Hello!
Here is a new chapter! Thank you paffnytij, A_Revolving_Door, Bellnconnue, Mium, Porthos10, , Daoistjuhlup, bepoed, Ic2096, Ponnu_Samy_2279 , Yako_3972, Galan_05, and AlexZero12 for the support!
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The flute carrying the Indigenous delegation carefully navigated the Goulet de Brest, steering around the dangerous Mengant Rock that lay in the middle of the passage, hidden beneath the surface. Forts and batteries on either side guarded the entrance.
Behind it, the rest of the convoy followed at a safe distance.
La Boudeuse led the way, while L'Atalante guarded the rear.
On the deck of the Sincère, all the passengers had gathered to take in the view.
After weeks at sea, there was something deeply comforting about seeing land again. François knew the feeling well. Even when a voyage passed without any real difficulties, as this one had, one eventually grew tired of the unchanging horizon, the roll of the ship beneath one's feet, and the feeling of being cut off from the rest of the world.
To catch sight of a coastline, to make out houses and trees, to see beaches framed by rocks sculpted by the relentless assault of the waves—it was like meeting an old friend whose absence one had never truly appreciated until seeing them again.
For the members of the delegation, however, the feeling was different. They weren't returning to anything. They were discovering it for the first time.
They had heard many stories about France, its cities and palaces, and its king, who had ruled for so many years. Most of these tales had come from travellers and were therefore reasonably reliable. Yet even the most detailed accounts could never fully prepare someone for the experience of discovering a foreign country.
François discreetly observed their reactions. They were all like children, taking everything in with a mixture of curiosity and wonder. Everything here seemed different to them. Their eyes darted from one sight to another as they tried to grasp what set these lands apart from those they knew.
Brest harbour, the vast expanse of water lying beyond the Goulet, opened up before them. The water was so calm that day that it could have been mistaken for a lake. The change was so abrupt that some of the passengers found it disorienting. It was like stepping suddenly from a noisy room into one where silence reigned.
The sun made the ripples sparkle, and the ships anchored in the harbour stood out sharply against the blue sky.
François, holding in his left hand a thick rope whose precise purpose he still did not understand, let out a small sigh of relief. A smile came naturally to his lips, but it quickly faded when he noticed a ship at anchor flying the British flag.
The French ships in the harbour were keeping their distance from it, as though it were carrying some terrible disease.
A merchantman armed for its own defence, the major noted. A little smaller than ours. Hmm, ten guns, perhaps twelve.
"What's that fellow doing here?" someone beside him asked in a hoarse voice.
François turned his head.
It was the captain of the Sincère, Simon Charles Deprez, a man ten years his senior whose face bore the marks of years at sea. His stern features seemed rarely to relax. He stood rigidly beside the rail, his brow furrowed.
"Tell me, Captain, is he allowed to come here? I mean, we may be at peace, but Brest is still a strategic port with a royal arsenal. I can hardly imagine one of our own ships approaching Portsmouth or Plymouth."
"Allowed?"
The captain clicked his tongue.
"Under certain circumstances, I suppose. A merchant vessel might have good reason to put in here. But that doesn't mean she'll be allowed to sail wherever she pleases or send her crew ashore."
He narrowed his eyes and gave a low grunt.
"Cunning Englishmen... They always find some excuse to snoop around our ports. A damaged ship, a need for provisions, unfavourable winds. Best not to give them any more attention than they deserve."
"Oh. From the sound of it, this is a common occurrence."
The sailor shrugged and turned towards the officer.
"It happens from time to time. I remember one occasion, I believe it was at Toulon, when one of them went so far as to fake a leak by sabotaging his own ship. When the English start making a fuss, it's rarely a good sign."
His gaze shifted away from the British vessel and settled on the passengers gathered by the rail, watching the landscape as though they had never seen dry land before. A Mi'kmaq representative was speaking with Father Le Loutre in his unfamiliar language, while the old missionary listened attentively, occasionally replying with a few words in the same tongue.
"If you ask me," the captain continued in a lower voice, "it's no coincidence that she's here just as we're arriving."
Captain Deprez turned away and issued his orders.
At once, the sailors sprang into action across the deck and high in the rigging. The Sincère slowed further, as did the other ships in the convoy. They all continued towards the city, maintaining a generous distance from the British vessel.
They could not see him, but aboard that ship a man was watching their progress very closely through a spyglass. He wore no uniform. His clothes were those of a respectable merchant, or perhaps a representative of some trading house, yet his bearing and the restless energy he exuded betrayed him. He quickly jotted down his observations in a small black-covered notebook, paused, then raised his spyglass again.
As the Sincère drew closer, the city's slate rooftops, church steeples, and drab façades came into sharper focus. The walls of Brest Castle, dark as though they had been scorched by some great fire, seemed to gaze down upon them with a formidable presence.
The arsenal, meanwhile, remained largely hidden from view from the harbour. Its barracks and storehouses lay concealed around the Penfeld, out of sight.
The captain of the Sincère ordered the last sails furled before having the anchor dropped.
Shortly afterwards, two launches came out to meet them. Aboard them, powerful-armed rowers dipped their oars into the cold harbour water with a mesmerising regularity. A few officers stood out among the men.
They were there to check the sailing orders, passports, passenger list, and the contents of the luggage and diplomatic gifts. They also had to examine everyone's state of health to prevent an epidemic from breaking out in the city, as sometimes happened.
The officers took all the time they needed to carry out their inspections, despite the very particular status of their passengers, who were guests of the king. Their vigilance seemed almost excessive: documents were examined, names checked against the lists, and luggage inspected. The process took time, but they could afford to wait a few more hours.
At last, with everything in order, the Sincère was granted permission to continue towards the entrance to the Penfeld. The flute would be allowed to berth in this highly sensitive area, one that even local people dared not look at for too long, lest they appear suspicious.
This time, however, things seemed to be unfolding differently. It was not every day that Indigenous chiefs from New France arrived from across the ocean.
The authorities had prepared a reception befitting the importance they wished to attach to this visit.
The people of Brest had been hearing for several months that an Indigenous delegation was on its way and would be landing in their city, but no one knew when. They only found out when they heard the cannons of the forts and ships in the harbour thunder as though the city were under attack.
One, two, three, four... ten, eleven... thirty...
The firing seemed endless.
A great many people abandoned whatever they were doing and made their way to the quays, as though they had been summoned. Meanwhile, the cannons continued to salute these illustrious guests.
It was much as it had been in 1686, when the ambassadors of the Kingdom of Siam had landed right here.
For the Mi'kmaq, Abenaki, Huron, Haudenosaunee, and other chiefs, this reception was an immense honour, a remarkable mark of respect.
The final report rolled across the water for a long time, like distant thunder. Then silence returned, if one could disregard the hubbub of overlapping conversations along the quays.
How many shots was that? the major wondered as he finally stepped ashore. They certainly don't do things by halves.
He then thought of the English ship and allowed himself a mocking smile.
That news will certainly end up on King George's desk. Heh.
This reception was far grander than the one in 1725, when a small handful of Indigenous representatives from the Mississippi Valley had landed at Lorient. This time, the chiefs had come in considerable numbers, representing peoples from very different backgrounds.
The ceremony made it clear to everyone present that the kingdom was taking these visitors very seriously.
François noticed a wooden platform erected almost at the foot of the castle. He immediately grew uneasy.
He looked at the crowd, which had now swelled to enormous proportions.
It grew by the minute, held back as best it could by a detachment of soldiers. Men, women, and children were all trying to catch a glimpse of the people who had come from the New World to meet the King. Even so, the workshops, shipyards, and warehouses carried on with their work. The port had to keep operating.
There'll be speeches... If they ask the delegation to climb onto that platform... it could be dangerous.
François quickly scanned the hundreds of faces, searching for a suspicious expression or movement.
The members of the delegation would make easy targets. If there's an enemy—or some madman—among them, it could be a disaster.
He swallowed as he imagined the immediate consequences.
François moved closer to Father Le Loutre and quickly shared his concerns. The missionary simply nodded and reassured him, saying that they had enough men to ensure everyone's safety.
A rather tall officer with keen eyes, dressed in his finest uniform, approached them and greeted them with considerable grace. Unsurprisingly, his attention soon turned to the Indigenous chiefs.
"Gentlemen," he said in an unusually deep voice, "welcome to Brest. I am Major d'Aulbac, at your service. Monsieur de Ruis-Embitio, the naval intendant, should be joining us shortly, as should Monsieur le Comte de Breugnon, commander of the Navy at Brest."
Father Le Loutre and the interpreters translated his words, and François did the same for the Haudenosaunee chiefs, even though several of them understood and spoke French quite well. An Abenaki chief, whose standing within the delegation had earned him a place among its spokesmen, stepped forward. He spoke in such natural French that several people in the crowd straightened in surprise.
"On behalf of the delegation, we thank you for this welcome. We are happy and honoured to be among you today."
A murmur swept through the crowd. People exchanged astonished glances, while others asked those around them what had been said.
François shook his head discreetly.
What had they expected? That after all this time, not a single Indigenous person would have bothered to learn our language? Were they expecting animal cries and grunts?
Even d'Aulbac raised his eyebrows slightly. He had assumed that these strangely dressed visitors would only be able to communicate through their interpreters.
He quickly recovered and inclined his head with slightly stiff courtesy.
"Sir..."
He stopped short.
His gaze shifted between the chief and François as he realised he had no idea how to address the man directly.
"Er... Chief? Honourable Chief?"
François suppressed a smile. Years ago, he himself had found himself in much the same situation.
"Chief will do perfectly well," François interjected.
D'Aulbac let out a discreet sigh of relief, then turned back to the spokesman.
"Chief," he continued, with greater confidence, "allow me to assure you that your presence here is an honour for the city of Brest. We hope your stay will be a pleasant one and that you will find us ready to offer you all the hospitality you deserve."
The Abenaki chief inclined his head slightly.
"Hmm. We have come a long way, and we know that His Majesty must have devoted time and resources to preparing for our arrival. We hope our discussions will prove beneficial to our peoples as well as to yours."
"I have no doubt of that, Chief. And I am certain Monsieur l'Intendant will share that sentiment."
A stir on the quay then drew everyone's attention. Several officers and city magistrates were accompanying two men who appeared to be people of great importance—and indeed they were. The first had a long face, slightly drooping eyes, a fine powdered wig, and a dark coat with a burgundy sheen. There was something distinctly military about his bearing.
The second man, somewhat shorter than the first, was elegantly dressed and wore a more imposing wig, its fine curls cascading over his rather broad shoulders. His coat was navy blue, richly trimmed with gold, and went perfectly with his red waistcoat and breeches.
His keen gaze swept over the assembled crowd and the soldiers keeping them at a respectful distance before settling on the delegation.
Major d'Aulbac immediately straightened and gave an impeccable salute.
"Gentlemen, allow me to present Monsieur le Comte de Breugnon, commander of the Navy."
The man dressed in blue and red bowed deeply and respectfully before the King's guests.
"And here is Monsieur de Ruis-Embitio, Intendant of the Navy."
The man in the dark coat politely greeted the men who had just come ashore, including those accompanying the delegation.
"Gentlemen," the intendant began, "we are pleased to welcome you on behalf of the naval administration. Did your crossing pass without any major incident?"
"The sea put us to the test," François replied respectfully, "but it allowed us to reach our destination safely. We were fortunate to enjoy mild weather and favourable winds."
The intendant's gaze briefly fell upon the cross displayed on François's chest before returning to the delegates.
"That is a relief," Ruis-Embitio continued. "We would have been sorry if this experience at sea, your first, I imagine, had proved unpleasant. As everyone knows, the sea is fickle and untameable. Even the largest ships in our navy are not immune to its fits of rage."
An elderly Huron chief, wearing a strange headdress resembling a broad band from which a multitude of colourful feathers sprouted, as though several whole birds had been thrust into it, chuckled softly. His eyes narrowed until they were little more than slits.
"Ahaha! We have heard many stories about the fury of the great sea. Although we escaped its wrath on our way here, we will certainly have plenty of tales to tell our people when we return home."
Breugnon allowed himself a faint smile.
He knew all too well what the sea was capable of. He had served in the French Royal Navy for a little over thirty years and had witnessed his share of storms. Monsters capable of swallowing an entire ship and its crew in a single instant.
"Chief, you will surely have more than enough stories to make your long winter nights bearable once you have seen Paris and Versailles. Brest may be no more than a stop on your journey, but we intend to show you that this city knows how to welcome its guests."
François and the interpreters did their best to convey these promising words to the Indigenous chiefs. Then the introductions began. One by one, the delegates gave their names, identified the peoples they belonged to, and explained their roles within the group.
Naturally, the one who attracted the most attention was Akwiratheka, owing to his impressive height and muscular build. The soldiers surrounding the count and the intendant instinctively tightened their grips on their muskets, as though the giant might do something foolish.
Their concerns, shared by the other members of the delegation, proved unfounded.
Akwiratheka returned to his place and leaned slightly towards François.
"Psst... How did I do? Was I all right?"
François felt like laughing.
Ahaha! He looks like a child hoping for a reward for not getting into trouble.
"Perfect. Just keep it up."
Akwiratheka flashed him a huge, proud grin.
François merely rolled his eyes.
The count exchanged a few words with each of them, then turned to Captain Deprez.
"Very well. I believe we have kept our guests waiting long enough."
The commander, representing the military authority in this naval arsenal, turned towards the platform and invited the delegation to follow him.
"Gentlemen, if you would kindly follow us, we shall now proceed with the welcoming ceremony."
The townspeople began to stir.
François climbed onto the raised platform but remained slightly behind the others. His vigilance did not diminish; quite the contrary. Judging by his serious expression, one might have thought he suspected every person before him of being an enemy of the state.
Monsieur de Ruis-Embitio, who, by virtue of his civil, administrative, and financial authority, was the most influential man in the city, took his place in the centre, in front of Count de Breugnon. He delivered a very solemn speech, once again welcoming the chiefs in the name of King Louis XV and explaining that this journey reflected a desire for dialogue, mutual understanding, and cooperation.
His carefully chosen words presented these visitors as allies, not as subjects of the King.
"Peace," the intendant declared, "is maintained not by treaties and arms alone. It is also built upon one's word, upon trust, and upon mutual understanding. His Majesty wishes the ties between France and the peoples of New France to remain strong and to grow stronger still."
Count de Breugnon also delivered a speech, emphasising the bonds that had been forged over the years while acknowledging that each people had its own circumstances and concerns. He spoke as well of trade, expressing the hope that it would continue and bring benefits to all.
He concluded:
"May you find in France men worthy of your trust, and may you carry home the memory of a welcome that lives up to the words we have just spoken."
He bowed his head to the chiefs, then gestured towards Major d'Aulbac, who arrived with several other soldiers carrying small engraved medals, each slightly larger than a gold louis. These gifts were not from the King, but from the city itself. They might receive even finer ones at Versailles.
François discreetly examined Akwiratheka's medal.
On one side was a finely engraved profile of the King, surrounded by his name and the year in Roman numerals. The other depicted a complex scene showing the delegation being welcomed by an officer and a very tall woman with a small ermine perched on her shoulder, who must have been an allegorical personification of the city of Brest. Every detail stood out clearly in the light.
The medal's value lay in more than the metal alone. To offer such an object was to recognise its recipient officially and give him something he could proudly display, treasure, and pass down to his descendants.
When the final medal had been presented, a loud round of applause broke out.
The commander and the intendant exchanged a few words before being joined on the platform by several civilian and military officials. François could not hear what they were saying, but he did not have to wait long to find out.
"Gentlemen," Ruis-Embitio announced, "you have travelled a long way. We shall not keep you here any longer amid this crowd. A meal will be prepared for you in a reception room at the Hôtel Saint-Pierre, where you will be staying."
At the mention of a meal, a ripple of excitement passed through the delegation. Their eyes lit up, for it had been an age since they had last enjoyed a proper meal. What they had been forced to endure aboard the Sincère had scarcely deserved to be called food.
François felt his mouth begin to water.
Roast chicken... Braised pork... Fresh vegetables...
The intendant paid no heed to the major's thoughts and continued:
"Our discussions can continue in a quieter setting. You will be able to tell us what you need, and we will explain the arrangements made for your stay and the next stage of your journey to Paris."
The interpreters translated the invitation, and soon they were all making their way towards a large stone building, the residence of the commander of the Navy. Built in an L shape and rising three storeys, not counting the converted attic, it was easily large enough to accommodate another twenty people.
Just a few years earlier, this spacious residence had still been used to house the naval guards.
The short journey took on the air of a procession, so immense was the crowd accompanying them. The onlookers could go no farther than the wrought-iron gates of the mansion, which had belonged to the Navy for only about twenty years.
The members of the delegation discovered a spotless, perfectly maintained building that was every bit as impressive as the fort protecting Quebec, where Governor Vaudreuil's apartments were located. The furniture had been carefully chosen, the wood panelling was magnificent, and numerous paintings hung on the walls.
As they entered the grand reception room, where a long table had already been laid, Akwiratheka leaned towards François.
"I hope the meal they're going to serve us will be better than those biscuits we ate during the crossing. I never want to see another one of those things again."
François gave him a wry smile.
"I don't think we'll have anything to complain about. You are the King's guests. His reputation is at stake. You'll be treated as befits your status and have the chance to sample fine dishes prepared by the finest chefs in the kingdom."
"Chefs?"
Akwiratheka's naturally powerful voice caught the attention of several other representatives.
"You have men do the cooking? Isn't that women's work?"
He frowned, his expression clearly disapproving.
"I hope they won't ask us to cook... Apart from roasting game, I don't know how to prepare anything else."
Father Le Loutre chuckled softly.
"I believe there's been a misunderstanding, Chief. What Major de Montrouge meant was that professional cooks—people who devote their lives to the culinary arts just as a warrior devotes his to battle—will prepare your meals throughout your stay. 'Chef' is simply the name given to these people because they command a kitchen. In other words, they lead their team, much as a king rules his kingdom. The word comes from the Latin caput, though I believe they prefer the term officier de bouche."
"Oh..."
François had just learned something himself. He committed the information to memory, though he had no idea whether it would ever prove useful.
Akwiratheka burst into loud laughter, making the entire group turn towards him. The officers watched him laughing and scratching his head for no apparent reason.
"I'm relieved! Ahaha! So I won't have to prepare dishes for the King or whoever else."
"No, indeed," the missionary murmured with a faint smile. "As you've been told, you are our guests. We will do everything we can to make your stay a pleasant one."
That was what Father Le Loutre had said. Yet as soon as the Indigenous chiefs took their seats around the long table, they discovered that each of them had been provided with several plates of fine porcelain from the Sèvres manufactory, nested one inside another like Russian dolls. Their glasses were of such fine quality that they might have been crystal, and on either side lay polished forks and knives, each with its own particular purpose.
A bead of cold sweat appeared on Akwiratheka's forehead.