Barkskins

18

reunion

As the ship entered the Bay of Biscay the pale limestone cliffs of La Rochelle gleamed in the first strike of sunlight. Duquet could smell salted cod, the smoke of twisted salt grass from the fires of the poor. Despite the early hour a crowd of fishermen and mariners were on the wharf looking for share employment. Once they had worked the Newfoundland coast, but this was increasingly dangerous and difficult as the English and the New England colonists and even the Spanish and Dutch were pushing in. The La Rochelle boats now fished the offshore Grand Banks, where the poissons were larger, stouter and sweeter than those along the coast—and closer to home.

In La Rochelle while he waited for Captain Verdwijnen and his ship, Duquet carried two boxes of his specialty woods one day to the shop of Claude Citron, the merchant who, on his first journey years earlier, had expressed warm interest in unusual cabinet woods. Citron was older now but no less fervent on the subject of woods.

“Ah,” he said as if Duquet had been in only the day before instead of long years, “let us see what you have brought from New France—delights, I am sure.”

Duquet set his sample boxes of scented cedar and balsam on the table, a few pieces of figured maple. He explained that he was taking most of his stock to China. Citron handled the satiny wood, sniffed and tilted the pieces to catch the light.

“You know I am connected with esteemed cabinetmakers always anxious to buy fine woods. You are taking your fragrant woods to China? They would find a market here as well, you know, but I suppose the profits will be greater in China, though the cost of shipping and the possibility of loss to pirates and storms greater. You might consider it.”

He would make some money selling the cabinet woods to Citron, but it was the fur and growing opium profits of the China trade that made the hazardous journey worthwhile. For this last time, he thought. With the break from the Trépagny brothers he was at the end of his fur-trading days. He was a wealthy man, and although he was strong and hale he felt the pressure of time. He wanted much more; from now on he would concentrate on his forest empire.

He settled on a price for two boxes of his scented woods, said farewell and turned toward the wharves. He passed a patisserie emanating essences of sugared fruit and chocolate, then a small open-air market packed with great luscious lettuces and early onions. It was remarkable how much more interesting the smells of La Rochelle were than those of Boston.

He was staying at the Botte de Mer, the oddly named Sea Boot, a good enough inn with private beds and even private rooms, but the attraction was the extraordinary and ever-changing menu. Night after night an accomplished and inventive cook sent out salpicons, cassoulets and ragouts of sweetbreads or chopped pheasant or chicken, various fish, mushrooms, all savory, all seasoned with the local salt. The cassoulets were especially succulent. Alas, there were only six small tables and two sittings each evening. If you were unfortunate enough to be the seventh diner at the second sitting you would be rejected. Duquet had no intention of being turned away and looked forward keenly to that evening’s meal. But first he would store his remaining wood samples.

As he started up the staircase that led to the upper rooms someone spoke at his shoulder in a quiet but familiar voice.

“Duquet. Is it you?”

“Dieu! Forgeron! I thought you to be in Nouvelle France?” Lean and dark Forgeron stood at his shoulder.

“Of course I was there for many years, but two years since I have been surveying in the Maine woods. You cannot believe the white pine in Maine.” He smiled. “You are looking very well. Clearly you have progressed.”

“Forgeron, you, too, look well—healthy and strong. This meeting is fortuitous. I have wished often to speak with you about the Maine forests.”

“I have wished often to tell you of the opportunities for the timber business in Maine. Have you visited that region?”

“Only a little. Indeed, I am planning to explore further as soon as this, my last journey to China, ends. Let us dine together and tell all that has come our way since last we met. What affairs have brought you to La Rochelle?”

“I was in London to speak with an Englishman who has just won a mast contract for some Crown lands in Maine. He wants me to survey the area and arrange for woodsmen to cut masts. But I foresee difficulties with this fellow. He had other masts cut several years ago and stored them at his property in the West Indies. He was unable to sell them for reasons I do not understand and the masts perished from dry rot. He could not pay the cutting contract and the affair is now in the courts. So I am not eager to accept his offer.”

In came their cassoulet of veal and chicken with pink beans and a loaf of still-warm bread as large as a bull’s head. They drank good burgundy and when it was gone Forgeron raised his hand for more.

“I have a suggestion,” said Duquet. “Why do we not renew our friendship and practice joint business? I shall be two years on this last trip, but perhaps you could survey Maine timberlands for me and purchase townships for Duquet et Fils while I am away?”

“What! You have sons? You have married?”

“No, no, but I hope soon this will come to pass.” And he told Forgeron of Cornelia, of his plans for a timber empire and his hope that Forgeron would share in this.

“I do not know if Amsterdam should be the seat of this business, or New France? Or even the English colonies? Should I bring Cornelia to the New World?”

“I would suggest that Boston, with its great and open harbor, its connections to London, and to other colonies by way of the post road, the newspapers which inform, the mail service between Boston and New York and the Connecticut towns, and its nearness to the Maine pineries, is the most advantageous location.”

“I had nearly come to that conclusion myself and your opinion settles the matter. Forgeron, if you work with me I will make you a rich man.”

“Or will I be the one who makes you the wealthy fellow?”

They laughed and clasped hands.

19

“Exitus in dubio est”

In Amsterdam, Captains Piet Roos and Verdwijnen at a table in their favorite coffeehouse discussed the possibility of the match.

“I do not like the man,” said Piet. “Beneath the pleasant manner he is cold and calculating. He is more addicted to his own interests than anything else. There is something in the way that ugly head sits on his shoulders that signals defeat to anyone with whom he converses. He smiles often, yes, but while his lips curve his eyes remain like dried peas. I detect no real fondness for my daughter. His conversation is always about his wishes, his plans, his travels and his money. Of the rest of life aside from his personal advantage he knows little.”

“Yes, I agree that may be true, his is a rough and masculine view—though I have seen him pleased with a Chinese garden, but he is already wealthy and in a way to command enormous sums.”

“Yes, I like money as well, but not as Duquet does. With him it is a sinful greed. Nothing else matters.”

Captain Verdwijnen took down his clay pipe from its ceiling hook. He sat again, spilled tobacco leaves on the table and began to cut them fine. “He has a monstrous good head for business and, as you say, a will to dominate. And a rather terrifying lust for work. If Cornelia weds him it would be a familial tie to a great deal of money and credit. You can always make stipulations in the marriage agreement—for example, you can insist that if you give permission for this marriage Cornelia and the children—and children there will be—must remain in Amsterdam until a certain age—say, fourteen or so. He will look after his interests in New France and now, I understand, in the English colonies in some manner, and travel to Amsterdam when business allows, for protracted visits with his wife and family—and business partners. I have no hesitation in doing business with him. And I think if you set it out to him that marriage with Cornelia is an impossibility without these provisions he will accept it, perhaps even welcome it as I see no indications that he would ever be a family man dandling infants on his knee, though I sense that he is lonely.”

“He is one of those who cannot be other than lonely. He was born to it. And I dislike the idea of him clambering aboard Cornelia as if she were an Indian canoe.” Piet Roos paused for a long moment. “I might do business with him but I do not want him for a son-in-law.”

“Some of your feelings are the natural feelings of a father for his daughter. But you need only keep him in check. He is, aside from his raw greed, something of a fool. He is obtuse, has no subtlety and often acts on impulse. He feels his position as a lowborn uneducated man who has had to make his own way. He can be manipulated. He has a respect for older men such as we are. He will listen to you. In this life we meet difficult people. We must take the time to listen and try to understand them. We must never take an adversarial position.”

Piet Roos, half convinced, snorted. “I feel he can be dangerous.”

“Dear Piet, even a sparrow has a sharp beak. If you set it out that Cornelia and any children must remain here, it is a way you could exercise control over the children at least. You do not yourself have any sons and a sturdy grandson or two might be a real benefit. Or, if the children are girls, carefully chosen sons-in-law could be useful. You might also add business terms that would be to your benefit as well as his; you, after all, have three ships plying the China-Japan trade and he has none and salivates for them. And he has money and will have more. He will make money for us. I know it. So be fatherly. But be watchful.”

It took Duquet another year of cross-Atlantic courtship, not of Cornelia, but of her father, to get his way. But he persisted. He would have her. In Amsterdam in 1711 he spent days with Piet Roos, who pored over Duquet’s account books with great thoroughness, listened to his future plans and asked shrewd questions, weighing the answers before he allowed the marriage.

“If I correctly understand what you are proposing, there would be a three-way business partnership working the China trade—Charles Duquet, Piet Roos and Outger Verdwijnen.”

“Yes,” said Duquet, vibrating internally at the sound of the three linked names.

“Well. In that respect I think we can work an agreeable arrangement. The marriage is perhaps more—delicate. My wife and I do not wish to part with Cornelia. You understand she is our youngest daughter and her mother’s pet.”

Duquet half-smiled.

“I am not refusing your suit outright, but suggesting certain conditions. We would wish Cornelia to stay in Amsterdam.” There was a long silence. Piet rolled and unrolled a corner of the paper on which he was writing. “I would make her a gift of a house I own in the next street, a very pleasant house and close by her parents and sister.”

Duquet shifted in his chair. A house, Cornelia’s house, his house.

“Moreover, we would prefer that any children from the union would live with their mother in Amsterdam. With her family close by she will be well looked after. You can live there, of course, but if you prefer, New France—or, better yet, you may travel between that place and Amsterdam, not only on business, but to spend time with your family.” He looked at Duquet, who sat with his face motionless and his mouth slightly open. Duquet looked at the tapestry that hung on the wall behind Piet. He saw only the figure in the border—a hawk stooping on a heron. The heron lay on its back, its claws up to defend itself. But the hawk was fierce and sure. Below ran the words “Exitus in dubio est,” which Piet, seeing his puzzled expression, said was Latin meaning “escape is in doubt.” Duquet’s sympathies lay with the hawk. Piet cast aside the shell of the conversation and came to the kernel.

“The routes are well traveled and others manage this. If you wish I will put a ship and crew at your disposal for that transatlantic passage. How seem these conditions to you?”

Duquet nodded, for this was the connection he needed.

“Yes, yes, my thanks, it is a thing undreamed of.” He thought it would be better to have his Dutch wife in Amsterdam, leaving him free from female manipulation and vapors, but still serving as the blood link to Piet Roos and Captain Verdwijnen. He knew that wherever he was, he would be a stranger. It was a price. He would pay it.

The marriage was celebrated with a wedding feast and drinking match that lasted for days. Captain Verdwijnen presented the couple with a splendid present of a set of silver vorks, the new eating implements. Margit’s left eye bored into Duquet as he regarded the present. Although he expressed loud admiration for the forks, in his private thoughts Duquet took offense at this gift; he knew it was a reproach to his still-coarse table manners. More to his liking was the handsome coffee mill. And the rich tapestry from his father-in-law. It was a week before Cornelia spoke a word, and what she said was known only to her and Duquet.

Within eighteen months he had fathered a daughter and a premature stillborn son. Duquet thought constantly of that lost son, and it seemed everywhere he turned he saw rugged boys. Men his age were accompanied by stout half-grown youths shaped to their fathers’ wills and callings. Particularly was he irked by the example of William Wentworth, a growing power in New Hampshire whose wife produced sons as a shingle maker rived the shakes from a bolt of cedar. With nine sons what could Wentworth not do? He, Duquet, needed sons badly, and said so to Captain Verdwijnen one evening.

“You are in a hurry with sons as in all else,” said the captain. “If you cannot wait until God grants your wish you might get some ready-made sons from the Weeshuis, that place of orphans, as many as King Priam should you wish. Indeed, I believe Cornelia is on the committee that operates the Weeshuis. You might speak of it to her.” He lit his pipe and looked at Duquet. “And let her choose the boys. Her affection will then be greater. She can see to their schooling, and you can have them trained in business matters or for the sea.”

Duquet was excited by this idea of adopting ready-made sons, and though he did not much wish to leave the choice to Cornelia, he recognized the value of Captain Verdwijnen’s diplomatic suggestion.

Cornelia, who was on a committee that oversaw the operation of a home for aged women, not the Weeshuis, warmed to the idea of doing orphans a good turn. She said she would be pleased to choose several boys for Duquet’s inspection and final decision. And so in 1713 Jan and Nicolaus, both nine years old, became Duquet’s sons and immediately began their schooling and a course in manners and correct behavior that Cornelia wished might rub off on Duquet. He had prepared a speech before he saw the children.

“Many boys would give their right hands for the opportunities that are being given to you. You have a chance to help build one of the great fortunes of the world, a chance to remove yourselves from the street mire. I, too, was a boy of the slums, not even so fortunate as to be taken into an orphanage, and you see I have removed myself from the mud.”

As sometimes happens after children are adopted, late that year Cornelia gave birth to a healthy, fat boy, little Outger, named for his godfather, Outger Verdwijnen. Duquet was as satisfied as he had ever been but could no longer put off his return to Boston and New France. Then, on the way to La Rochelle, a lightning bolt of an idea came to him: why stop at three sons? In La Rochelle could he not choose a poor but promising boy from the streets, a ragged boy as he himself had been, wild to escape poverty and a dismal future? He would find this boy himself and take him to New France that he might learn something of the forests of the New World.

He wrote to Cornelia and Piet Roos and told them of his find, a clever boy of eleven, Bernard, who was now with him in New France. He would bring him to Amsterdam when next he traveled there—likely in the coming autumn—that he might know his mother, his brothers and sister and be properly schooled.

“You see,” said Captain Verdwijnen to Piet Roos. “Perhaps he is developing a kind heart.” Piet Roos kept silent.

20

rough deed

Back in New France, which people more and more called Canada after the old Iroquois word kanata, Duquet was everywhere, examining, prying, measuring, observing and calculating. He had sent Bernard, the boy he found in La Rochelle, to Cornelia for education and manners. Limbs and low-quality hardwood waste became high-quality firewood and every autumn he packed twenty wagons full for the Kébec market and for Paris when he could charter available ships with the promise of a good return cargo of tea or coffee or textiles, spices or china, but without the sure promise of a rich return cargo, let the Parisians freeze for all he cared. Leasing Piet Roos’s ships was well enough, but he needed ships of his own. What fortune if only he could find a competent shipyard in New France. He had heard of some Kébec entrepreneurs’ discussion with the French government but it had come to nothing.

“You know,” he said to Dred-Peacock at one of their Boston meetings, “it is so without hope I fear I must start my own shipyard.”

Dred-Peacock mentioned other possibilities—Boston or Portsmouth on the Piscataqua or even the growing coastal ports in Maine. “You will get a good ship made with local timber at a low price in one of those ports. And do you not know that the colonists build ships especially designed to carry the great pine masts to London? Well, then.”

And yet he delayed. The conversation veered from owning his own ships to the business of selling timber to shipyards. Duquet insisted he wanted English customers.

Dred-Peacock shrugged and connected him to an English shipbuilder and a new but promising yard on the river Clyde in Scotland, now joined to England by the Act of Union in ’07.

“Regard the map, sir,” he said, impatient with Duquet’s hesitation. “It’s the closest point to the colonies—the briefest sailing time. There are signs of success on the Clyde but they need good timbers. They will pay for them. It is an opportunity that cannot be neglected.”

Duquet took the plunge and Dred-Peacock took a goodly share of the profits, which increased year by year. There were good precedents in New France for trading with the enemy—Brûlé, Radisson, des Groseilliers had set the pattern—but arrangements with the English and Scots were at first secret, complex, expensive, even dangerous. It took fifty acres of oak to build one seventy-four-gun warship and in the hardwood stands along the rivers of New France the forests began to fall to Duquet’s ambitions. But he felt hampered by Kébec’s distance from the money pots of the world.

Never did Dred-Peacock present his ill-formed face to Duquet in Kébec; always Duquet made the trip to Boston. As they sat over their papers and receipts in the Sign of the Red Bottle near the wharves, the inn they favored, Dred-Peacock had some advice.

“Duquet, it is past time for you to consider shifting your business operations to Boston, to the colonies.” He signaled to the waiter for another plate of oysters.

“Oh, I think on it,” said Duquet, swirling the ale in his tankard until it slopped over the rim as if that settled the question. “I think on it often. I am half of a mind to do so, sir.” He had observed more hardwoods grew in the south, that great meadows and clearings made both settlement and transportation easier. Massachusetts Bay bustled with shipping. It was the better place for a man of business. And yet.

Dred-Peacock looked at the spilled ale with distaste. Duquet was an ill-bred boor, quite unable to even discern the picturesque, much less appreciate it. It was only his fantastic ability to make money that interested Dred-Peacock. “Damme, sir, it is quite time you acted. Finish with thinking and act. Every day poxy whoresons of millmen push into the forests and gain control over the land. In Maine there are countless white pine mast trees. You know there is a damned great market for these if you can get them on a ship bound for Scotland, England, or even Spain or Portugal.” The dish came, three great succulent oysters gleaming wetly, each as large as a man’s hand.

Duquet nodded but his face was sour. Dred-Peacock went on, his voice vibrating. “Where there is a market and money, the businessman must act. And all this will be immeasurably easier if you operate from Boston rather than bloody Kweebeck. And with my help these affairs can be managed.” He took up the first oyster.

Still Duquet hesitated. He had valuable connections in New France and a lifetime dislike of the English language. Dred-Peacock babbled on.

“And in any case I understand there are many in New France who are starting to believe that the English will one day prevail, even as a hare senses its pursuer’s increasing pace. Nor is it outside the realm of possibility that the colonies will unite, drive out the English and seize New France. Stranger events have occurred. And let me point out that so hungry are the whoreson Scots shipbuilders for the excellent timbers of America that some have removed to the colonies to be close to the supply.”

Now he was in partnership with the two Dutchmen, and several ships belonging to Roos, Verdwijnen and Duquet, but flying British flags, ran the seas between Portsmouth and Boston harbors and the ever more numerous Clyde shipyards. It was, they often told one another, like walking on a web of tightropes, but they swam in money as in a school of sardines. They had only to catch it in their nets. And share it with Dred-Peacock.

Over the next year, as his sons grew, fired by the detailed and advice-packed business letters Duquet wrote to each of them every Sunday, with Dred-Peacock’s help he began to acquire tracts of woodland in Maine. Dred-Peacock’s genius in the legal procedure of acquiring remote “townships” could not be measured, and his old acquaintance from voyageur days, the surveyor, Jacques Forgeron, scouted out the best timberland, Duquet learning the woods looker’s judgmental process from him. To outsiders Forgeron was a dour man who overcherished his plagued measuring chains. He could use a chain as a weapon, swinging it around and around until it gained velocity and the free end leapt forward to maim. Duquet knew well that long ago he had used that chain in the Old World and then fled to New France to start anew. Duquet thought there were probably many like Forgeron but he only shrugged. The old days counted for very little. Moreover, he was now a partner in Duquet et Fils, perhaps even a friend if a business tie between two friendless men could be so described.