Before the keel
gravelled on the beach, M. Radisson's foot was on the gunwale, and he
leaped ashore. Godefroy followed, flourishing the French flag and
yelling at the top of his voice for the King of France. Behind, wading
and floundering through the water, came the rest. Godefroy planted the
flag-staff. The two crews sent up a shout that startled those strange,
primeval silences. Then, M. Radisson stepped forward, hat in hand,
whipped out his sword, and held it aloft.
"In the name of Louis the Great, King of France," he shouted, "in the
name of His Most Christian Majesty, the King of France, I take
possession of all these regions!"
At that, Chouart Groseillers shivered a bottle of wine against the
flag-pole. Drums beat, fifes shrieked as for battle, and lusty cheers
for the king and Sieur Radisson rang and echoed and re-echoed from our
crews. Three times did Allemand beat his drum and three times did we
cheer. Then Pierre Radisson raised his sword. Every man dropped to
knee. Catholics and Protestants, Calvinists and infidels, and
riff-raff adventurers who had no religion but what they swore by, bowed
their heads to the solemn thanks which Pierre Radisson uttered for safe
deliverance from perilous voyage. [1]
That was my first experience of the fusion which the New World makes of
Old World divisions.
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