Letters exchanged between Father Louis Hennepin and Daniel Greysolon, Sir Duluth. From a special collection at Northern Illinois University, translated from the French by Peter S. Svenson.

To: Daniel Greysolon, Sir Duluth
Montreal, New France
From: Father Louis Hennepin
Rome
Date: August 23, 1701

Dear Duluth,

Remember our exchange when you rescued me from my kidnappers? I asked you, “Do you have to look so much like a French musketeer?” And you replied, “Do you have to look so much like Friar Tuck?” Forgive me. An old man on my deathbed, let me put things right. I anticipate my reward but I cannot help but look back at the many enemies I made. I hope you were not one of them. I only spent a short while in New France. And we did not know each other well. But we tore it up, didn’t we? I should think they will name a city after you someday. Myself, I will be contented with a street or two named after me, perhaps a bridge. One doesn’t wish to be prideful. But you deserve your glories.

One thing bothers me. Please tell me what you remember of our time on Lake Superior, on our final full day together. My memories of the event are confused. We caught no fish yet we were out there for hours.

Yours,
Louis

To: Father Louis Hennepin
From: Daniel Greysolon, Sir Duluth
Date: December 7, 1701

Dear Louis,

I gave the warriors a proper dressing-down in the council for kidnapping you. The year was 1680. I refused their gifts in order to show my displeasure – except for the three slaves which I only took because I needed them to carry my stuff. What was I to do with no slaves out in the middle of nowhere? My fellow Frenchmen were useless, drunk on port half the time. You liked it, it would have done well as Communion wine. Myself, I will portage a barrel of beer 100 leagues on my back as you know.

I was irritated with you for going and getting yourself kidnapped. It was a delicate situation but you just charged in preaching your gospels to the first war party you could find. They didn’t mean anything by it. They felt bad that I was so angry with them. I don’t think they realized their treaty with France meant they couldn’t kidnap any Frenchmen. It’s a good thing I didn’t tell them you were Belgian. I greeted you with, “Father Hennepin, I presume?” I really had to put on a show as I hustled us away. But I was ready to strangle you. Once we were out of earshot I shouted, “Do you have any idea of the beaver money at stake in our affairs here?” You just chuckled, claiming to serve God. But you served at the pleasure of the King like I did. Your soul-saving lubricated the wheels of commerce that I established, subordinating God to the aims of the Royal Treasury. You never understood that.

On our last day, we awoke in the sand of the miles-long spit at the Western tip of Lake Superior. The air was warm but smelled of fall. It was calm, so after the slaves made us duck-egg mushroom omelets, we launched a canoe. I never could get them to make a good omelet. But we ate and then the two of us went on the water to catch lunch. I don’t know about you, but my recollection is that within the hour, the color blue started looking a little funny. And blue was everywhere we looked, the sky was blue and the lake was blue. So everything seemed a little funny. I later came to understand this is the peculiar poisoning of a certain foraged mushroom, likely intended to derange our senses as the slaves made their getaway. “Look,” you said as the canoe bobbed up and down ever so slightly, “Your slaves are running away.” I looked and they melted into the scenery. My hungover Frenchmen did nothing. At that point I didn’t care.

“Does the water move, or does the canoe move?” you asked.

“The mind moves,” I said.

The sky was a vault of eyes when I had a vision of a city on the hill: debrided of trees, sawmills shipping lumber. There was a canal, a bridge, and 80,000 people or more — the size of Venice, a hub awash in art and music. “Hennepin!” I cried. “Do you see it!” But I think you saw another city, a city of sin and depravity that would only need your grace to save it.

With love,

Duluth

An index of Jim Richardson’s writing may be found here.