Old World Thunder, New World Fire

Chrétien de Parthenay

New France

The Corporal Boucher had told them that they would reach Le Fort Frontenac in a few days’ time. What the Corporal somehow omitted was how long and exhausting those few days of travel would be. The soldiers rowed for eighteen hours each day, stopping for short breaks every now and again. They slept for a scant few hours each night–the Corporal told them it was best to not stay in one place for too long on the trail– especially in these parts.

Having just spent over two months at sea, Chrétien had grown somewhat used to churning waters and minimal sleep, but that didn’t exactly make this a welcome respite. There were many twists and turns in the river, and at times they grew so rapid and rough that they needed to walk alongside the river until it calmed again, carrying the canoes on their shoulders.

After five days and nights of harrowing travel, the company arrived at Le Fort Frontenac, overlooking the great lake Ontario. As the soldiers hoisted the canoes onto their shoulders and carried them into the fort, Chrétien took a moment to gaze upon the lake. It was like nothing he had ever seen, so enormous that it may as well have been a freshwater sea, stretching for miles until it formed its own horizons. He could not even make out what lay on the opposite lake banks, try as he did to squint in the earliest light of dawn. He found it hard to believe what the Corporal had told him: that this was merely one of five, and the smallest among them, to boot.

When he had first learned they would be traveling to the New World, Chrétien balked at the idea that it was this magical and exotic place unlike anything else. Though he had never lived anywhere but France, to him, land was land, no matter where you were: mountains were mountains, rivers were rivers, and lakes were lakes. But now, gazing upon the pristine and near-infinite waters, the just-arriving sun casting its first shimmering rays of orange and purple upon them, he understood why the great kingdoms of Europe were so desperate to claim these lands as theirs. They were something special, more precious and beautiful than any gem or bauble one could ever hope to own.

The large wooden gates of the fort slowly opened for the new visitors, creaking and shaking. Chrétien began to wonder what warfare and sieges looked like in this strange place. He doubted the savages had cannons, but they were said to use bows and arrows before they were introduced to rifles, so perhaps they could craft ballistae and other siege weapons. Then again, there was a chance they had no need for such weapons, even though this fort was reinforced with thick stone walls unlike the more meager fortifications of the capital. Chrétien had studied enough of warfare to know that you did not have to breach castle walls to lay an effective siege–if you could surround the place and starve them from the inside, that was often enough for a victory.

The Corporal led them inside. It was a typical fort, a welcome familiarity in this new and foreign place. The majority of the defenses were stone, seemingly replacing an original wooden foundation, which was still present along certain parts of the wall, and reinforced with sharpened stakes. The company walked through the courtyard, past the cow-pen, blacksmith, and soldiers’ quarters. Strangely, the courtyard was filled with long tables set for a feast, though the Corporal walked straight past all of them, so the rest followed.

They were led up the stairs to an open-air parlour atop the furthest wall, overlooking the courtyard. The floor of the parlour was covered in couches and chairs, some empty, some filled by high-ranking officers of the Troupes de Marine. In front of all of them sat a noble dressed in velvet finery rather than a military uniform–the prestigious Governor of the whole colony, no doubt. He wore a wig of black hair, long and curled, while his long curved nose and curling smirk created a constant look of polite condescension.

“Introducing Monseigneur Jacques-René de Brisay, Marquis de Denonville et Gouverneur Général de la Nouvelle-France,” the Corporal said, saluting. “Monseigneur, I introduce to you Monsieur Jean-Pierre d'Harcourt, Vicomte de Châtellerault et le capitaine de votre nouvelle compagnie de la Marine.”

Monseigneur, Chrétien mused. So he fancies himself a Prince. Hard not to, when the real King is so far away.

“Ah, Monsieur d’Harcourt,” the Governor Denonville purred, his open hand outstretched to welcome them. “I was worried you would not make it in time. Come, I have saved the best seat for you.”

Le Marquis patted an empty chair next to his own. Le Vicomte removed his hat, bowing to show respect. Chrétien had to keep himself from smiling, watching the self-important Vicomte grovel to a higher authority.

“You are too kind, Monseigneur,” Le Vicomte said. “In truth, we have only just landed. Our passage was delayed by two weeks or more from a storm. It is a kindness indeed to finally rest.”

“Oh, but your company must rest, as well.” Le Marquis turned to address the Corporal. “Show them to the barracks, and be sure to fill their bellies with food and wine once the feast is over. They’ll need to be well-rested for what lies in store for them.”

“Oui, Monseigneur.” The Corporal bowed, then led the rest of the soldiers back down the stairs. Chrétien stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

“Ah, it appears one of them has lingered,” Denonville observed.

“Oui, Monseigneur,” Le Vicomte replied, waving Chrétien over. “This is not a soldier, but my adopted ward, Chrétien de Parthenay.”

Chrétien removed his own hat and bowed in perfect form.

“It is a pleasure, Monseigneur,” he said.

“Oh, how splendid! And here I was told you had no sons. I must punish my informants for misleading me.”

Le Marquis waved over a servant.

“Fetch a chair for him, and put it next to Le Vicomte’s.”

The servant hurried to do so. Chrétien stood uncomfortably as he waited.

“You hail from Parthenay, boy?” Le Marquis asked him. “That old castle by Niort?”

“Yes, Monseigneur,” Chrétien replied. “You know of it?”

“But of course. My bloodline descends from Torquatus Byrsarius, who fought the Vikings and Bretons for Charles the Bald. Your bloodline helped guard and protect the pilgrims who traveled the Way of St. Jacques, an important and noble duty in those pivotal and tumultuous times.”

And not since then. Not for eight hundred years. Chrétien took the back-handed compliment nevertheless, smiling and nodding.

“But if you are not a soldier, why do you wear the uniform of one?”

“It is a thing of aspiration, Monseigneur,” Le Vicomte cut in, speaking for Chrétien like he often did. “I was hoping, by your grace, that you might appoint him to lead a small company of troops. He is skilled with a sword, and his father, may his soul rest in peace, did well in schooling him on tactics and strategy.”

If Le Vicomte truly meant this suggestion, Chrétien didn’t mind if he continued to speak for him. Getting to lead his own company would finally give him a chance to secure his own footing and escape from underneath his adoptive father’s thumb, even if it was only a handful of men.

Le Marquis rubbed his chin in thought.

“He must be awfully studied, if you think him capable of leading troops without ever having seen battle himself,” the governor mused. “But I promise to consider it.”

A bugle sounded from the bastion nearest the gates, blaring loudly.

“Oh, but you could not have asked for more perfect timing,” Denonville said, clapping his hands. “You’ve arrived just before the esteemed guests of our grand event.”

The servant brought the chair just in time for Chrétien to sit and watch a battalion of savage warriors enter through the gates. Chrétien’s heart began to race, preparing for the worst, but the nonchalance of all the other nobles caused him to remain in his seat, even as it unsettled him. What’s happening here? And why?

The savages took a defensive formation around the large dining tables. Each one of them was muscle-bound, baring their chests proudly as they sized up the nobles sitting in the parlour. One of them stepped forward, pointed towards the platform all the nobles looked down at them from, and spoke.

“He announces himself as Tadodaho, esteemed chief of the Iroquois,” a priest standing next to Le Marquis translated. “He asks if you are the chief of this place.”

“Yes, yes,” Le Marquis replied, waving his hand like he was shooing away a mosquito.

The chief said something else.

“He says that while he is honored to accept your admission of defeat and promise of a treaty, he does not fully trust you,” the priest translated. “He declares that you must agree to eat and drink what they will be served to ensure it is not poisoned.”

“Of course, of course.” Le Marquis waved a servant over. “Bring me some of the food and wine as our guests are served.”

“Are… are you sure, Monseigneur?” The servant asked.

“Yes, I’m sure. Do you defy your Governor?”

“No, Monseigneur… but—”

“But nothing! Go get me some food and wine, and tell the kitchen that our guests are here, and would like to be served.”

The servant complied, though he still looked hesitant about it. Chrétien’s brain stirred as he tried to piece together what was going on. The Iroquois were the main tribe of savages the French were warring against. So why were they being hosted as dinner guests? And why did the chief claim the Governor was surrendering?

Despite his confusion, Chrétien remained silent as a full kitchen staff emerged from an eastern building, carrying large trays and platters of delicious-looking food. Chrétien’s stomach growled–he had not eaten since the day before. After the staff finished laying down the platters, they scurried back into the building they came from. The servant from before brought Le Marquis a plate of food.

“And the wine?” Le Marquis asked.

“The… the wine, Monseigneur?”

“Yes! The wine! Go grab a bottle from the table before I lose my patience with you!”

The servant hurried down the stairs and to the table, scooting between the Iroquois warriors that made him look puny in comparison. He grabbed a bottle of wine and a glass from the table, rushing back up to the platform and pouring it for him. Le Marquis took the glass, toasted it in the air in the direction of the savages, and drank. He then took several bites of food from his place. Once he finished, he smiled, locking eyes with the Onondaga chief and holding the glass out to toast him.

“Return the bottle,” Le Marquis commanded. The servant clambered down the stairs with the bottle in hand, laying it on the table. The Iroquois chief eyed Le Marquis suspiciously, an uncomfortable and stark silence hanging between them. Le Marquis did not falter, however, and that must have been good enough for the chief, for he sat down at the table. All the other warriors joined him, and they began to eat and drink.

“Would anyone like to tell me what exactly is going on?” Le Vicomte asked. Clearly he was just as confused as Chrétien.

“Not yet,” Le Marquis replied. “It’s not time yet.”

“Time for what?”

“Patience, mon amie. You will spoil it if you keep acting so high-strung.”

Le Vicomte bit his lip to keep himself from retorting. Chrétien had to stifle a smile. He had never seen his self-important “father” so outranked, and so outclassed.

But Chrétien did not linger on enjoying Le Vicomte’s discomfort. He turned back to the feast, scanning it for any hint or clue as to what was going on. He was determined to figure out the answer himself, and if he could find it and Le Vicomte could not, all the better. Surely this had to be some sort of trap. There was no chance Le Marquis would actually surrender, at least as far as Chrétien knew. Yet the Onondaga chief had suspected it to be a trap, and came anyway. What did it all mean?

Chrétien surveyed the other nobles in the open-air parlour. They just watched the savages eat in a quiet condescension just like Le Marquis did, some cool hatred lying behind their eyes. It was like watching a pack of vultures eye a starving cow, waiting for their chance to feed on fresh carrion. Beneath them, the warriors paid them no mind, filling their bellies with food and drink. That had to be one of the tricks, the reason why the nobles felt so secure inviting a battalion of soldiers who could easily destroy them. But the libations could not be poisoned, otherwise there was no way Le Marquis would consume them.

Over the next few minutes, the pace at which the savages ate and drank began to slow. In fact, all of their actions did–they moved as if they were submerged in molasses. Something was happening. Chrétien looked over at Le Marquis, only to find that the governor’s eyes were glazed over, shining like glass. It dawned on Chrétien: the wine was poisoned, and Le Marquis had drunk it anyway to convince the savages otherwise.

“Wellll... Ahthink it’s about-time,” the Governor announced, his words slurred. He waved over the servant. “Tell-them t’bring dessert…”

The servant ran as quick as he could down the stairs, but didn’t head into the building the kitchen staff exited from, instead heading to another building on the opposite side. A building that looked like a barracks.

Chrétien’s eyes widened–it all made sense now. He could not even finish piecing everything together as a battalion of soldiers burst onto the fort grounds, surrounding their “esteemed guests,” rifles drawn. They began to bind the warriors’ hands behind their backs in shackles, their new prisoners too drugged to resist.

“Oh, a splendid ruse,” Le Vicomte cheered, clapping his hands. “Although I am surprised the savages are so trusting of your promise to surrender.”

“My idiot predecessor,” Le Marquis spat, somehow sounding more coherent in his contempt. “That clown La Barre… He acshually surrendered… they’re fools t’think me the same ‘s that insect.”

“I must mention, Monseigneur,” Le Vicomte said, inching closer to Le Marquis’ ear like a buzzing fly. “Before I left, His Majesty King Louis spoke of an express interest in shipping some savages back to France. He told me he is in dire need of galley slaves for his summer home in Marseilles, and such exotic specimens would be perfect to display for his guests.”

“Hm? Oh… very-wellll,” Le Marquis said, waving over the Corporal Boucher, who had just climbed the stairs. “Shackle-’em-up, will-you–an’ ship’em to…”

“To Marseilles, Monseigneur.”

“Yesss… to Marseilles…”

Boucher nodded and saluted. The grin on Le Vicomte’s face was hideous, a strange and crooked smile at knowing he had curried some favor with the King. Chrétien looked down at the feast. The warriors were shackled and shoved towards the barracks, but one put up some resistance. The chief, Tadohaho. He refused to be taken, fighting the French soldiers. Despite his inebriation, he was still blindingly quick, and cleaved the throat of one with his tomahawk.

“That one…” Le Marquis mused, pointing at him drunkenly. “He’ll make no-good in a summer home. YOU, BOY!”

Chrétien sat up, startled by the governor’s sudden shouting. He turned, realizing that Le Marquis was addressing him.

“Yes, Monseigneur?” Chrétien replied.

“You want-to lead, don’tya boy? To fight?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“So… prove it. Fight ‘im.”

Le Marquis pointed a wavering finger at the monster of a chief below, who had taken two more soldiers. Chrétien swallowed.

“Are… are you certain, Monseigneur?” Chrétien asked.

“Yes! Yes I am!” Le Marquis yelled, throwing his wine glass onto the floor and shattering it. He stood, gesturing wildly at his Jesuit translator. “I’m tired ‘a being second-guessed! You, priest… tell th’chief I’m letting ‘im duel feur ‘is life.”

“Yes, Monseigneur,” the priest nodded, knowing better than to second-guess him again. He turned to the priest and spoke in the savage’s tongue, causing the chief to stop quarreling for a moment, and respond.

“He asks how he can know you will keep your word,” the Jesuit said. “Given you have already broken it.”

“Does’it matter? I’ll just ‘aveim shot if he refuses.”

The Jesuit translated. Tadohaho hesitated for a moment, but then responded. The Jesuit looked at Le Marquis, then at Chrétien, and nodded.

“Well…” Le Marquis slurred, waving at Chrétien. “Get-to-it, then.”

Chrétien looked at Le Marquis, whose eyes were lost in some stupor. He turned to Le Vicomte, but he already knew he would find no help in him. All of the nobles watched the boy expectantly, several with pity in their eyes. There was no dissuading the Governor, and his word was law in this land. It might as well have been a death sentence from the King himself.

“Oui, Monseigneur,” Chrétien said, bowing to the drunken Governor. He walked slowly down the steps to where his opponent waited for him, his heart thumping in his chest. He had been trained on how to duel for years by his swordmaster, for a nobleman who couldn’t duel would not live long. Still, he had never offended anyone enough to be challenged, and no one had bothered offending him. Thus he had never dueled once, and certainly never with an opponent like this. Face-to-face with him now, Chrétien froze, paralyzed. The chief must have been twice Chrétien’s age, his body brawny and battle-worn. This was a man who took down three soldiers at once just moments before, even after drinking the poisoned wine. What in God’s name was Chrétien supposed to do?

Chrétien steeled himself, drawing his rapier and facing the chief. It was a gift from his swordmaster, the only real father figure he’d ever known. He bowed, and took his stance.

“En garde–” Chrétien began, but he could not even finish the useless dueling etiquette he’d been taught as a serving platter flew towards him. It hit him in the forehead, dazing him. He dropped his rapier from the shock, and at once the chief was upon him, tomahawk raised to strike. Panicking, Chrétien struck the chief’s wrist as hard as he could, knocking the hatchet out of his grasp. Tadohaho grabbed the boy and lifted him up, launching him onto the table. Chrétien heard something crack inside him as he hit the table hard, rolling off onto the ground. He gasped from the pain in his side, but he stood, searching desperately for his sword. It was all the way across the yard, and now the chief stood in between Chrétien and his only weapon. Not good.

Tadohaho took advantage of Chrétien’s hesitation, grabbing his tomahawk and sprinting towards the table. Chrétien put as much distance between himself and the chief as possible, using the tables as barriers between them as he tried to circle around to his rapier. Anything on the tables became a weapon, to be used by whoever could reach them first. Both of the combatants flung cutlery and platters at each other, the chief to close the distance, Chrétien to further it. The boy’s swordmaster had taught him that a real duel would not always be clean, but this was something he could never have prepared for.

It was chaos–the boy and his opponent constantly reached for something close to hurl, all while dodging whatever the other threw. Luckily, Chrétien was winning on that front. He was spry and nimble, and the chief, despite his immense strength, was still reeling from the effects of the drugged wine, his movements and reactions laggard. A bowl caught him in the face, knocking him backwards, and Chrétien took full advantage, beelining it to his rapier on the ground. He grabbed it, whirling around to see that the chief was already on his heel, having leapt over the table between them.

Chrétien made a quick stab with his sword, and the blade struck true, piercing the chief’s abdomen. Tadohaho reeled, but grabbed the rapier by the guard so Chrétien couldn’t pull it out. With his free hand, he readied his tomahawk to strike, forcing Chrétien to abandon his weapon and leap away from his assailant. Not fast enough–the hatchet’s blade sliced into the French boy’s arm, rending flesh and muscle.

Chrétien turned to flee, but Tadodaho was on him in an instant, despite his sluggishness. The chief grabbed a fistful of the boy’s golden hair, aiming his tomahawk for another strike. Chrétien kicked at the sword embedded in the man’s gut, causing him to loosen his grip. Seizing the chance, Chrétien grabbed a wine bottle and smashed it against the chief’s head. To his surprise, the bottle did not break, but it did cause enough of a blow to knock the chief down. Chrétien leaped onto the chief, pinning the man’s arms down with his knees and slamming the bottle into his head, over and over and over. Still, the bottle did not break. Even as it caved the chief’s skull in, right above his brow, it did not break. And Chrétien kept going, screaming with every blow, until it was blood and not wine that began to leak. The chief’s arms struggled no longer under the boy’s knees, the man’s mountainous body lying limp on the cold ground.

The first thing Chrétien perceived as his mind recovered from its battle-crazed fervor was the sound of clapping. Still dazed, he craned his neck towards the platform above to behold the Governor Denonville applauding the slaughter he just partook in.

“Well, done, well done!” Le Marquis said. He seemed more lucid now–whatever poison was in the wine, he had taken the antidote for it while Chrétien was fighting. Le Marquis stood from his gilded chair, walking down the steps towards the bloodied boy. He grabbed the handle of the rapier embedded in the dead savage’s stomach, pulling it out of the corpse and wiping it on the chief’s deerskin trousers. Chrétien just lingered there, still kneeling atop the man’s chest. He did not have the strength or the wherewithal to do anything else.

Having cleaned the blade from savage blood, Le Marquis placed it gently on the boy’s quivering shoulder, dubbing him.

“By my authority as Governor of New France,” he declared loudly. “I hereby declare thee, Chrétien de Parthenay, as Ensign in Les Compagnies Franches de la Marine.”

Ensign. It was only two ranks below Le Vicomte’s title of Captain, but Ensigns did not lead companies, which is what Chrétien wanted, and what Le Marquis promised him. Above, the nobles atop the open-air parlour began to applaud him, as if he had won a game of tennis, and not bashed a man’s head in with a wine bottle.

“Per your duty,” Le Marquis continued. “You are assigned to lead a half-company of men into battle, for your country and King.”

A half-company. So he was to lead. It was more than Chrétien hoped to gain in his first weeks on the continent, and yet he couldn’t muster any joy at his victory. He did not feel anything, only the searing pain in his arm, and the widening void in his heart.

“Well?” Le Marquis asked expectantly. “Haven’t you anything to say?”

Chrétien swallowed, trying to find his voice. Even after all this, he was still expected to maintain his pleasantries.

“Th-thank you, Monseigneur,” he barely managed.

“You’re welcome. I have imparted on you, but a valuable lesson. Whatever you think you know of dueling, or of tactics in warfare, you don’t. Not here, in the savage lands. The sooner, Who knows? You just might survive the winter.”

Chrétien heard a commotion from the barracks to his right, but could not muster the strength to look.

“Oh, and how perfect timing,” Le Marquis exclaimed. “Here is your new company now.”

That got his neck turning. Only, Chrétien’s exhausted eyes widened when he saw the new company he was meant to lead. Emerging from the barracks were two dozen savage warriors, dressed in uniforms of Le Troupes de Marine. But besides their dress, they looked just like the chiefs the French had just captured.

“These fine gentlemen used to be Iroquois,” the Governor explained. “Luckily for us, they have renounced their savage ways, and have sworn to fight with us against their former brethren. What better person to lead them than the man who defeated their former chief in single combat?”

Whatever brief pride he’d indulged in at his new title immediately burned to ash in the pit of Chrétien’s stomach. His new subordinates looked at him, knee-deep in their kinsman’s blood, their eyes filled with hatred and disgust.

“You,” Le Marquis commanded, gesturing at the savages. “This is your new commander. Help him to the barracks, and see that his battle wounds are nursed and cleaned. And do try to be nice to him.”

One of the warriors nodded, seeming to understand French. He picked Chrétien up off the ground, tossing him over his shoulder and carrying him off to the barracks. With none of his strength left, Chrétien could not even squeak out a word of protest, let alone try to resist.

“Train the savages well, boy,” Le Marquis called to Chrétien, waving a mocking goodbye. “You have until the first snow falls upon the land, and I promise it will come sooner than you think.”