The Flying Canoe

Image: La Chasse-galerie by Henri Julien, 1906, Musée national des beaux-arts du Québec

Written first in French by Honoré Beaugrand and published subsequently in English in 1892 in The Century Magazine. The French language title is La Chasse-galerie.

The Flying Canoe tells the story of eight Quebec lumberjacks who submit to the plea of one of their own to take The Devil’s Canoe back home for the New Year’s Eve. They’d have to make a pact with the Devil who has command over the canoe as he did in the days of the unfortunate Gallerie who was condemned to fly forever through the night skies for missing mass on Sunday to go hunting. Yet, these lumberjacks have been isolated in the deep forest of the Canadian pines for such a time that even the annual New Year’s party offered by the lumber company is not enough to take their minds off home.

Thus, one daring fellowman pleads on behalf of a remedy to their common loneliness. They can leave now this very evening and be back in the morning after spending New Year’s Eve with their friends back home if they take the canoe. But the hands of eight men are needed to fly the canoe. Eight men, who must make a pact with the devil, eight men possessed perhaps, but also confident that they possess the skill and accuracy of the voyageurs of old.

These men of the lumber camps were not to be ignored nor forgotten by a folk back home preying on their girlfriends as they toiled in isolation like the voyageurs before them. They were folk from a long line of those who left their friends to face often unknown risks. The manners of the village folk from which they came faded as they faced other ways of being. They became known as rude men of a mindset perhaps unknown and unappreciated back home. They were to become mysterious lumberjacks like a certain sort of ancestor, the voyageurs, who before them traveled back and forth between two worlds. But now to get the canoe of old to do the impossible, they had to act refined while in the canoe and among those back home. Therein lies the conflict of these men who lived between two worlds.

This legend presents in wonderfully colorful language the loneliness of lumberjacks in the giant Canadian forests of the late 1800s as well as their inclination to take risks. These lumberjacks possessed traits of earlier folk such as the voyageurs who lived between two worlds. Yet, at the New Years’ time of the year they felt, especially emphatically, the longing to be part of the lives of those who lived in the companionship and affection of being at home.

The descriptions of the lumber shanties and the rude men who inhabit them are rich and should make every listener feel privileged to get a glimpse of not only where these men worked, but how their minds worked as well. The legend tells how the men challenged submission to the isolation of the lumber camps, but for the most part submitted to it. The ironic candy pull would be enough for some. But other minds of among the lumberjacks would be drawn to other times of loneliness and mystery in the history of their own, offering at one time the victorious canoe from out of the time of the voyageurs and at another time the canoe from the confusing time of Gallerie whose defiance of the expected was punished.

As you listen to this legend as one who had the privilege of hearing it from a shanty cook in old Gatineau fifty years ago or read it now as written down, know that it is a folk legend exploring the mind as we might know it from old times and places.

Virgil Benoit, A Canadian Studies professor and docteur of old.

[See below for La Chasse-galerie Original version in French. L’original en français suit ]

[This story was told by Joe in a lumber camp shanty where he had been a cook for nearly forty years. I was there with those shanty men who listened to him on that particular New Year’s Eve as he told of his adventure with the devil and I have retold it many times since from memory when I was younger, exactly as it had been told by Joe. But I have since written it down so I might never miss a word of that bewildering adventure of making a bargain with the devil, le diable, as Joe, himself, referred to the tempter of foolish deals. You see, making this deal was the only way for lumberjacks to get back home from the lumber camps at New Year’s Eve when the parties of their villages were going on. Flying la chasse-galérie they called it, a deal with the devil to go home in a flying canoe. I will tell you this story as Joe told it to those lumberjacks who wanted to be entertained on New Year’s Eve.] And now, since…

Well, then, since you seem to desire it so very much, I will tell you a roarin’ story that ought to be a lesson to all of you. If there is among the crowd any renegade who intends to run la chasse-galerie or the loup-garou, he had better skip and go outside to see whether the owls are screeching in the storm, in converse with Old Nick himself, because I intend to begin my story by making a big sign of the cross. That will be a regular set-back to le diable, who always tries, at this time, to snatch a poor shanty man’s soul by promising him all kinds of nonsense. I have had enough of that in my young days to understand his tricks.

Not a man moved. On the contrary, all gathered closer around the fire place, where the cook had dragged the provision-chest, and upon which he had taken his seat on a camp-stool, preparatory to relating his experience under the wiles of the mauvais esprit.

It was on New Year’s Eve of the year 1858, in the depth of the forest, in the Ross timber camp, at the head of the Gatineau River. The winter had fairly set in, and the snow outside had already piled up to the roof of the shanty. The boss, according to custom, had ordered the distribution of the contents of a small barrel of Jamaica rum among the men, and the cook had terminated early his preparation of a succulent ragout of pigs’ feet and of a large tin full of glissantes for the New Year’s dinner.

A big kettle, half full of molasses, was already simmering on the fire, as there was to be a candy-pull to finish the evening’s entertainment.

Every man had filled his pipe with good, strong Canadian tobacco, and a thick cloud of smoke darkened the interior of the shanty. A few pine-branches thrown at intervals on the fire produced a reddish glare that illuminated the rude faces of the men with curious effects of clair-obscur.

Joe, the cook, was a homely little man who laughed at his own physical defects, and who did not take offense when his camarades chaffed him on the subject, and called him le bossu, the hunchback. He had worked in the shanties for the last forty years, and his experience was only equaled by the facility with which he could relate his adventures when he had taken a glass of bonne vieille Jamaique.

“I was telling you,” said Joe, “that I was a pendard in my youth, but it is long since I mended my ways, and now I never joke about religious matters. I go to confession regularly every year, and what I am about to relate took place years and years ago, when I feared ni Dieu, ni diable. It was on a night like this, a New Year’s Eve, thirty-four or thirty-five years ago. Gathered round the fireplace with all the camarades, we made merry; and if it is true, as we say in French, that ‘small rivulets make large rivers,’ it is just as true that small drinks empty large barrels. And in those days, people drank more than to-day, and evenings of this kind generally ended in boxing-matches, outside, in the snow. The rhum was no better than it is to-night, but it was bougrement bon, I can assure you. I will be frank with you and tell you that about elven o’clock my head began to feel dizzy, and I lay down on my buffalo robe to take a nap, while waiting for the midnight jump that we always take over the head of a pork-barrel, from the old year into the new one. We will repeat the same thing to-night before we go to visit the neighboring camps to wish them the compliments of the season.

II.

“I had slept for quite a while, when I was rudely awakened by a second boss, Baptiste Durant, who said to me: ‘Joe, it is past midnight, and you are late for the barrel-jump. The camarades have gone to the other camps, and I am going to Lavaltrie to see my sweetheart. Will you come with me?”

“To Lavaltrie,’ said I, ‘are you crazy? We are three hundred miles away from there, and you could not travel the distance in two months, through the forest, when there are no roads beaten in the snow. And what about our work the day after to-morrow?”

“Imbécile! Don’t you understand me? We will travel in our bark canoe, and tomorrow morning at six o’clock we will be back here for breakfast.”

“I understood. Baptiste Durant proposed that I should join him and run la chasse-galerie; risk the salvation of my soul for the fun of going to give a New Year’s kiss to my blonde at Lavaltrie. That was a little too much for me. It was true that I was a mauvais sujet, that I did not practice la religion, and that I took a drink too much now and then; but between that and the fact of selling my soul to le diable, there was a big difference, and I said: ‘No sir! Pas un tonnerre!’

“Oh, you are a regular old woman,’ answered Baptiste tauntingly. ‘There is no danger whatever. We can go to Lavaltrie and back in six hours. Don’t you know that with la chasse-galerie we can travel 150 miles an hour, when one can handle the paddles as well as we all do. All there is to it is that we must not pronounce le nom du bon dieu during the voyage, and that we must be careful not to touch the crosses on the steeples when we travel. That’s easy enough, and, to be all right, all a man has to do is to look where he goes, think about what he says, and not touch a drop of liquor on the way. I have made the trip five times, and le diable has not got me yet. Come, mon vieux, stiffen up your courage, and in two hours we will be at Lavaltrie. Think of Liza Guimbette, and the pleasure you will have in kissing her “a happy New Year.” There are already seven of us to make the trip, but we must be two, four, six, or eight, to make up the crew of the canoe.”

“Yes, that’s all right, but you must make an engagement with le diable, and he is not the kind of a bourgeois that I want to make any bargain with.”

“A simple formality, if we are careful where we go and not to drink. A man is not a child, pardieu! Come on! The camarades are waiting outside, and the canoe is already in the clearing. Come, come!”

“And I was led outside of the shanty, where I saw the six men who were awaiting us, paddle in hand. The large canoe was lying on a snow bank, and before I had time to think twice about it, I was seated in the bow, awaiting the signal to go. I must say that my mind was somewhat confused, but Baptiste Durand, who was a hard customer, for, it was said, he had not been to confession for seven years, gave me no time for reflection. He was standing in the stern, and exclaimed in a ringing voice:

A“Are you ready?”

“Ready.”

“Repeat after me.”

“And we repeated together;

“Satan! King of the infernal regions, we promise to sell you our souls, if within the following six hours we pronounce le nom du bon Dieu, your master and ours, or if we touch a cross on the voyage. On that condition you will transport us through the air, wherever we may want to go, and bring us back sound and safe to the shanty. Acabris, Acabras, Acabram! Fais nous voyager par-dessus les montagnes!”

III.

“The last words were hardly pronounced, when we felt the canoe rising in the air to a height of five or six hundred feet. I felt as light as a feather, and at Baptiste’s command, we commenced paddling like sorcerers that we were. At the first stroke of the paddle the canoe shot out like an arrow, and off we went under the protecting wing of le diable himself. It fairly took my breath away, and I could hear the bow of the canoe whizzing through the crisp air of the night.

“We went faster than the wind, and during the first fifteen minutes we sailed over the forest, without perceiving anything else than the dark heads of the great pines. It was a beautiful night, and a full moon lighted up the sky like the midday sun. It was terribly cold though, and our mustaches were fairly frozen, while our bodies were all in a perspiration. We were padding like demons at work in the lower regions. We soon perceived a bright, glistening belt of clear ice, that shone like a mirror. That was the Gatineau River; and then the lights in the farm-houses, which were mostly lit up on New Year’s Eve. We began passing the tin-covered steeples as quickly as telegraph-poles fly past in a railway-train, and the spires shone in the air like the bayonets of the soldiers drilling on the Champ de Mars, in Montréal. On we went like tous les diables, passing over forests, rivers, towns, villages, and leaving behind us a trail of sparks. It was Baptiste Durant, the possédé, who steered the canoe because he knew the route, and we soon came to the Ottawa River, which we followed down to the Lac des Deux Montagnes.

“Look out there,’ said Baptiste; ‘we will just skim over Montreal and frighten some of the fellows who may be out at this hour of the night. Joe, clear your whistle and get ready to sing your best canoe-song, “Canot d’écorce,” my boy!

“The excitement of the trip had braced me up, and I was ready for anything. Already we could see the lights of the great city, and with an adroit stroke of his paddle, Baptiste brought us down on a level with the summit of the towers of Notre-Dame. I cleared my throat and sang ‘Canot d’écorce’ while my camarades joined heartily in the chorus.

“Mon père n’avait fille que moi,

Canot d’écorce qui vole, qui vole

Canot d’écorce qui volera

Et dessus la mer il m’envoie

Canot d’écorce qui vole, qui vole,

Canot d’écorce qui volera!’

IV.

“Although it was well on toward two o’clock in the morning, we saw some groups of men who stopped in the middle of the street to watch us go by, but we went so fast that in a twinkle we had passed Montréal and its suburbs. We were nearing the end of our voyage, and we commenced counting the steeples, Longue Pointe, Point-aux-Trembles, Repentigny, St. Sulpice,--and at last we saw the two shining spires of Lavaltrie that gleamed among the dark-green pines of the domain.

“Look out over there!’ shouted Baptiste. ‘We will land on the edge of the wood, in the field of my godfather, Jean-Jean Gabriel. From there we will proceed on foot to go and surprise our acquaintances in some fricot or dance in the neighborhood.”

We did as directed and five minutes later our canoe lay in a snowbank, at the edge of the wood of Jean-Jean Gabriel. We started in Indian file to go to the village. It was no small job, because the snow reached to our waists and there was no trace of any kind of a road. Baptiste, who was the most daring of the crowd, went and knocked at the door of his godfather’s house, where we could see a light, but there was no one there except a servant, who told us that the old folks had gone to a snaque at old man Robillard’s place, and that the young people of the village—boys and girls—were across the St. Lawrence at Batissette Augé’s, at the Petite Misère, below Contrecoeur, where there was a New Year’s hop.

“Let us go to the dance at Batissette Augé’s, said Baptiste; ‘we are sure to find our sweethearts over there.”

“Let us go to Batissette Augé’s!”

“And we returned to our canoe, while cautioning one another against the great danger that there was in pronouncing certain words, in touching anything in the shape of a cross, and especially in drinking liquor of any kind.

We had only four hours before us, and we must return to the shanty before six o’clock in the morning, if we wanted to escape from the clutches of Old Nick, with whom we had made such a desperate bargain. And we all knew that he was not the kind of a customer to let us off, in the event of any delay on our part.

“’Acrabris, Acrabas, Acabram! Fais nous voyager par-dessus les montagnes!” shouted Baptiste once more.

“And off we went again, paddling through the air, like renegades that we were, every one of us. We crossed the river in less time than it requires to tell it, and we descended in a snow-bank close to Batissette Augé’s house, where we could hear the laughter of the dancers, and see their shadows through the bright windows.

“We dragged our canoe on the riverside, to hide it among the hummocks produced by the ice-shove.

“Now,” said Baptiste, in a last warning, ‘no nonsense! Do you hear? Dance as much as you can, but not a single glass of rum or whisky. And at the first sign, follow me out without attracting attention. We can’t be too careful!”

And he went and knocked at the door.

“Old Batissette came and opened the door himself, and we were received with open arms by the guests, who knew us all.

“Where do you come from?”

“I thought you were in the chantiers, up the Gatineau?”

“What makes you come so late?”

“Come and take a smile.”

“Baptiste came to the rescue by saying: ‘First and foremost, let us take our coats off, and give us a chance to dance. That’s what we came here for and if you still feel curious in the morning, I will answer all your questions.”

“For may part, I had already spied Liza Guimbette, who was chatting away with little Boisjoili of Lanoraie. I made my réverence in due style, and at once asked for the favor of the next dance, which was a four-handed reel. She accepted with a smile that made me forget that I had risked the salvation of my soul to have the pleasure of pressing her soft white hand in mine and of cutting pigeon wings as her partner. During two hours the dancing went on without stopping and, if I do say so myself we shanty fellows cut a shine in the dance that made the hayseeds tired before morning. I was so busy with my partner that, at first, I did not notice that Baptiste was visiting the buffet rather often with some of the other boys, and once I caught him lifting his elbow in rather a suspicious manner. But I had no idea that the fellow would get tipsy, after all the lecturing he had given us on the road. When four o’clock struck, all the members of our crew began to edge out of the house without attracting attention, but I had to drag Baptiste before he would consent to go. At last we were all out, with just two hours before us to reach the camp, and three hundred miles to ride in our canoe, under the protections of Beelzebub. We had left the dance like (wild Indians) people with no upbringing without saying good-bye to anybody, not even to Liza Guimbette, whom I had invited for the next cotillon. I always thought that she bore me a grudge for that, because when I reached home the next summer, she was Madame Boisjoli.

“We found our canoe all right in the hummocks, but I need hardly tell you that we were all put out when we found that Baptiste Durand had been drinking. He was to steer the boat, and we had no time to lose in humoring the fancies of a drunken man. The moon was not quite so bright as when we started from the camp, and it was not without misgivings that I took my place in the bow of the canoe, well-decided to keep a sharp lookout ahead for accidents. Before starting I said to Baptiste:

“Look out, Baptiste, old fellow! Steer straight for the mountain of Montréal, as soon as you can get a glimpse of it.”

“I know my business,’ answered Baptiste sharply, ‘and you had better mind yours.”

“What could I do? And before I had time for further reflections:

“Acabris! Acabras! Acabram! Fais nous voyager par-dessus les montagnes!”

VI.

“And up we went again like lightning, steering southwest, if the wild way in which Baptiste managed our boat could be called steering. We passed over the steeple of the church at Contrecoeur, coming pretty close to it, but instead of going west Batiste made us take a sheer toward the Richelieu River. A few minutes later we were skimming over Beloeil Mountain and we came within ten feet of striking the big cross that the Bishop of Quebec planted there, during a temperance picnic held a few years before by the clergy of his diocese.

“To the right, Baptist! Steer to the right, or else you will send us all to le diable if you keep on going that way.”

“And Baptiste did instinctively turn to the right, and we steered straight for the mountain of Montréal, which we could perceive in the distance by the dim lights of the city. I must say that I was becoming frightened, because if Baptiste kept on steering as he had done, we would never reach the Gatineau alive, and le diable was probably smacking his lips, as I supposed, at the bare idea of making a New Year’s mess of us. And I can tell you that the disaster was not long in coming. While we were passing over the city, Baptiste Durand uttered a yell, and, flourishing his paddle over his head, gave it a twist that sent us plunging into a snowdrift, in a clearing on the mountain-side. Luckily the snow was soft, and none of us were hurt, nor was the canoe injured in any way. But Baptiste got out and declared most emphatically that he was going down-town to have un verre. We tried to reason with him. But our efforts proved useless, as is generally the case with les ivrognes. He would go down if le diable himself were to catch hold of him on the way. I held a moment’s consultation with mes camarades, and, before Baptiste knew what we were about, we had him down in the snow, where we bound him hand and foot so as to render him incapable of interfering with our movements. We placed him in the bottom of the canoe and gagged him so as to prevent him from speaking any words that might give us up to perdition.

“And ‘Acabris! Acabras! Acabram!’ up we went again, this time steering straight for the Gatineau. I had taken Baptiste’s place in the stern. We had only a little over an hour to reach camp, and we all paddled away for dear life and eternal salvation. We followed the Ottawa River as far as the pointe- Gatineau, and then steered due north by the polar star for our shanty. We were fairly flying in the air, and everything was going well when that rascal of a Baptiste managed to slip the rope, we had bound him with and to pull off his gag. We had been so busy paddling that, the first thing we knew, he was standing in the canoe, paddle in hand, and swearing like a pagan. I felt that our end had come if he pronounced a certain sacred word, and it was out of the question to appease him in his frenzy. We had only a few miles to go to reach camp, and we were floating over the pine forest. The position was really terrible. Baptiste was using his paddle like a shillalah and making a moulinet that threatened every moment to crush in someone’s head. I was so excited that by a false movement of my own paddle I let the canoe come down on a level with the pines, and it was upset as it struck the head of a big tree. We all fell out and began dropping down from branch to branch like partridges shot from the tamarack-tops. I don’t know how long I was coming down, because I fainted before we reached the snow beneath, but my last recollection was like the dream of a man who feels himself dropping down a well without ever reaching bottom.

VII.

“About eight o’clock the next morning, I awoke in my bunk, in the cabin, whither some of our camarades had conveyed us after having found us to our necks in a neighboring snowbank, at the foot of a monster pine-tree. Happily, no one was seriously hurt, although we were all more or less bruised and scratched, some having secured even black eyes in our way down from the tree-top. We were all thankful that nothing worse had befallen us, and when the camarades said that they had found us sleeping away in the snow the effects of the previous night’s frolic, not one of us had anything so say to the contrary. We all felt satisfied that our escapade with Old Nick remained unknown in the camp, and we preferred leaving our chums under the impression that we had taken un verre too many, [rather than tell] to tell them of the bargain we had made to satisfy a passing fancy. So far as Baptiste Durand was concerned, there is no doubt that he had forgotten the latter part of his voyage, but he never alluded to the fact, and we followed his example. It was not till many years afterward that I related the story of our aventures, just as they happened on that memorable New Year’s Eve.

“All I can say, my friends, is that it is not so amusing as some people might think, to travel in mid-air, in the dead of winter, under the guidance of Beelzebub, running la chasse galerie, and especially if you have un ivrogne to steer your bark canoe. Take my advice, and don’t listen to any one who would try to rope you in for such a trip. Wait until summer before you go to see your sweethearts, for it is better to run all the rapids of the Ottawa and the St. Lawrence on a raft, than to travel in partnership with le diable himself.” [The story had now ended.]

And Joe, the cook dipped a ladleful of boiling molasses from the big kettle on the fire and declared that everything was now ready for the candy-pull.

Honoré Beaugrand

Pour lors que je vais vous raconter une rôdeuse d'histoire, dans le

fin fil; mais s'il y a parmi vous autres des lurons qui auraient

envie de courir la chasse-galerie ou le loup-garou, je vous avertis

qu'ils font mieux d'aller voir dehors si les chats-huants font le

sabbat, car je vais commencer mon histoire en faisant un grand signe

de croix pour chasser le diable et ses diablotins. J'en ai eu assez

de ces maudits-là dans mon jeune temps.

Pas un homme ne fit mine de sortir; au contraire tous se

rapprochèrent de la cambuse où le _cook_ finissait son préambule et

se préparait à raconter une histoire de circonstance.

On était à la veille du jour de l'an 1858, en pleine forêt vierge,

dans les chantiers des Ross, en haut de la Gatineau. La saison avait

été dure et la neige atteignait déjà la hauteur du toit de la cabane.

Le bourgeois avait, selon la coutume, ordonné la distribution du

contenu d'un petit baril de rhum parmi les hommes du chantier, et le

cuisinier avait terminé de bonne heure les préparatifs du fricot de

pattes et des glissantes pour le repas du lendemain. La mélasse

mijotait dans le grand chaudron pour la partie de tire qui devait

terminer la soirée.

Chacun avait bourré sa pipe de bon tabac canadien, et un nuage épais

obscurcissait l'intérieur de la cabane, où un feu pétillant de pin

résineux jetait, cependant, par intervalles, des lueurs rougeâtres

qui tremblotaient en éclairant par des effets merveilleux de

clair-obscur, les mâles figures de ces rudes travailleurs des grands

bois.

Joe le _cook_ était un petit homme assez mal fait, que l'on

appelait assez généralement le bossu, sans qu'il s'en formalisât, et

qui faisait chantier depuis au moins 40 ans. Il en avait vu de toutes

les couleurs dans son existence bigarrée et il suffisait de lui faire

prendre un petit coup de jamaïque pour lui délier la langue et lui

faire raconter ses exploits.

--Je vous disais donc, continua-t-il, que si j'ai été un peu _tough_

dans ma jeunesse, je n'entends plus risée sur les choses de la

religion. J'vas à confesse régulièrement tous les ans, et ce que je

vais vous raconter là se passait aux jours de ma jeunesse quand je ne

craignais ni Dieu ni diable. C'était un soir comme celui-ci, la

veille du jour de l'an, il y a de cela 34 ou 35 ans. Réunis avec tous

mes camarades autour de la cambuse, nous prenions un petit coup;

mais si les petits ruisseaux font les grandes rivières, les petits

verres finissent par vider les grosses cruches, et dans ces temps-là,

on buvait plus sec et plus souvent qu'aujourd'hui, et il n'était pas

rare de voir finir les fêtes par des coups d poings et des tirages de

tignasse. La jamaïque était bonne,--pas meilleure que ce soir,--mais

elle était bougrement bonne, je vous le parsouête. J'en avais bien

lampé une douzaine de petits gobelets, pour ma part, et sur les onze

heures, je vous l'avoue franchement, la tête me tournait et je me

laissai tomber sur ma robe de carriole pour faire un petit somme en

attendant l'heure de sauter à pieds joints par-dessus la tête d'un

quart de lard, de la vieille année dans la nouvelle, comme nous

allons le faire ce soir sur l'heure de minuit, avant d'aller chanter

la guignolée et souhaiter la bonne année aux hommes du chantier

voisin.

Je dormais donc depuis assez longtemps lorsque je me sentis secouer

rudement par le boss des piqueurs, Baptiste Durand, qui me dit:

--Joe! minuit vient de sonner et tu es en retard pour le saut du

quart. Les camarades sont partis pour faire leur tournée et moi je

m'en vais à Lavaltrie voir ma blonde. Veux-tu venir avec moi?

--À Lavaltrie! lui répondis-je, es-tu fou? nous en sommes à plus de

cent lieues et d'ailleurs aurais-tu deux mois pour faire le voyage,

qu'il n'y a pas de chemin de sortie dans la neige. Et puis, le

travail du lendemain du jour de l'an?

--Animal! répondit mon homme, il ne s'agit pas de cela. Nous ferons

le voyage en canot d'écorce à l'aviron, et demain matin à six heures

nous serons de retour au chantier.

Je comprenais.

Mon homme me proposait de courir la chasse-galerie et de risquer mon

salut éternel pour le plaisir d'aller embrasser ma blonde, au

village. C'était raide! Il était bien vrai que j'étais un peu ivrogne

et débauché et que la religion ne me fatiguait pas à cette époque,

mais risquer de vendre mon âme au diable, ça me surpassait.

--Cré poule mouillée! continua Baptiste, tu sais bien qu'il n'y a pas

de danger. Il s'agit d'aller à Lavaltrie et de revenir dans six

heures. Tu sais bien qu'avec la chasse-galerie, on voyage au moins 50

lieues à l'heure lorsqu'on sait manier l'aviron comme nous. Il s'agit

tout simplement de ne pas prononcer le nom du bon Dieu pendant le

trajet, et de ne pas s'accrocher aux croix des clochers en voyageant.

C'est facile à faire et pour éviter tout danger, il faut penser à ce

qu'on dit, avoir l'oeil où l'on va et ne pas prendre de boisson en

route. J'ai déjà fait le voyage cinq fois et tu vois bien qu'il ne

m'est jamais arrivé malheur. Allons mon vieux, prends ton courage à

deux mains et, si le coeur t'en dit, dans deux heures de temps nous

serons à Lavaltrie. Pense à la petite Liza Guimbette et au plaisir de

l'embrasser. Nous sommes déjà sept pour faire le voyage mais il faut

être deux, quatre, six ou huit et tu seras le huitième.

--Oui! tout cela est très bien, mais il faut faire un serment au

diable, et c'est un animal qui n'entend pas à rire lorsqu'on s'engage

à lui.

--Une simple formalité, mon Joe. Il s'agit simplement de ne pas se

griser et de faire attention à sa langue et à son aviron. Un homme

n'est pas un enfant, que diable! Viens! viens! nos camarades nous

attendent dehors et le grand canot de la _drave_ est tout prêt pour

le voyage.

Je me laissai entraîner hors de la cabane où je vis en effet six de

nos hommes qui nous attendaient, l'aviron à la main. Le grand canot

était sur la neige dans une clairière et avant d'avoir eu le temps de

réfléchir, j'étais déjà assis dans le devant, l'aviron pendant sur le

plat-bord, attendant le signal du départ. J'avoue que j'étais un peu

troublé, mais Baptiste qui passait, dans le chantier, pour n'être pas

allé à confesse depuis sept ans ne me laissa pas le temps de me

débrouiller. Il était à l'arrière, debout, et d'une voix vibrante il

nous dit:

--Répétez avec moi!

Et nous répétâmes:

--Satan! roi des enfers, nous te promettons de te livrer nos âmes,

si d'ici à six heures nous prononçons le nom de ton maître et du

nôtre, le bon Dieu, et nous touchons une croix dans le voyage. À

cette condition tu nous transporteras à travers les airs, au lieu où

nous voulons aller et tu nous ramèneras de même au chantier!

III

Acabris! Acabras! Acabram

Fais-nous voyager par-dessus les montagnes

À peine avions-nous prononcé les dernières paroles que nous sentîmes

le canot s'élever dans l'air à une hauteur de cinq ou six cents

pieds. Il me semblait que j'étais léger comme une plume et au

commandement de Baptiste, nous commençâmes à nager comme des possédés

que nous étions. Aux premiers coups d'aviron le canot s'élança dans

l'air comme une flèche, et c'est le cas de le dire, le diable nous

emportait. Ça nous en coupait le respire et le poil en frisait sur

nos bonnets de carcajou.

Nous filions plus vite que le vent. Pendant un quart d'heure,

environ, nous naviguâmes au-dessus de la forêt sans apercevoir autre

chose que les bouquets des grands pins noirs. Il faisait une nuit

superbe et la lune, dans son plein, illuminait le firmament comme

un beau soleil du midi. Il faisait un froid du tonnerre et nos

moustaches étaient couvertes de givre, mais nous étions cependant

tous en nage. Ça se comprend aisément puisque c'était le diable qui

nous menait et je vous assure que ce n'était pas sur le train de la

_Blanche_. Nous aperçûmes bientôt une éclaircie, c'était la

Gatineau dont la surface glacée et polie étincelait au-dessous de

nous comme un immense miroir. Puis, p'tit-à-p'tit nous aperçûmes des

lumières dans les maisons d'habitants; puis des clochers d'églises

qui reluisaient comme des baïonnettes de soldats, quand ils font

l'exercice sur le Champ de Mars de Montréal. On passait ces clochers

aussi vite qu'on passe les poteaux de télégraphe, quand on voyage

en chemin de fer. Et nous filions toujours comme tous les diables,

passant par-dessus les villages, les forêts, les rivières et laissant

derrière nous comme une traînée d'étincelles. C'est Baptiste, le

possédé, qui gouvernait, car il connaissait la route et nous

arrivâmes bientôt à la rivière des Outaouais qui nous servit de guide

pour descendre jusqu'au lac des Deux-Montagnes.

--Attendez un peu, cria Baptiste. Nous allons raser Montréal et nous

allons effrayer les coureux qui sont encore dehors à c'te heure cite.

Toi, Joe! là, en avant, éclaircis-toi le gosier et chante-nous une

chanson sur l'aviron.

En effet, nous apercevions déjà les mille lumières de la grande

ville, et Baptiste, d'un coup d'aviron, nous fit descendre à peu près

au niveau des tours de Notre-Dame. J'enlevai ma chique pour ne pas

l'avaler, et j'entonnai à tue-tête cette chanson de circonstance que

tous les canotiers répétèrent en choeur:

Mon père n'avait fille que moi,

Canot d'écorce qui va voler,

Et dessus la mer il m'envoie: