On the eve of Christmas, 1822, the family of Old Albert Farly were gathered together in the great room of his large stone house overlooking the Saint Lawrence river, on the island called Île Dupas. His sons, Young Albert and Amable, had come by sleigh from their farms with their wives Celeste and Elizabeth, and all of their children. And with his spinster daughter Sophie busy in the kitchen with her mother, the Christmas reunion at the old family homestead was complete.
The house, by far the most imposing on Île Dupas, was decorated with candles and evergreen boughs. The younger grandchildren put the final touches on the Crèche while the older boys tended to the roaring fire. In the kitchen, Old Albert’s wife Josette and the other women busily prepared les tourtiéres and les boulettes for the reveillon that would follow the midnight mass.
Old Albert and his two sons sat smoking their pipes, enjoying some lively conversation around the table over cups of bonne vieille Jamaique, when eleven-year-old Hyacinthe ran to his grandfather and crawled up into his lap. “Tell us a story, Pepére!” he asked. Old Albert chuckled, and looked over at the large clock on the fireplace mantle. There was plenty of time to spare before they must leave to go to the church. “So you want to hear a story, eh Pitou?” Old Albert asked, a little louder than he had to.
His other grandchildren all turned to him then, and joined in the call for a story before Christmas mass. So it seemed Old Albert could not avoid providing a few moments’ entertainment for the children. He moved over to the rocking chair near the hearth, and all of his grandchildren, even the older boys, gathered around him in the warmth of the crackling fire.
“Well, then, since you all seem anxious to hear a tale from me, and in keeping with the spirit of this holy night, I will tell you a story that ought to be a lesson to all of you!” Old Albert slowly made an exaggerated sign of the cross. Some of his younger grandchildren, their mouths open in rapt attention, instinctively blessed themselves as well.
“I am going to tell you a story my father told me many years ago, when I was a little boy and we lived among les sauvages in the old fort at Michilimackinac.” Little Genevieve pulled on Old Albert’s arm. “Why did you bless yourself, Pepére?” she asked him in a very soft voice. Old Albert smiled. “Why, to ward away le diable of course!” he shouted, and looked around at each of his grandchildren, greatly amused by their reactions.
“I have never repeated this story to anyone,” Old Albert continued. “The very idea that my father might risk the loss of his eternal soul to Monsieur Beelzebub was simply too frightening for me to repeat what he told me so many years ago. Remember, I was a very young boy when he told me these things!” Some of the older grandchildren gasped and blessed themselves again at the mention of the evil one’s name. Even Young Albert and Amable were surprised by their father’s words, and pulled their chairs a little closer to the fire.
When he was sure he had everyone’s full attention, Old Albert proceeded. “You all know my father was a voyageur when he was a young man. Et puis, the tale I am about to tell you happened when he was part of a company of hivermants in the pays d’en haut, before he married my mother. It all happened on a Christmas Eve, just like tonight, over eighty years ago, before the English came here. My father and his good friend Jean-Baptiste Marsolet were camped about seventeen leagues north of Sault Ste. Marie with thirty other men of their party.
“The men were gathered together in small groups, inside the log and bark huts that were their shelter for the winter. The deep snow was all around, and more snow was falling. The icy wind blew down from the north through the trees, and my father, Jacque Philippe, was cold and homesick.
“As I said, it was Christmas Eve, and the directeur of the brigade, a crusty old veteran of the fur trade named Noël Bonhomme, had allowed double rations of roulade for the men’s supper, and opened a barrel of whiskey blanc for them to enjoy in celebration of the season. Soon many of the camerades were reminiscing about their families and friends back home in Montréal.
“Marsolet had been married less than a year, and was about to spend the first anniversary of his wedding in a rude camp over five hundred miles from his bride, who waited for him in Ville Marie. ‘I miss my Louise, Jacque!’ he said to his friend. ‘Oui!’ my father replied. ‘I miss my Josette also.’
“Of course he was speaking about my mother, rest her soul. Though they had not yet married at that time – they were sweethearts. My father was a poor man then, but he worked hard and his prospects were good, and both he and my mother knew from the start they would marry someday. And so with thoughts of my mother on his mind, my father lay down on his blanket and drifted off to sleep.”
“Amable! Pass me my tobacco pouch, sil vous plait!” Old Albert carefully cleaned his pipe while his young audience waited patiently, his aged hands shaking a bit as he refilled it. Then he handed it to Olivier to light for him. Soon the aromatic vapors were curling around his bald head once again, and he resumed the story.
Verse II
“My father had been asleep for some time, when he was suddenly awakened by someone shaking and pulling at his arms. It was Marsolet. ‘Jacque! Wake up,’ he was saying in a very loud whisper. My father awoke with a start and asked what was the matter!
“Marsolet held his finger to his lips and whispered, ‘Jacque, do you want to be with Josette for the midnight mass tonight?’ ‘Of course I do! You know that!’ my father replied. ‘Mais c’est impossible! We are some two hundred leagues from Montréal, and midnight is only a few hours from now!’
“Just then Noël Bonhomme entered the hut. ‘Well, Marsolet, what do you say?’ he barked. ‘And you, Farly? We have six men, all from Montréal, who are willing to make the bargain. Will you join us or not?’ That is when my father understood what Bonhomme and Marsolet were proposing.”
Old Albert turned to his sons, “Can either of you guess?” Then he scanned the faces of his grandchildren. “Do any of you know?” he whispered. “Well my father knew! They were proposing to run la chasse galerie!”
“What is that, Pepére?” asked little Isidore. Old Albert blessed himself yet again. “It is a very dangerous thing,” he explained. “These men were planning to wager their very souls in exchange for the help of le diable in getting back home to Montréal.”
“At first my father would have none of it. ‘No siree!’ he answered, ‘Pas un tonnerre!’ Bonhomme laughed at him, ‘Well Jacque, until now I thought you might make a good voyageur. But now I see you lack courage and confidence! We will have a crew that can handle the paddles well, with Drolet the avant and myself the gouvernail! There will be no danger and we will be back in camp by dawn. I have made this trip six times already now, and each time I have come back with my soul intact.’ ‘Come, come, mon ami,’ Marsolet implored. ‘I want to be with my Louise oh so badly, and as for you, think of Josette, how much she will miss you on Christmas!’ ‘Yes, come!’ Bonhomme added, ‘the camarades are waiting!’
“Now this Monsieur Bonhomme was a hard man. It was said he had not been to confession for more than seven years! And he was my father’s boss. And Marsolet, my father’s closest friend, was also asking him to go along. So in the end my father gathered his things and went out to meet the men in the clearing. As he and Marsolet arrived, the camerades were wiping snow from the canoe. Noël Bonhomme and Charles Drolet were in charge. And there was Prisque Gagnon and Marcel St. Germain. As they set the canoe in the center of the clearing facing east, Ignace Vachon and Alyre Biron arrived with the paddles and other items they would need for their voyage.
“Then they all climbed quickly into the canoe – Drolet at the bow with his steering paddle, then two by two Gagnon and Biron, my father and Marsolet, St. Germain and Vachon. At the stern stood Bonhomme. ‘Are you ready men?’ he called. ‘Oui, we are ready!’ the men called back. ‘Remember well, mes amis. For the next six hours we must not utter le nom de bon Dieu, nor touch a cross on our voyage. So we must be especially careful to avoid the steeples of the churches as we make our way.’ And before any of them had time to think twice, Bonhomme waved his paddle in the air and called out the incantation:
“‘Acabris, Acabras, Acabram! Fais-nous voyager par-dessus les montagnes!’
“And what do you think happened then, my children?” Old Albert asked, looking intently into their eyes. “We don’t know, Pepére! You haven’t told us yet!” answered Hyacinthe, almost instantly. Old Albert chuckled, and winked at his sons. “Well, at this point I think we should all bless ourselves one more time, to remember we must never let le diable tempt us, neither on his own nor through others.” And all the grandchildren blessed themselves along with Old Albert.
He continued, “Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye my father saw something like black smoke gathering in the darkness at the edge of the clearing. He told me the thing made the hairs of his neck stand up, and before he knew it the terrible blackness flew toward them and around them with a sound like many cannons firing at one time. Then the birch canoe rose swiftly straight up into the air. And it kept rising, over the huts and above the trees, until it reached a height of about five hundred feet! Then Bonhomme laughed and called out, ‘Ha ha! Away, men! To Montréal!’
“With the first stroke of the paddles, the canoe shot off like an arrow, so fast it took my father’s breath away. Bonhomme steered a course to the south, and within minutes my father could see the illumination of the candles in the windows of the Mission of St. Ignace at the Sault, and the black ribbon of the Saint Mary River below them. Bonhomme waved his paddle in a bizarre fashion, calling to Drolet to do the same, and the flying canoe bent its course eastward, following the north shore of Lake Huron, as the men paddled furiously.
“When they saw the French River cut the shoreline of Lake Huron, Bonhomme called out, ‘Drolet! To the left and up to Nippising!’ And Drolet swung his paddle down and across to the right, perhaps a little too much, since it caused the canoe to lurch hard and to lean so far that a few of the men thought they might even fall out! But they soon righted their flying boat and were paddling like madmen over the treetops that lined the French River, following its course faster than the wind. My father told me there was sleet in the air during this part of their journey, and he could hear the bow of the canoe hiss as it sliced through the heavy weather.
“The air was bitter cold, and the ice clung to their eyebrows and beards, but the men were drenched with sweat from their exertion as they paddled with all their might. In their hearts, each of them held someone dear, someone they longed to be with, even for just a little while, at Christmastime. And so they paddled on happily, singing voyageur songs:
‘Mon pere n'avah fille que moi, Canot d'ecorce qui va voler,
Et dessus la mer il m'envoie: Canot d'ecorce qui vole, qui vole, Canot d'ecorce qui va voler!’
“Very soon the storm had passed and the forest below opened up to the expanse of Lake Nippising, which from their flying canoe looked like a plain full of stars, as it reflected the clear night sky. Bonhomme and Drolet then bent their course again, this time in a sweeping arc to the right, and they flew above the Ottawa River, south and east on their way to the mighty Saint Lawrence.”
Elizabeth and Sophie came out of the kitchen carrying kettles of molasses for the candy pull that would finish the evening later on. The children scattered to make way, and the two kettles were placed over the fire to boil down. Soon the aroma of simmering molasses joined the pine scent of the decorations, Old Albert’s pipe and the onions and spices cooking in the kitchen to make the whole house smell like Christmas itself.
Verse III
“Let’s see, where was I?” resumed Old Albert, puffing on his pipe as the young ones gathered again around him, perhaps even a little closer than before. “As they flew over the Ottawa River, they began to notice the firelights of scattered farms below them. Soon they were flying over small villages, some with church steeples topped by crosses that must be avoided at all cost. Eventually they made their way to where the Ottawa pours into Lac des Deux Montagnes, and swooping hard to the left they saw the island of Montréal in the distance.
“There were many farms below them now, lit up and alive with activity despite the hour. For it was Christmas Eve and everyone was preparing to attend mass and enjoy the reveillon. But the peril of the voyageurs increased as the church steeples obstructed their progress more and more frequently. As it was, they could barely control the speed of their canoe, and had to rely on their skill with the paddle and the experience of Monsieur Bonhomme to keep them from damnation.
“As they approached their destination, keeping Mount Royal to their left, the city of Ville Marie came into view. Bonhomme instructed the men well, and they cruised lower, and slowed their speed in the descent. Below them was le grand chemin du roi and my father could see the farm where his mother lived with her second husband Jean Favre. Then they flew just over the Recollet Gate, carefully avoiding the steeple of the church there, and glided to a stop in Rue Notre Dame, just before it opened up into the Place D’Armes. The men quickly leapt from their canoe and carried it away down an alley, placing it against the wall of the Séminaire de Saint Sulpice.
“‘Camarades,’ Bonhomme called out. ‘It is about a half hour before midnight. We have done well to arrive here safely, that is true. But we must not forget our bargain. No matter what happens, none of us can utter le nom de bon Dieu, or touch a cross while we are here. And we must all be at this place again in two hours, if we are to return to our camp in the time we have.’ My father turned to Marsolet. ‘I am going to find Josette,’ he told him. Pointing across the square he said, ‘I will meet you in the church of Notre Dame later.’ As my father went off to the home of Monsieur Dumouchel, Marsolet likewise set out for the home of his wife’s family.
“Imagine my father’s dismay when upon arriving at the home of Monsieur Dumouchel he was told Josette was not there! She was helping to decorate the church for midnight mass, along with some of the other young women of the neighborhood. And so, before anyone could inquire as to how it came to pass he was in Montréal, my father ran back to the Place D’Armes, up the granite steps and into the church of Notre Dame, being especially careful not to touch anything that might bear the image of a cross, which was no small task in a place such as a church!
“The church of Notre Dame was festooned with evergreen boughs and garlands, and ribbons of red and purple. And every candle had been lit; the entire place was aglow with the spirit of our Lord and the mystery of His birth. Then, as he walked down the aisle, in a chapel to the right of the main altar, my father saw the lovely Josette draping garlands of evergreen across the backs of the pews. She did not see him at first, but eventually noticed him standing there in his backwoods attire. She dropped the boughs she was holding and ran to him and they embraced each other for the first time in many months. ‘Oh Jacque I have missed you while you were gone,’ my mother whispered to him. Then her eyes grew wide as she realized how improbable it was he should be there at all! But before she could ask him about it he told her how happy he was to see her and how beautiful she was, and that he could only stay for a short time so she should not waste that time with questions. And for that night, it was as if he had never left Montréal.
“My father and mother attended holy mass together in the church of Notre Dame that night, and my mother was so happy to be with him, to stand next to him, to hold his hand, that she seemed not to notice that he did not join in the prayers, but rather stayed silent throughout the entire rite, and that he waited behind when the parishioners took communion. Some of the men who had run the chasse galerie with him were there too – Marsolet, Gagnon and Biron. They were good Catholic men, who made their confession as often as possible and attended mass when they could, but they too refrained from taking the sacrament that night.
“When the mass was finished, each of the men went to spend some time with his loved ones, before they had to leave again for the Sault. My father walked back to the home of Dumouchel with my mother, where he enjoyed the best meal he had eaten for a very long time, and spent the rest of the remaining time together with her. But then it was the hour of departure, and my father bade his farewells to the Dumouchel family. Then he made his way out into the night, and back to the alley next to the Séminaire, where Bonhomme, Drolet, Vachon and Biron were waiting. Monsieur Bonhomme was impatient. ‘We must leave soon if we are to complete our journey in time to keep our bargain,’ he grumbled. Prisque Gagnon and Marcel St. Germain appeared at the end of the alley and called out to them, ‘Marsolet is right behind us. Bring the canoe.’
“The men brought their canoe out into the Place D’Armes, and set it facing to the west. As they all climbed in for their return to the pays d’en haut, my father felt a hand on his shoulder. Thinking it was Marsolet, he said with a little laugh, ‘I was wondering if you would ever come back!’ Then he turned and saw it was not Marsolet. It was his sweetheart Josette!”
Old Albert paused for a moment, stood up and walked over to the table. He took a sip from his cup, and turning once again to the children sitting on the floor, he asked, ‘Would you like me to continue?’ ‘Oh oui, oui,Pepére!’ they shouted. And so he sat back down in the rocking chair and went on with his tale.
Verse IV
“‘Why are you here, Josette?’ my father asked her. ‘Jacque, I have known from the time I first saw you tonight there was something strange about this. And then I saw you did not say your prayers or take communion; a devout man such as yourself would never behave in such a way. I followed you because I am afraid for you!’ she replied. ‘And seeing what I now see, I know there must be something unholy in it!’
“Bonhomme, impatient as ever, began to wave his paddle in the air, shouting, ‘Acabris, Acabras, Acabram!’ My mother pulled at the small crucifix she always wore on a thin chain around her neck, and breaking the chain she pressed it into my father’s hand. ‘This will protect you,’ she said. ‘Fais-nous voyager par-dessus les montagnes!’ bellowed Bonhomme. ‘Run, Josette! Run!’ hollered my father, and he scrambled into the canoe.
“The camerades were facing the Recollet Gate, and they all saw the inky blackness forming at the end of the Rue Notre Dame. ‘Run, Josette! You must go! Now!’ my father implored. And at last she turned and ran back across the Place D’Armes toward her house. And just in time! For at that moment the blackness raced straight down the center of Rue Notre Dame toward them, engulfed them and with a thunderous roar shot them into the air.
“Bonhomme saw the small crucifix in my father’s hand. ‘Mon Dieu!’ he exclaimed, taking the Lord’s name in vain. ‘What have you done to us, Farly?’ All of the men heard this, and at once looked back at their gouvernail. But their shock turned to horror when they saw behind him the dark figure of le diable himself, flying swiftly toward them. There was nothing to do but paddle as if their lives and souls were at stake, and they were. The camerades paddled as they had never paddled before, Bonhomme and Drolet steering them this way and that as they wove through the steeples of the villages at breakneck speed.
“Faster and faster they paddled on, staying just ahead of the black winged beast that chased right behind them. They reached the Ottawa River in no time, and nearly turned the canoe on its side as they curved through the air to follow its course. ‘Do not look back men! You must not look back!’ ordered Bonhomme. He had run the chasse galerie before, and had experience with these things. So the men followed his command and set their minds to paddling with a ferocity never seen before or since.
“It was over Lake Nippising that the winds blew strongest against them, and their speed slowed just enough for the evil one to gain on them and overtake them! The men shrieked in mortal terror as his leathery wings flapped just above their heads. Then he reached down and put his hand on my father’s collar! And he pulled like to take my father out of the canoe!
“At that moment, my father remembered the words of my mother, ‘This will protect you.’ So he took the little crucifix and he pressed it against the hand of le diable, and it burned his skin so badly that the beast howled with pain and fell away, down toward the treetops. The men were encouraged by this, and kept up their paddling, swiftly racing down the French River and along the coast of Lake Huron.
“When they reached the Sault, Bonhomme turned the canoe in the direction of the North Star and they headed toward their camp. But le diable did not give up easy. All of a sudden they could see him coming toward them from the east, and they heard the sound of his wings as he raced to intercept them. ‘Faster, men!’ urged Bonhomme, ‘We are almost there!’
“But before they reached their camp the beast was once again upon them, threatening to take my father away to the fiery caves of the underworld. But Bonhomme risked everything to save him. Monsieur Bonhomme steered the canoe down so that it crashed abruptly into the top of a tall pine tree. The collision threw all the men clear, and they tumbled down through the branches into the snow. Only Noël Bonhomme remained in the tree with the canoe and le diable.
“With a hearty laugh, and a push of his tall paddle, Bonhomme set off again, le diable in pursuit. Regaining their senses on the ground below, the camerades heard Bonhomme’s words as he flew out of site, ‘Do not worry for me my friends. I have been a canoe man for thirty seven years. I tell you no portage was ever too long for me! Were I young once more, I would live the same way over again. There is no life so happy as the voyageur’s life!’
“The men walked the last few miles through the deep snow back to their camp. From that day forward my father always kept that little crucifix on a leather string around his neck. He was wearing it the night he told me this story. He remained a devout man until the day he died, and from that Christmas Eve on, he never feared anything, not man nor beast nor le diable himself, for the rest of his long life. And as for Noël Bonhomme, he was never seen nor heard from again, although some old men claim they have seen him flying his birch bark canoe through the night sky at Christmastime.”
“What a terrible story to tell the children just before holy mass, Albert!” scolded Memére. “You children get yourselves tidied up and get your overcoats and hats. It is almost time to leave for mass! Hurry! It is time to go.” Everyone ran to fetch their warm clothes and in a short time they were all bundled into the two sleighs, just as the bells of the parish church began to ring. And as they rode in their sleighs down the range road to the Church of the Visitation, little Hyacinthe turned his eyes toward heaven and wondered if that wasn’t the voice of Noël Bonhomme that he heard singing a Christmas carol far off in the cold distant night.
