The Pelican Bride

by Beth White

  How could she have thought marrying him would rescue her from her dilemma? Yes, her father would have been angry. Perhaps would have beaten her. And she had dreaded disappointing her mother. But nothing could have been worse than almost five years of tiptoeing around Mitannu’s temper. Five years of silence.

  Chazeh coughed, a thin, rattling sound, and opened his eyes. “Mama, I’m thirsty.”

  “All right.” She reached for a skin of water and trickled a little onto his lips. It was hot inside the chickee, and a fly buzzed with obnoxious busyness against the thatched wall.

  Chazeh licked the water off his lips, sighed, and closed his eyes again.

  Was his skin the faintest bit yellow? She brushed her thumb over his cheekbone, then his eye socket. The older he and his brother got, the more defined those bones grew. It was a wonder Mitannu hadn’t noticed.

  She flexed her aching shoulder. Maybe he had noticed.

  If she had taken off her dress to swim, everyone would have seen, Kumala would have berated her brother when next she saw him, and his resultant anger would have been worse than last night. No. No more swimming until the bruise followed its colorful cycle of purple, black, green, and yellow.

  She poured a little water into her hand and sprinkled it over her son’s forehead, where the fever burned hottest, a sort of motherly baptism. The thought made her smile. Mitannu had refused to have the boys baptized when the priest named Father Al-Bair had visited in the spring. Mitannu didn’t believe in the Frenchmen’s crazy Jesus-God as his father did. Nika wanted to believe, but five years of praying to whatever God would listen had done little for her and her two babies.

  So she had found another way, and soon she would have enough sous to leave for good. She wouldn’t get very far now, on the coins hidden in her woman bag. Soon, though. She would miss Kumala and the other women, but she was going to take the boys away from here before it was too late.

  Soon.

  Tristan waited just inside the door as Marc-Antoine approached his superior officer. Bienville sat hunched, frowning, over a leather-bound book of lading lying open upon the rough table. The commander, though closer in age to Marc-Antoine, had once been Tristan’s peer. But Tristan’s resignation of his commission in the French army had resulted in the rather uncomfortable situation that Bienville hardly seemed to know how to treat Tristan anymore.

  At the sound of Marc-Antoine’s boots upon the wooden floor, Bienville looked up. “Lanier. The women have arrived?”

  Marc-Antoine nodded. “The last of them are climbing up the bluff. Don’t you want to come out to welcome them?”

  Bienville grimaced. “Of course. I was just—” He caught sight of Tristan. “Ah. The other Lanier. What brings you here? I wouldn’t have thought you interested in French skirts. Your taste has always run to darker meat.”

  Tristan felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. “Your choice of phrasing, as always, Commander, is so refined.” He met his brother’s alarmed gaze with a shrug. “But, no, as you say, French skirts are not in my purview. I bring news from the upper river.”

  Bienville rose carefully, one hand pressed to his abdomen, indicating some injury. “And how would you know what’s going on upriver?”

  “As you well know, I maintain relationships with Sholani’s people. My sources of information don’t depend on kegs of ale.”

  Bienville scowled at Tristan for a moment. “If you say so.” He fell back into his chair, grimacing.

  “Is the stomach cyst still bothering you, sir?” Marc-Antoine took a worried step toward the commander.

  Bienville stopped him with a raised hand. “The pain comes and goes. I can stand it. What is important enough to bring you two in to interrupt me on the most auspicious day the colony has enjoyed in months?”

  The arrogant swine. Tristan figured he should take his information back to his plantation and let Bienville fend for himself. But that would leave his own brother vulnerable as well—not to mention the women who had just arrived at the settlement. He reined in his impatience. “The British recently sent agents to the Koroa village and bought peace with them.”

  “Bought peace? The Koroa aren’t stupid enough to believe the English will honor friendship sold at the price of a few beads and trinkets.”

  Tristan refrained from pointing out the irony of that statement. “It’s more than trinkets. The Koroa are now armed with muskets and powder. If they can defend themselves against slave-takers and hunt meat for themselves, they’ll become aggressive against our own Mobile and Alabama villages.” He glanced at Marc-Antoine. Jump in here anytime, brother.

  Marc-Antoine visibly gathered himself. “And, Commander, it seems the British have promised them more. More bread, more arms, and yes, more trinkets—if the Koroa will break trade relations with us.”

  Bienville slammed a hand on the table. “They wouldn’t dare.”

  “Yes. They would.” Tristan no longer chafed under the hotheaded commander’s authority, obliged to walk the thin line between obedience and truth. “The Koroa are just restless and bored enough to listen to those redcoat mercenaries. We have to do something.”

  Bienville’s lip curled. “If you think I’ll authorize emptying our warehouse and arsenal in some insane bribery competition—”

  “No such thing.” Tristan inclined his head toward his brother. “I suggest you use your biggest asset to create a peaceful coalition among the Koroa, the Choctaw, and the Chickasaw.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence before Bienville sputtered, “You think we can forge peace among three of the most contentious tribes in New France?”

  Tristan nodded. “Send Marc-Antoine and let him take along a priest as a sign of good faith—but show strength with a small armed contingent.”

  Marc-Antoine was savvy enough to address his commander with respect. “What do you think, sir? We’ve got to find some way to control the influence of the British and keep them out of our territory.”

  Bienville rubbed his midsection. “I can’t spare you. You’re my best interpreter.”

  “Sir, you speak the languages almost as well as I do now.” Marc-Antoine smiled. “You don’t need an interpreter.”

  Tristan nodded. “Besides, I can’t believe you’d expose those young women to attack and do nothing to prevent it.” He knew he risked piquing Bienville’s notorious stubborn streak, but the time for silence had passed.

  “It could work.” Bienville struggled to his feet again. “But for now, as you say, I must welcome our arrivals.” Sweating with the obvious effort to hide his pain, he glowered at Tristan. “The two of you keep your brilliant plan to yourselves until I determine if I can spare enough men to accompany the expedition.” He skewered Marc-Antoine with a look. “Is that clear?”

  Bienville had conceded more than expected. Marc-Antoine responded with a salute, while Tristan simply nodded. He could depend on his brother’s genius for good-natured common sense. The commander would come around—hopefully sooner than later.

  4

  The fort’s tiny chapel, in which Élisabeth le Pinteaux was joined by rite of holy matrimony to locksmith Paul Loisel, reminded Geneviève of nothing so much as a chicken coop riding upon a set of stumps. Constructed of pine slats pegged together with wooden dowels, minimally protected from the weather by a soggy thatched roof, and subject to marauding mosquitoes and roaches through its uncovered doors and windows, the little room was barely big enough to hold the bridal couple and Father Henri, plus a handful of witnesses roosting upon overturned boxes like so many brooding hens.

  Two days after their arrival at the fort, Geneviève sat in a place of honor near the front, along with Aimée and six other young women sufficiently recovered from the fever. She felt like the heroine of some macabre miracle play. A scant twenty-four hours ago, funeral rites for her friend Louise Lefevre had been conducted in this very building. Poor Louise had endured that miserable journey in hopes of becoming a bride, only to succumb to the fever yesterday morni
ng. The funeral mass and burial had been conducted in such brisk, almost matter-of-fact fashion, by fat Father Henri, that Geneviève concluded that survival in this place must be more the exception than the norm.

  Dear God, your purposes are so very strange. What if it had been me they’d hammered into that coffin and lowered into the marshy ground? What would have become of my sister?

  Geneviève glanced at Aimée, seated to her left, hands clasped in her lap, feet tucked under the ragged hem of her dress. Her blue eyes were trained on the bridal couple, her lips moving in unison with every word of the priest’s reading. Perhaps she imagined the day she would take a husband and become mistress of her own home.

  Perhaps they all did. Geneviève felt the eyes of the male congregants burning into the back of her head. In fact, her every move seemed strange and awkward, since it was guaranteed to draw attention. It was a mortifying sensation.

  Her glance cut to the other end of the pew. Françoise Dubonnier, self-appointed “governess superior,” clearly entertained no such qualms. The lovely spinster’s auburn hair, dressed with stacks of curls and ribbons arranged over a tall wire frame, blocked the view of the ceremony for anyone unfortunate enough to be seated behind her. A tiny, heart-shaped patch kissed the corner of her lips with seductive intent.

  It was said that Françoise remained intimate friends with the King’s ex-mistress, Madame de Montespan. Perhaps in Paris one could dress like a courtesan and maintain an image of decorum, but what about the contract all the women had signed before leaving France? More to the point, how had Françoise contrived to transport such finery all the way from Rochefort in the small quarters allotted aboard the Pélican? Geneviève herself owned only one other dress besides the one she wore.

  “You have declared your consent before the Church,” Father Henri intoned, drawing Geneviève’s attention back to the ceremony. “May the Lord in his goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with his blessings. What God has joined, men must not divide. Amen.” The priest took bride and groom by the hand and turned them to face the congregation. “I present to you Madame and Monsieur Loisel. Go in peace, children.”

  As Geneviève rose with the other witnesses, emotion tightened her throat. She had traveled a long way in search of peace. Could it be found in this land of exile?

  “If one more cabbage head refers to me as a ‘Pélican girl,’” Aimée said loudly as the congregation burst from the chapel and spilled onto the muddy drill ground, “I’m going to sprout feathers and peck his eyes out!” She paused to tweak the ivory lace fichu crisscrossed at her neckline, artfully exposing a more generous hint of cleavage.

  “Shh! A little discretion!” Geneviève pulled her aside, frowning at the fichu.

  Aimée sniffed as she restored herself to reluctant modesty. “Françoise says there are only three or four men of any substantial means in the entire settlement—and two of those aren’t even here. They’ve gone off hunting or exploring or some such nonsense. She thinks we should wait until we’ve had a chance to meet them all before choosing a husband.”

  Geneviève chose to ignore her sister’s budding hauteur, as anything that would prevent her from a hasty marriage must be a good thing. “How does Françoise know which men are of substantial means?” She linked arms with Aimée and moved with the flow of celebrants toward the fort’s main entrance. All had been invited to enjoy refreshments in the L’Anglois home.

  “She knows who to ask questions of, and what questions to ask.” Aimée glanced at the governess, who strolled along, a few feet ahead, in animated conversation with pudgy little Madame L’Anglois. “She says Commander Bienville is the finest catch of them all, and that he has not yet married because he wants a wife of noble blood.”

  Geneviève laughed. “Which lets you and me out of the running! Had you aspired to becoming the mistress of the entire settlement?” she added teasingly.

  “I don’t know why I should not!” Aimée flicked one of her golden ringlets behind her shoulder. “The commander is of a fine Canadian family and already owns what will become a sizable estate here—plus he has the ear of Monsieur Pontchartrain, who has the ear of the King himself. Françoise says his income is twelve hundred livres per year.” She glanced at Geneviève, a defiant tilt to her small dimpled chin. “And he is quite handsome, in spite of those horrible tattoos.”

  “Not so loud!” Geneviève glanced around, then whispered, “How do you know he has tattoos? Did Françoise tell you that too?”

  “I saw it myself,” Aimée said with relish. “I went out early this morning for . . . well, you know why. Anyway, I chanced to see the commander and some of his men coming from the direction of the river. I was back in the bushes, of course, so they didn’t see me. They were quite loud, and I had . . . you know, finished, so I peeked out.”

  “What if they had seen you? You must never go without me again!”

  “I was perfectly safe, so there!” Aimée snapped her fingers and grinned. “Commander Bienville has very broad shoulders. He had removed his tunic because they had been bathing—they were all dripping like fish—and I couldn’t help staring at the pictures all over his back. Crazy jagged lines and a bird in flight under a crescent moon—I think. It might have been a monkey.”

  Geneviève didn’t know whether to laugh or to strangle her hopelessly naïve little sister.

  Before she had time to do either, Madame L’Anglois looked over her shoulder and caroled, “Ladies! Young ladies! I wish you to come this way! I have refreshments for everyone at my home.”

  Curious as to the nature of refreshments in such a distant outpost, Geneviève allowed Aimée to pull her along willy-nilly in the wake of the hostess and found herself just behind the newly married couple. Élisabeth, tall and willowy in her gray kersey gown, a fistful of yellow wildflowers pinned at the waist, kept up a giddy spate of conversation with her red-faced bridegroom, trundling beside her like a wagon with a broken axle. Geneviève had been present at the betrothal agreement, when five eager couples had signed a series of documents joining their lives and estates. The legalities had been overseen by the three priests, Father Albert, Father Henri, and Father Mathieu, with Françoise keeping an eagle eye out for the women’s protection and provision. Three of the prospective brides were illiterate; each document must be read aloud in its entirety before the young lady fixed a large X on the signature blank. Geneviève, who had learned her letters from Jean Cavalier, couldn’t help being grateful that there was no danger of her or Aimée being taken advantage of.

  “My mother would like to immigrate next spring. She will help with the children.”

  Geneviève blinked, jerked out of her thoughts. At first she had the crazy notion Paul Loisel’s deep, shy voice had been directed to her, then realized that he was looking up at his open-mouthed bride.

  “What children?” Élisabeth finally managed to stammer.

  “The—the fruit of our union!” Loisel’s square face was nearly as painfully red as his waistcoat. “I want an heir or two, and you will need girls to help in the house. I can’t afford slaves, you know.”

  “Slaves?” Élisabeth’s voice was a squeak of confusion. “I don’t understand. What does this have to do with your mother?”

  Geneviève quelled Aimée’s giggle with a frown, but couldn’t help listening.

  Loisel gave his young wife a strained smile. “I came from Quebec with several other men, on the promise of rich estates with tobacco fields, fine houses, and a clutch of Indian slaves. The reality has been . . . less than promised.” He sighed. “But Bienville convinced us that it was but a matter of time before women would flock to the New World from France. We would shortly be married, producing sons and daughters to people our estates. So we stayed, making the best of a difficult situation.” He smiled, squeezing Élisabeth’s hand. “And here you are. My lady, my Pélican girl.”

  Élisabeth gave him a blank look, swallowed, and kept walking.

  “Cabbage head,” Aimée mutt
ered.

  Tristan picked up one of Madame L’Anglois’s sadly flat pastries and with a grimace put the whole thing into his mouth. It was the first Christian wedding he had attended since emigrating from Canada, and the jostling crowd made him long for the quiet solitude of his estate on the lower bluff.

  The bland pastry made him miss Sholani. Her corn bread had been famous throughout the Indian villages from the northern Little Tomeh to the nearby Pascagoula, from whence he had plucked her as a sixteen-year-old virgin beauty. She had been gone for two years now, and he could get through most days without thinking of her. Sometimes, though, he felt her absence with a visceral ache.

  “I’m surprised to see you still here, Lanier. You usually scuttle back to your little sand castle the moment business is concluded.”

  Tristan turned to find Nicolas de La Salle perusing the victual offerings at the other end of Madame L’Anglois’s imported buffet. He could not understand why everyone was so surprised to find him lingering at the settlement. True, he had not stayed for more than a day since Sholani’s death, but before that he had been Bienville’s right-hand man. And would be still, had he not decided to trade his plot of swampy Louisiane ground and move closer to his wife’s family.

  Ignoring the master supply officer’s sour comment, he allowed his gaze to sweep the bevy of young women fluttering amongst the men like parakeets. He would dearly love to have had a pencil and sheet of parchment in his hand and make a sketch. “Perhaps one of these ladies will be lucky enough to capture the hand of the settlement’s most eligible bachelor—excepting Bienville himself, of course. Does the commissary see anything he likes?”