his ship, and, as we have seen, when Iberville started on that almost impossible journey, was preparing to return to Boston.  As he waited Iberville came on.