By the Wind's Will

by Nat Burns

  When Foxy finished, Franc shook his head, as if trying to believe that this man had lived with the Indians for nigh on fourteen years, had a family, and then lived to tell of it. He sat back casually and remarked, “They ain’t all bad, are they?”

  Foxy looked puzzled so he repeated himself. “lnjuns. They ain’t all bad.” He chewed reflectively a moment, his mouth too full of food. “What are you gonna do now?”

  Foxy’s face was totally blank as she answered him. “I have no idea. Keep traveling on until I drop, I suppose.”

  “Tell you what,” The old man said, studying Foxy once more. “I ain’t as spry as I once was, so why’nt you stay on an’ help me? I could use a good strong man to set my traps.”

  Foxy reflected a moment, glad that the old man thought she was male. It certainly made her life easier. “What is it you do?”

  Franc explained that he was a trapper, especially of muskrat, a large rodent like swamp dweller.

  Foxy agreed. She could find no reason not to stay on for a while. Plus, she rather liked the grizzled old Frenchman.

  Foxy did stay and trapped alongside Franc. They became good friends and to Foxy, it felt right to have companionship again. She realized just how lonely she’d been for the past year. It was wonderful to have someone to talk to across a fire in the evenings, to have someone nearby at night for reassurance.

  “HEY, OLD MAN.”

  Several years later, they were sitting, despite the heat, by a roaring fire, gorging on fresh crab and salty cornbread.

  “Yah?” Franc smiled at the name Foxy had chosen to call him by.

  She leaned back with a sigh and patted her stomach. “I’m goin’ to get fat eating off this land. I’ve never seen such game in all my life.”

  “Yeah, this land, she is too good. You could live here forever an’ never use up all the food and timber.”

  Foxy belched loudly and then spoke thoughtfully. “You know, I think I’d like to settle here. I’d like Louis Land to be my home.” She gazed around fondly. “I’ve fallen in love with this place.”

  Franc nodded agreement. “Where you gonna build?”

  Foxy was puzzled for a moment. “Oh, you mean where I’m gonna build a home? I don’t know really, haven’t given it much thought, to tell the truth.”

  They sat in silence for a a moment, both deep in thought.

  Suddenly, Franc’s face brightened, and he spoke excitedly. “I know the exact place! It’s set kinda back from the river up on a hill. Prettiest place. Even already has pretty green grass, not like this ‘ere trash. I’ll show it to you in the mornin’. You’ll like it. Wait an’ see.”

  The next day they packed up their camp, loaded the two-man travois with furs yet to be traded and set out on the Frenchman’s small raft to float carefully down the great Mississippi river. They had to fight a strong swirling current most of the way and took turns poling the flimsy craft. It was while Foxy was steering and Franc resting when they experienced a strong leftward pull. The current was trying to steer them to shore.

  “Thass all right! Let ‘er go!” Franc cried when he saw Foxy struggling. “This ‘ere’s the place. That’s how you know, is when the river pulls you home.”

  Foxy gingerly slid her pole up and let the water guide the raft. She felt as though she’d been given a good omen but couldn’t be sure until she saw this “perfect” place the old man thought of so highly.

  They tied their raft to an old cypress, one that was leaning so far that it’s branches almost kissed the water and tucked the boat under its knees for safekeeping. They stepped out onto a narrow, beaten track that ran parallel with the river and stood for a minute, inhaling the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle which seemed to heavily permeate the air around them.

  Franc spoke, breaking the silence, in the hushed awe-stricken voice one uses in church. “You ever smell anythin’ so sweet? Ain’t no other place around here what got that good smell. You go out on your porch of the mornin’ an’ take a sniff. It’d make you feel good all the day long.”

  Foxy took another deep breath and let it out slowly. “I believe you know what you’re talking about, old man. Where is this piece of land you are so crazy about?”

  The Frenchman grunted and set off into the brush with Foxy tagging along behind. After a good half-hour walk, the surrounding countryside changed drastically. They entered into thickly forested land, very different from the bayou they’d been camping in. Halfway through those trees, Franc stopped so abruptly that Foxy bumped forcibly into him.

  “There she is, boy. The prettiest piece of Louisiana you’ll find!”

  Foxy gaped in awe. Stretched before her, dazzling in the sunlight, was a sloping green field as far as the eye could see. In the center, the ground rose gently, creating an interesting, pastoral focal point. She stared at the site for a long time, gauging possibilities.

  Finally, she turned to Franc, who had settled himself on a fallen log and was chewing a sliver of birch bark. “You are right. This is perfect. Here is where I will build. Who owns this land?”

  Franc squinted up at her. “Huh? Only God owns this land. If you willin’ to work it, it’s yours. You do gotta go to town an’ git a title so’s nobody else can settle it.”

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  February 1774

  NEW ORLEANS WAS a far cry from Savannah. There was a heavy European flavor to this city, with its tall, narrow buildings, open markets, cafes and beautifully pampered flower gardens. The air was full of smells—good food cooking, fragrant gardenia, wisteria and jasmine. The people surrounding Foxy were casually dressed, which suited the warm climate. There were slaves in bright prints and negresses with red kerchiefs about their hair. The white women and lovely café-au-lait women of color were dressed like flowers in full bloom—simple dresses but in bright splashes of color.

  Foxy’s avid eyes absorbed all this and she felt strangely alive and energized. She let Franc take the lead as this was his home. First, they went to a furrier and the old man haggled in heavy French patois. Foxy was amazed at his shrewdness for they came away with a seemingly enormous amount of money, but then she was unfamiliar with French currency.

  “Come,” Franc ordered. “We shall have a hot, sweet café-aulait.” He led Foxy to an airy outdoor cafe where soft, striped awnings flapped in the gentle river breeze.

  Franc greeted a waiter who was an old friend and they were quickly served with small cups of cream laden coffee and achingly sugary, delicious pastries. After they were sated, the old man handed Foxy her share of the money and watched her with an amused expression.

  “What do you think of La Nouvelle Orleans? She’s a pretty lady, isn’t she?”

  Foxy nodded, tucked the money away, and smiled in appreciation. “Yes, too pretty. I feel rather strange, surrounded by so much culture.”

  The Frenchman chortled and leaned back. “She affects many that way.”

  They sat for some time, watching young sailors from foreign parts, beautiful society dames, Negro nurses surrounded by well-dressed white children and the inevitable slaves, trotting along behind their masters or mistresses. Foxy drew a few curious glances now and then, for it was not often an Indian sat in an open cafe. She did look like an Indian still, in her buckskins with her tanned, strong body and cropped hair. One had to look at her blue eyes to realize that she was not. Franc noted the curious looks and, leaning across the table, whispered to her.

  “Fust thing we got to do is get you some proper clothing. There’s a store by the name Robard’s who can fix you up in no time and for a decent price. We’ll pay it a visit after seein’ ‘bout your deed.”

  Coming out of the clerk’s tiny, ink-stained office, Foxy was ecstatic for she was now the owner of four thousand acres of prime Louisiana land. It had taken a good while for the fussy little clerk to discern the area they were talking about and she was reluctant to talk business because of Foxy’s appearance. Finally, with Franc’s help with location, the
y were able to draw up the deed. Anxious for settlers, the disjointed Spanish government was giving land away for a pittance so Foxy was not set back financially at all.

  That night they spent in Franc’s house in town, a cozy little clapboard dwelling lorded over by a Lady Quest, the mulatto housekeeper. There they had a full, decent meal and a bath. The next day, they visited the tailor, where Foxy bought a half dozen readymade breeches and collared, buttoned shirts. She also bought boots, stockings and a hat. She kept her buckskins though, out of sentiment and practicality for buckskins were fine wear while in the wild. She spent most of the remainder of her money on basic necessities, enough to last for quite a while.

  After one more night in the city and fond farewells to Lady Quest, they picked up Foxy’s clothes and left the bustling port city. Foxy regretted not being able to see more of New Orleans but was looking forward to returning to her land. Her land. How good that sounded. It brought back sudden memories of England and her father saying, “If a person owns land, he has something to leave behind. Something his children can leave their children.”

  The thought made her feel like jumping for joy and weeping in sorrow, all at the same time. Her father would be proud of her that day and maybe a bit envious.

  SEVERAL MONTHS LATER Foxy walked from the furriers a wealthy woman. It seemed fox and muskrat pelts were all the rage in England, even during the financial crisis, and the prices had risen alongside demand. She and Franc had lived for the past six months in sturdy lean-tos, trapping and curing the pelts. Deer had been especially plentiful that spring and Foxy had taught Franc the finer aspects of hunting with bow and arrow so they had also brought a good number of deer pelts to sell.

  They had made a special occasion of the trip, both dressed in their finest. Foxy, wearing a suit of brown breeches and white cotton shirt, resembled the prosperous plantation owner she had become. The only outward sign of her Indian days was her proud, straight stance and she was now accepted in the city with little notice. With an enthusiastic, talkative Franc by her side, she went from shop to shop, buying tools here, bricks there and assorted odds and ends until she felt she had all she needed to begin building her home and her future. And books. Lots and lots of books.

  Together they strolled casually along the waterfront seeking bargains straight off the vessels. A crowd of people and a loud voice drew their attention and their presence. A slave auction was in full swing and while Franc watched with something akin to boredom, Foxy was both fascinated and repelled by the process.

  The dusty, disheveled and frightened Negroes were led one by one from a waiting line, up onto a large wooden platform and there they were effusively praised and shown off. Many of the darker-skinned people were direct from Africa and were frightened into sheer animal terror. They reared and bucked like wild horses as they fought passionately against their bonds, not understanding what had happened to them. It was a horrific display to Foxy.

  Potential buyers were invited to personally examine the slaves and Foxy was confounded by the way their skin actually shrank back, away from the strangers’ touch. They were auctioned off one by one, passed to owners or to those of their own race. And thus, their dignity was shorn from them. In addition, women were examined intimately before the whole crowd, inviting jeers and rude comments. The prettiest maids and comeliest lads were sold for upwards of two thousand crowns to be petted and spoiled, showpieces for wealthy jaded thrill seekers. Brawny field workers brought only slightly less. Franc interrupted Foxy’s horror by grasping her arm. “Now is the time to buy your workers. Not too many at first, just enough to get you started.”

  Foxy could not bring herself to bid then, however, she was too horrified and intrigued but after a while when the lesser quality Negros were brought forth she did bid on and win a few pleasant looking, able-bodied men. At the very end there was the vente aux encheres de morte, where old infirm slaves were auctioned because of their master’s death. Foxy, as well as Franc, was surprised when a lovely, slender young woman was brought forth. The auctioneer exclaimed that her name was Saranji and extolled her as the best cook in Louisiana. The toddler clinging round her skirt was called Kit and was not likely to interfere in “amorous pursuits.” This last was said with a leer and a knowing wink.

  Foxy’s temples began to pound with anger as a few men, or slaves, ordered by their masters, crowded around the cringing girl. Quickly, she pushed forward and shouted the first figure that came into her mind which happened to be three hundred crowns. The auctioneer looked shocked, but quickly composed himself.

  “Monsieur,” he called back with a humoring grin. “You are obviously a stranger to these parts and may not be certain of slave value. I can assure you that the girl is not worth so much. She is not even a virgin! You are starting the bid at far too large an amount.”

  With that said, he put Foxy from his mind and addressed the crowd again crying out, “Offret! Offret!”

  Foxy stepped forward and waved the promissory notes at the auctioneer.

  Men backed away, not wanting to best her bid and the crowd began to disperse somewhat. With little trouble Foxy soon owned the woman and child.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  September 1789

  “SARA! SARA! DAMN it,” Foxy called, glancing anxiously about the room. She held Franc in her arms, watching helplessly as the old man vomited out his life’s blood onto the polished wooden floorboards. Tears glistening on her lashes, she laid her friend back down onto the soft, feather stuffed bed and rushed from the room. On the landing at the head of the stairs, she encountered Sara struggling piteously to hoist an overlarge bucket of water up the last few steps. Angrily, but wanting to smile at the flushed face, she chided her while taking the rope handle of the bucket into her own hands and lifting it easily. “Silly girl! You shouldn’t have tried to carry so much at one time. Have you got the laudanum?”

  Sara was panting so heavily that she only nodded and produced the tiny brown bottle from an apron pocket. Foxy nodded her appreciation and led the way back to the small, sour smelling bedchamber. Franc lay as she had left him and for this she breathed a prayer of thanks. The old man was stubborn and until today they had been forced to keep him heavily sedated so that he didn’t make himself worse.

  Foxy administered the pain killer herself and waited poised until Franc’s breathing was regulated before taking a seat in a nearby chair and letting herself relax. She watched with lowered lids as Sara moved silently about the room, cleaning up the bloody vomit on the floor and straightening the usual sickroom clutter.

  Franc had been ailing for a long time, keeping it hidden until Foxy had noticed the mask of pain that had taken over his visage. Even then, stubbornness had prevailed, and no amount of dither could persuade the old man to visit the doctor in New Orleans. Laudanum, acquired by Foxy, eased the pain while those who loved him best watched him slowly die from a stomach ailment that no amount of treatment could remedy.

  Saranji, during this time, had been irreplaceable. With her daughter, Kit, in tow, she had taken over the nursing of Franc while Foxy rested, seeing that both ate what they could of her hearty, sumptuous meals and managing to keep the plantation running in Foxy’s stead. She had proven to be more than a trustworthy slave, she was a dear friend.

  The house at Trapper’s Folly, finished since ‘79 shone and gleamed from Saranji’s hard work. She had even directed the planting of a garden just outside the kitchen so that she could serve fresh vegetables every day. Foxy would never forget how she had hitched up her skirts and joined right in with Foxy and the men who built the plantation house. And how, at night she, covered with wood shavings and sweat, had somehow taken care of Kit and yet scrounged together a filling meal. Now, as she watched her graceful movements about the room, she seriously wondered why she had not taken her to bed. Sara would probably have been willing but to this day, Foxy did not crave that sort of involvement. The fact of her womanhood was a well-kept secret and she wanted it to stay that way. In
fact, during the past brace of years, she had become something of a hermit, desiring privacy above all.

  Franc moaned in his sleep and Sara quickly went to bathe his forehead with a cool, wet cloth. Foxy realized that the laudanum would soon be ineffective and hoped, far from heartlessly, that the old man would die mercifully soon. Rising, she stretched her tall frame and walked to the window.

  Trapper’s Folly was unusually quiet. Slaves had an uncanny sense about death and acted appropriately. They were working, clearing the south fields for a new planting, but without their usual boisterousness and many furtive, frightened, glances were directed toward the big house. Foxy had been lucky in buying slaves, as yet no runaways and no lazy or disobedient ones. She slid her gaze over to the frail Franc whose advice had proved infallible in the selection and handling of workers. How would she manage without his friendly counsel? Sara soothed the old man’s forehead, escaping strands of her long curly hair obscuring his face.

  Feeling penned, Foxy left the murkiness and stepped into the bright, sunlit hall. She took a deep breath of cool, clean air and turned to descend the spiral staircase, running her hand lovingly along the carved oaken railing. She was proud of her home that they had worked so hard on during the past decade.

  She had gone against the norm and disdained the use of plaster. Her interior walls were of rough wood planks over studs insulated with dried moss and mud bricks. The outside was of oiled cypress, chinked with mud and pebbles over a foundation of fired brick.

  A sturdy house, made to last centuries.

  The interior was her true pride. Luck having been with her, she had ordered her furniture and carpeting from England when prices were still reasonable, and the war had been no more than revolutionary talk. The furniture was, for the most part, dark mahogany and brocade and the pieces included chairs, a huge dining table, a small drop leaf round hall table, two magnificent secretaries, an oversized sideboard, along with numerous desks, settees, and washstands. Cupboards and beds were homemade of polished oak and cypress, as were the wardrobes. The huge slab of kitchen table had been crafted of heavy maple boards. The variety of woodgrain combined with the rich warm hues she had chosen, served to give each room a glowing warmth of its own. Her particular favorite was the book-lined library. It was a habitually messy room as Foxy could be found there at any time on any given day, books piled haphazardly around her favorite chair. She read voraciously, having been denied books since Finley. There was so much to catch up on and every trip into the city of New Orleans found her in the shop of Andre Manuel on Dauphin Street, a shop which had, thankfully, been spared from the spring fire the past year. There she found books brought in by couriers from the East at least once a month. Manuel also handled estate sales and Foxy had obtained a vast collection of books from others’ libraries during the past few years.