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sailed past the high rocky cliffs of Newfoundland. Then the coast of Nova Scotia paraded before their eyes.
    The St. Lawrence narrowed but still appeared gigantic compared to the watercourses of France. Sometimes they rounded a green island set like an emerald in the steel-grey ribbon of the river. The wind brought them the invigorating scent of the pines that bordered the shores and came down right to the banks.
    One morning as the passengers on deck were admiring the rocks jutting over the Saguenay River, Sister Bourgeoys took Jeanne to the narrow cabin she shared with five of the novices. With a laugh, the seasoned traveller told her companions that the dark little cubby-hole represented a luxury for her. Indeed, she had already made the crossing on deck, sleeping in the open on the ropes, in the days when she had been too poor to afford a bed on board.
    â€œJeanne,” said Sister Bourgeoys, “I’ve prepared this bag for you. It will help you help others. I can see in you a great need for devotion; that will be your greatest asset in your new life.”
    She handed Jeanne a heavy, square leather sack, fitted with a strap so it could be carried over the shoulder.
    â€œI’ve filled this bag with medicines and curative herbs. I collected ample supplies before I left France,” the nun went on.
    Setting the sack on the narrow bench that served as a bed, she opened it and showed her charge an assortment of smaller sacks, glass bottles and flasks, all carefully labelled. A small book full of notes came along with it.
    â€œHere you will find the description of every remedy, the illnesses they’re used for, doses and the effects to expect. I know you are diligent enough to study it and benefit from it. And you must not neglect the knowledge of the many wise people you will meet.
    â€œAlways be on the alert for new curative plants. New France has many that the Indians or settlers will show you. The Indians possess the secrets of some very efficient cures.”
    Marguerite Bourgeoys closed the sack and added a little slyly, “And neither should you forget the very positive moral effect of a harmless potion when the true nature of the illness escapes you. I have often cured dizziness with sugared warm water. And mothers sleep better when they have a medicine to give their children at regular intervals. It reassures them and doubles their courage.”
    Jeanne listened attentively, her grey eyes intently watching the wrinkled face of her benefactress. She considered herself a soldier being entrusted with a mission.
    â€œYou will not have put your confidence in me in vain, sister,” the orphan passionately declared. “I’ve already learned much during this crossing, and before we set foot in Quebec, I will know this notebook by heart.”
    Jeanne’s zeal confirmed Marguerite Bourgeoys’s opinion. The old nun was a good judge of women of action and she had discovered one of that breed in this difficult student in whom Mother de Chablais couldn’t find one good quality.
    Jeanne carried the heavy sack to her cabin, took out the notebook and emptied the medicines onto the straw mattress. She plunged into the study of this new science, and every free moment found her murmuring,
    â€œMarseilles vinegar for the plague.
    Melissa cordial for migraine.
    Poppy for bronchitis.
    Hawthorn for the heart.
    Paregoric for relief of pain.”
    If it was up to Jeanne Chatel, the colony would be bursting with perpetual health and would soon contain only alert hundred-year-olds and bouncing babies.
    7
    QUEBEC
, August, 1672
    On a beautiful evening in the month of August, the sailing ship passed Ile d’Orléans and approached the fortified city of Quebec, perched on the heights of its gigantic cliff.
    The royal flag was flapping in the wind above the log fortifications of Chateau Saint-Louis, which towered over the rock. Jeanne looked up proudly at that symbol of the courage and