Bishop Labrie in Betsiamites

between the settlements.

Father Jauffret, whom I was to replace, welcomed me with genuine fraternal kindness. The reception elsewhere, however, was far from enthusiastic. At the rectory I found my housekeeper, Mrs. Norbert Lebel, whom I had known as a child, along with her niece and grandson, Joseph Blouin, and Father Doucet’s brother, Edmond. The last two looked after our farm.

I had been told to arrive before Father Doucet returned from vacation. But when he came back, Father Jauffret had already left, and the curate, who had held the position for three years and learned the Montagnais language, frankly told me that he would have been better suited to take my place. I could only agree with him. Everything, however, had been decided against my wishes and arranged by Father Lebrun, who was not by nature the kind of superior one could talk things through with, as people expect today. What I had wanted was a year free to devote entirely to studying the language. I greatly appreciated my confrère’s honesty, and, fortunately, his deep priestly charity enabled a friendship to grow between us that never wavered.

Apart from the Miller family, who had long been friends of my own, the leading people in the village kept me at a chilly distance. I realized that being a local boy proved the saying: “A prophet is not without honor except in his own country.”

The Innu blamed me for Father Jauffret’s departure, even though he had rightly earned their trust and friendship. What could I do in such a situation? Wait, hoping that patience and forbearance would overcome their reserve.

I did receive some encouragement. One evening an Innu man, Étienne Adlé, a Mi’kmaq, came into my office. “Don’t worry if the Indians don’t like you,” he told me. “Leave it to me. I know you, and I know your father and mother. I know the Indians too. I’ll bring them around. You’ll see!” He spoke with great warmth, and as he was leaving he asked to borrow five dollars. How could I refuse such a kindly request? A fortnight later he brought me six dollars, with an even warmer speech and a request for ten dollars, which I lent him. Another fortnight passed; he returned with twelve dollars and an eloquent speech that ended with a request for fifty! By then, though, I had got to know this industrious gentleman and realized how much he owed the church. With what must have seemed appalling ingratitude, I gave him an unequivocal refusal.

In the meantime, things had changed completely for the better.

I had two outstanding teachers as I studied the language: Mr. Georges Rock (Ashini in Innu) and Mrs. McTavish, better known by her maiden name, Marie Picard. From a young age, Mr. Rock had served as an interpreter and church cantor. He had married Miss Collin of Mingan, who had come to work as a housekeeper for the Hudson’s Bay Company manager. They had four sons—Sylvestre, Georges, Paul, and Joseph—and the first three were remarkably bright. Paul served for many years as chief of the reserve. His three daughters were also exceptional, each with admirable qualities. By the time I arrived in Betsiamites, Mr. Rock was already elderly, yet he retained a quick mind and a gracious helpfulness that one could never forget. After Mass on major feast days, following an old custom, he would bring me his cantors. We served them a glass of wine. If I forgot to refill their glasses, Mr. Rock would limp away, and we had to bring him back to cure his lameness.

Marie Picard was descended from Charles Picard, a Huron from Lorette who had settled in Betsiamites. She was exceptionally intelligent. She spoke French with perfect grammar and pronunciation. Montagnais, a beautiful language, sounded like music in her mouth. Her ever-active imagination had no hesitation in embellishing events recalled by her remarkable memory. I regret not having written down more of what I learned from these two people.

The winter of 1923–24 was spent learning the language and getting to know my parish and its outlying communities. In the summer, Father Doucet left to serve the other Innu reserves along the Coast. I believe I had won back everyone’s goodwill.

One of my predecessors, Father Brière, had replaced Father Arnaud’s old church with a new brick church in 1914, I believe. It was beautiful and spacious, but its interior had never been finished. Bishop Leventoux came for a pastoral visit and to preside at the August 15, 1924 celebration. The Innu Council spoke on behalf of everyone, asking him for permission to complete the church, which had no outstanding debt. Permission was granted, and my inexperience had to rise to the task. I knew a skilled foreman, Mr. Thimothée Landry of St-Octave-de-Métis, and brought him in. He recommended an architect, his cousin Pierre Raymond, who prepared an excellent plan at modest cost with his partner, Mr. Dionne.

There were no carpenters in the community, so we had to bring them in from elsewhere, and lodging in Betsiamites was scarce. The rectory was large, so we put them up there. By the end of November, the materials were on site and the workers had begun. The work advanced steadily through the winter. In June, when our hunters returned from the woods, we were able to show them a finished church: all white and fresh beneath its beautiful coat of paint, with a polished floor and varnished pews. They could express their admiration only with the same words: “Miam waskut”—“It is like heaven!” They loved the church and took great care of it.

One spring, Ignace Picard and his two sons returned with proceeds of nine thousand four hundred dollars, almost entirely from marten pelts.

Mink pelts could fetch as much as forty-five dollars. Black fox fur had become worthless after the fur industry found a dye that could turn red fox fur black. My father had once sold a black fox pelt for eight hundred dollars. Fur farming had not yet driven down the price of silver fox pelts; the finest could fetch two hundred and fifty dollars.

Other, less valuable catches included lynx, muskrat, and ermine. Otters were rare, and their price varied greatly with the quality of their fur. The finest could fetch one hundred dollars.

In those days, if you asked an Innu man, “Did you have a good hunt?” he would often reply, “A po chouk”—“Not much. Four thousand.” What a pity they had not learned to save more! But no one helped them. Their way of life was not suited to saving, either; it would have taken years and a new generation, with intensive training. The days of plenty are now past, and the Innu have to learn to earn a living in the way white people do.

To outsiders, their lives seemed harsh, but to them they were free and beautiful. They knew how to avoid its dangers. I do not remember a single accident in the woods during the seven years I spent with them. That showed how resourceful they were.

Pierre Metzekapo was a “Naskapi,” that is, an Indigenous man from the interior who had settled in Betsiamites. One evening, as he returned by canoe and landed a few hundred paces from his camp, he tried to grab his rifle by the barrel. It discharged and severed his right arm near the shoulder, leaving it attached only by a strip of flesh. Without hesitation, he cut through the remaining tissue with his knife, secured his canoe, gathered his weapons and belongings with his other hand, and made his way to camp. To stop the bleeding, he packed the wound with a handful of gunpowder. It must have been an excellent antiseptic: he healed without returning to the coast, continued hunting, and remained a hunter for the rest of his life. With one arm he was as strong as an ox.

Some of our hunters stood out above all the others, including Ignace Picard and his sons. They travelled far up the Manicouagan, past the great lake and as far as the range known as the White Mountains. There they often met Innu from Hudson Bay and traded fine furs for items such as watches and knives that they had brought for this purpose. Ignace was considered the best hunter on the reserve. He had built himself a good house, spent freely, and, being deeply charitable, gladly gave to anyone in need.

On that occasion he organized a large bonfire on the shore and danced the “Macouchame” with everyone. That was all very well, but his stay in Betsiamites was more like a vacation, spent mostly having fun and drinking.

He was hardly a model of temperance for the Innu. At last, the Indian agent and I went to Ottawa to file a complaint. We were promised that another inspector would be sent, though that happened after I had left.

It had once enjoyed a measure of prosperity and had a resident priest; the last was Father Brézel.

By 1924 only three families remained: David and Mrs. Miller, who lived with their son Oscar and his wife, Alice Martel of Manicouagan; Frank Miller, who had married Miss [Victoria] Thibeault; and Alexandre Miller, who had married Miss [Blanche] Imbeault of Portneuf. In 1925, a young man from Métis, Georges Deschènes, who had come to work on the church construction, would marry Frank’s daughter Alice and settle near his father-in-law.

The other houses and buildings of the Girouard Company had fallen into ruins.

In my view, David Miller was one of the North Shore figures who deserved special attention. He and his brother Xavier were sons of a Scotsman [Samuel Miller] who had come to the Coast, probably in the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company. David married Miss [Edmire] Arseneault from the Betsiamites mill. While still very young, he joined the postal service, carrying mail in winter from Betsiamites to Pointe-des-Monts, where another courier took it on to Sept-Îles. There were no roads or trails then. David made two or three trips each winter, travelling on snowshoes alone. He set out from Betsiamites with a seventy-five-pound mailbag and a few provisions on his back.

How far he travelled in a day depended largely on the condition of the snow. Homes stood many miles apart, and evening often came before he reached an inhabited place. Then Mr. Miller would choose a suitable spot—a rock ledge or a stand of fir trees offering shelter from the wind. He cut a few dry logs and built a good fire. With hot tea and a frugal meal, he slept beneath the open sky beside its warmth. At daybreak, after breakfast and another steaming cup of tea, he shouldered his snowshoes and mailbag again. Such a hard life seems inconceivable in our modern comfort. Mr. Miller was not the only one to live it. These hardy pioneers helped build our society in one way or another, and deserve our deepest admiration and gratitude.

Those old-timers all repeated the same saying: “Hardship doesn’t kill.” Mr. Miller was living proof. He lived to the age of eighty, a handsome white-bearded elder, gentle yet energetic and agile to the end.

He kept up this postal service for many years. By the time I arrived in Betsiamites, however, conditions had improved. There were more homes, closer together, and the mail had grown heavier and bulkier. Mr. Miller had to enlist his sons’ help. Mail was then carried by horse as far as Pointe-Lebel. From there, it travelled to Pointe-des-Monts in wooden canoes reinforced with sheet metal to withstand the ice. When the sea was clear, they rowed. If they encountered ice, they hauled the canoes onto it and dragged them with their cargo, taking care not to break through.

Later, Hector and Jean, the sailors from Pointe-aux-Outardes, took over the contract. They added motors to their canoes. When they did not have to drag the boats to keep warm, their only way to warm up was to swing their arms.

Progress gradually reached the region. I believe it was in 1926 or 1927 that Dr. Cuisinier [a French aviator] and Roméo Vachon inaugurated the first winter airmail service. At first, they carried only first-class mail, dropping it from the air as close as possible to the post offices. The service quickly expanded, began accepting passengers, and completely replaced overland mail delivery.

Dr. Cuisinier’s first plane was very small, and I do not know its name. It was soon replaced by [de Havilland Dragons], Fairchilds, and, [around 1949], Beavers [and eventually de Havilland biplanes], before the DC-3s and the aircraft we have today.

It was bitterly cold and stormy that day. He had travelled for part of the night and left his horse at the Sandbank. We had to cross the river by canoe despite the storm, then set out again along impossible roads.

Night had completely fallen by the time we arrived, and the poor girl had been dead for several hours. Imagine a family’s anguish in that lonely place. The young woman lay on her bed, waiting for hours to be buried. The Fortin family, three miles away, knew nothing. Mrs. Hickey wanted us to fetch Mrs. Fortin.

I had an old lantern lit and set off along the shore, skirting the woods. The wind sometimes blew it out, and I had to go into the woods to relight it. The Fortins had seen its flickering light and thought it was a will-o’-the-wisp. They were startled to see me come in and dismayed by the news.

The tide was rising, and a channel had opened between the ice floes. We put Mrs. Fortin in a small boat and, guided by her son, returned to the grieving family.

On another occasion, I was no more successful…

This was again at Îlets Jérémie, this time at the Fortins’ home. I had been called there along with the doctor for Mr. Fortin’s son, Héliodore. The young man had been married for more than a year to Alexina Gagnon, Mrs. Norbert Lebel’s niece, who helped her aunt at the rectory. The doctor found nothing serious, prescribed some remedies, and we returned to Betsiamites. Eight days later, I was called back for the same patient, this time with Dr. Eager from Chute-aux-Outardes. His condition had worsened considerably, and the doctor diagnosed peritonitis. The nearest hospital was in Rimouski, and no boat would be available until the following evening. The patient had a very high fever and was in great pain. He would not survive until the boat came if we left him as he was. We had to operate, at least to insert a drain.

What could we do? There was no electric light. It was night, and the doctor needed good lighting. The family had a Coleman lantern, but it would not work. I set about repairing it and managed to get it going.

I had to improvise as an anaesthetist—not to put the patient fully to sleep, but to make him unconscious enough to spare him too much pain. We sterilized the instruments, and the doctor performed the operation. It brought considerable relief, and the patient was able to rest while we waited to take him to Rimouski. Early the next morning, the doctor returned to Betsiamites and asked the captain of the V. M. Manicouagan to make a detour to Îlets Jérémie and take the patient aboard. At seven the next evening, I reached the hospital with him. The hospital doctors praised Dr. Eager for taking that initiative, but, alas, it was too late. Our young patient died during the night.

Fortunately, such serious cases were rare. More often we were called out for minor problems, a toothache or something similar. Still, we were always glad to respond at the first call, moved by these good people’s faith and trust in the priest. If Father Doucet and I were able to encourage them a little in their hard lives, we do not regret a single interruption. On the contrary, we feel that we shared in the work of pioneers and builders of this country. No one was perfect, but societies are built by imperfect people, and Providence continues its work through imperfect instruments. These men and women remain admirable and worthy of esteem. As the years pass, we take ever greater pride in having shared in their humble hopes and in God’s work among them.