River City Read Online Free Page A
evidence of treasure.”
“All that the natives have told me has been proven true. Why not this?”
The king’s man no longer challenged Cartier’s logic with any special vigour. During the voyage, he had lost every argument he had pressed and the exercise now lacked merit. If Cartier was leading him, and their king, to gold and diamonds, he no longer wished to be dissuaded of the possibility. Indeed, with the proper inflections, an adroit word, he could recast himself as the true proponent of the enterprise.
Gastineau had guessed Cartier’s motive in not naming the river. The mariner had to be hoping that a clever cartographer, or the king himself, would name the river after him. Fleuve Jacques-Cartier. The king’s man would have none of that. He had gazed upon the map the captain was creating and noticed a small bay that now bore the name St. Lawrence. As soon as they were back in France, he would speak to the cartographers, and, through whatever means necessary, impress upon them that St. Lawrence was the name intended and best suited for this river without end. He wished the mariner no ill, but what extant mortal deserved a river of such immensity named in his honour? Certainly not a ship’s captain. If he personally accomplished nothing else on this voyage, Gastineau would sink that ambition to the bottom of the sea.
The travellers gazed upriver into the darkness there.
Unbeknownst to either man, at the smoky village beyond their vision, an Iroquois hunter had arrived on the shore by canoe. He told of a strange canoe the size of a hill seen afloat on the water days earlier, heading upstream. News of similar sightings had previously reached the ears of these men and women. White-skinned men, bearded men, men without women, sea creatures whose wretched seal-stink and sordid wolf-breath had been much discussed among the coastal tribes, men who lived in canoes as tall as trees and travelled from a world beyond the waters, beyond this land in another land, or so they claimed,had found the path down the great river inland from the sea, into the depths of their forests by giant canoe.
This, then, would be their time to meet.
These were Mohawks, one of the six nations of the Iroquois people. They kept watch that night, and awaited morning and the days ahead, their vigil a lengthy one …
… in the year 1535.
CHAPTER 3
1955
S URGING EAST ALONG STE. CATHERINE STREET, A MOB SWELLED. Thousands spilled from the Forum, where a game between les Canadiens and the Detroit Red Wings had been curtailed, initially by tomatoes thrown at Clarence Campbell, the National Hockey League’s president. Then stink bombs erupted on the ice. The stench and smoke ignited panic among a portion of the spectators while seeding rage in others. The most angry swarmed Montreal’s focal artery, smashing windows, looting shops and vandalizing buses. Hordes exercised their collective muscle by rocking police cruisers until they managed to roll a few upside down, then the mob burned the cars and cheered the flames.
A former prosecutor at Nuremberg, Campbell had brought down a stunningly stiff verdict. Maurice “Rocket” Richard had been suspended for the remainder of the season for swinging his stick three times across an opponent’s back. He’d also punched an official. The judgment effectively denied Richard the scoring title. More shocking, his suspension included the playoffs. Montrealers feared the edict would cost their team the championship they were favoured to win. Fans were livid. Once the stink bombs were tossed their rage knew no remorse. Rioters toppled phone booths, stomped on mailboxes and slashed tires. Hundreds cheered each petty misdemeanour as they followed the mischief-makers on foot.
Although it possessed no organizational apparatus, and slogans had yet to catch on, the burgeoning crowd seemed to know that it would find more interesting, more critical targets ahead.
A pair of cops patrolling the beat near the Forum
“All that the natives have told me has been proven true. Why not this?”
The king’s man no longer challenged Cartier’s logic with any special vigour. During the voyage, he had lost every argument he had pressed and the exercise now lacked merit. If Cartier was leading him, and their king, to gold and diamonds, he no longer wished to be dissuaded of the possibility. Indeed, with the proper inflections, an adroit word, he could recast himself as the true proponent of the enterprise.
Gastineau had guessed Cartier’s motive in not naming the river. The mariner had to be hoping that a clever cartographer, or the king himself, would name the river after him. Fleuve Jacques-Cartier. The king’s man would have none of that. He had gazed upon the map the captain was creating and noticed a small bay that now bore the name St. Lawrence. As soon as they were back in France, he would speak to the cartographers, and, through whatever means necessary, impress upon them that St. Lawrence was the name intended and best suited for this river without end. He wished the mariner no ill, but what extant mortal deserved a river of such immensity named in his honour? Certainly not a ship’s captain. If he personally accomplished nothing else on this voyage, Gastineau would sink that ambition to the bottom of the sea.
The travellers gazed upriver into the darkness there.
Unbeknownst to either man, at the smoky village beyond their vision, an Iroquois hunter had arrived on the shore by canoe. He told of a strange canoe the size of a hill seen afloat on the water days earlier, heading upstream. News of similar sightings had previously reached the ears of these men and women. White-skinned men, bearded men, men without women, sea creatures whose wretched seal-stink and sordid wolf-breath had been much discussed among the coastal tribes, men who lived in canoes as tall as trees and travelled from a world beyond the waters, beyond this land in another land, or so they claimed,had found the path down the great river inland from the sea, into the depths of their forests by giant canoe.
This, then, would be their time to meet.
These were Mohawks, one of the six nations of the Iroquois people. They kept watch that night, and awaited morning and the days ahead, their vigil a lengthy one …
… in the year 1535.
CHAPTER 3
1955
S URGING EAST ALONG STE. CATHERINE STREET, A MOB SWELLED. Thousands spilled from the Forum, where a game between les Canadiens and the Detroit Red Wings had been curtailed, initially by tomatoes thrown at Clarence Campbell, the National Hockey League’s president. Then stink bombs erupted on the ice. The stench and smoke ignited panic among a portion of the spectators while seeding rage in others. The most angry swarmed Montreal’s focal artery, smashing windows, looting shops and vandalizing buses. Hordes exercised their collective muscle by rocking police cruisers until they managed to roll a few upside down, then the mob burned the cars and cheered the flames.
A former prosecutor at Nuremberg, Campbell had brought down a stunningly stiff verdict. Maurice “Rocket” Richard had been suspended for the remainder of the season for swinging his stick three times across an opponent’s back. He’d also punched an official. The judgment effectively denied Richard the scoring title. More shocking, his suspension included the playoffs. Montrealers feared the edict would cost their team the championship they were favoured to win. Fans were livid. Once the stink bombs were tossed their rage knew no remorse. Rioters toppled phone booths, stomped on mailboxes and slashed tires. Hundreds cheered each petty misdemeanour as they followed the mischief-makers on foot.
Although it possessed no organizational apparatus, and slogans had yet to catch on, the burgeoning crowd seemed to know that it would find more interesting, more critical targets ahead.
A pair of cops patrolling the beat near the Forum
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