by Beth White
God have mercy on me.
23
I’m not convinced this woman is telling the truth about a British attack.” Bienville pushed his hands into his disordered hair. His eyes were opaque with worry, permanent lines of anxiety etched beside his nose and between his brows.
Tristan thought his old friend seemed to have aged ten years in the last twenty-four hours. Indeed he could feel his own weariness pressing like a hundred-pound weight upon his shoulders. Leaving Geneviève curled in an exhausted sleep on an improvised pallet in a corner of Bienville’s office, he had slogged across the settlement through the mud and the rain to the priests’ quarters. There he found Father Henri and Father Albert occupied in the futile activity of bailing water from their common room. It didn’t take much to convince them to abandon their task and retreat to higher ground. Tristan had found Father Mathieu’s painting of the Madonna above his bed, escorted the seminary priests to the tavern, and then reported back to headquarters. After nearly forty-eight hours without sleep, he was literally swaying on his feet.
But one glance into the officers’ quarters—where his brother sat up eating a little broth from the spoon Nika held to his lips—filled him with fresh courage and determination.
“You have Dufresne’s letter, and Nika has no reason to lie,” he said. “In fact, every reason to say nothing at all.”
Bienville stood, pushing his hands against his knees. “We’re settled in this bog because I didn’t listen to you four years ago. But if we take no action and the Koasati find us holed up here like sheep in a pen . . .” He grimaced. “I don’t have to tell you the massacre upriver will be nothing compared to the bloodbath we can—”
The outer door burst open, and Raindrop, the little Indian slave girl who used to follow Geneviève about, catapulted into the room.
“Monsieur L-Lanier!” Raindrop stood dripping, shivering just inside the door. “Mademoiselle Aimée told me to stay home, s-sir, and I’m sorry to be a disobedient slave—but, but she wouldn’t b-believe me!”
Bienville gave the little girl an impatient look. “Why are you out and about at this time of night, girl? Does your mistress know where you are?”
Raindrop shook her wet head. “No sir, but it is an emergency! I had to come before he does something terrible to her!”
Tristan stooped to one knee and beckoned the child. “Come here, Raindrop. Slow down and begin at the beginning. Who is in danger?”
“Mademoiselle Aimée!” Raindrop rushed to Tristan. “She was dressed in men’s clothes, so I knew something funny was going on. She finally told me she planned to meet Monsieur Dufresne—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, I wasn’t supposed to tell that either!”
Tristan covered a smile. “Never mind, you did the right thing to come to me. Continue, please.”
Raindrop glanced at Bienville. “You won’t put me in the guardhouse, will you, sir?”
The commander’s eyes twinkled in spite of his obvious irritation. “Not unless you killed someone.”
“Not me—Monsieur Dufresne!”
Bienville’s expression darkened. “You had best explain.”
“Yes, sir. Mademoiselle sent me to tell Monsieur Dufresne that she would be there soon, though I think she was just trying to get rid of me. When I got there, I saw him arguing with that big Mobile Indian—I hear him called Mitannu—over money.”
Bienville made a chopping motion with his hand. “Dufresne is a supply officer. His job is trading with the Indians.”
Raindrop looked confused, but Tristan caught her face to make her look at him. “Never mind, what happened next?”
Her big dark eyes filled with anguish. “Mitannu said he killed Lanier and the priest! Oh, Monsieur—I’m so very sorry. I know he meant your brother—”
“But as you can see, I’m very much alive.” Marc-Antoine leaned in the doorway, looking more like Lazarus come from the grave than a decorated officer of His Majesty’s marine.
“Marc! Go lie down before you fall down!”
Marc-Antoine gave Tristan a wan grin. “I’m finding it rather difficult to sleep when reports of my demise are being so grievously exaggerated.”
Nika glided to his side and took his elbow upon her shoulder. “I will make sure he doesn’t fall and crack his head.”
“It appears the damage is already done,” Bienville said dryly. “Go on, child. As you can see, both Messieurs Laniers are alive and, er, somewhat well. The Indian claimed to have perpetrated the attack on our peace party?”
“That’s what he said, sir.” Raindrop regarded Marc-Antoine in wonder, then met Tristan’s eyes. “Mitannu seemed to think he had killed everybody, but Monsieur Dufresne told him he had not, and that he would not pay him for—for not killing them all. Mitannu was very angry, of course, and threatened to k-k-kill Monsieur Dufresne. Monsieur said he would give him another chance to do the—the job, and then he would pay him double what he promised the first time!”
As Bienville began swearing fluently behind him, Tristan took Raindrop by the shoulders to keep her attention. “And did Mitannu agree to this?”
She nodded. Her little pointed chin began to tremble. “Yes, but as soon as he turned to go, Monsieur Dufresne sh-shot him—” Her mouth went square, and she wailed, “He shot him in the back! Oh!” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
Tristan pulled her into his arms. “All right, little one. You were very brave to come to me. Hush, now, we’ll take care of it.” Over her head he met Bienville’s stunned eyes.
“It’s true, then,” the commander said hoarsely. “What the Indian woman said—it’s all true. Dufresne is a traitor.”
Julien was longing for a bath, but he knew he must get to La Salle and his faction before anything else went wrong. He decided not to waste time dragging the Indian’s body to the bluff, pushing it into the river, and letting the forces of nature cover his actions. He could always claim that the Indian had attacked him, and he’d responded in self-defense. Not that anyone in command was likely to be concerned about the death of one more savage.
Of course, Bienville was always a wild card. One never knew when he might take it into his head to prosecute the killing of an Indian for political reasons, as he and the Lanier brothers seemed to entertain some insane notion of luring the savages into an alliance—as if Louis the Sun King cared a sou about the well-being of a band of savages.
So he’d simply hauled the body outside and around the corner, then mopped up the remaining puddle of blood with a fallen limb. Carefully wiping his bloody hands on a discarded tarp and laying it over the body, he took up his candle to light his way to the fort.
Meeting Aimée at the chapel entrance of the fort drew him up short. It was a measure of his preoccupation that, in fact, he’d forgotten all about his intention to take her with him tonight.
He summoned a smile. “Aimée! Cherie, you ought to be in your bed at this advanced hour.” He surveyed her breeches, which fit her curves in a delightfully scandalous way. “I see you are trying on your disguise—but you must hurry and change before someone sees you and recognizes you without your hat.”
She halted, her smile fading. “What? But we were to leave tonight. It’s well past midnight. I was only coming to find out what had delayed you.”
“Tonight?” He chuckled. “My dear, your eagerness is charming, but the river would be much too fast and dangerous in such weather as we have had today. We shall leave this time tomorrow.”
Frowning, she walked toward him with what one could only term aggression. “Julien, I sent Raindrop to you a little while ago, in case you should be worried about my delay.” She stopped at the foot of the chapel’s gallery steps, her small, dimpled chin elevated in pugnacious fashion. “How could you allow a child to witness you murdering a man—even an Indian!—by shooting him in the back?”
Julien pried his tongue loose from the roof of his mouth. “Raindrop? The little Indian orphan?”
“She isn’t
an orphan! She has seven siblings in the Apalachee village—which you would know if you paid the slightest attention to anyone but yourself.”
This non sequitur, which on a good day would have made him laugh, produced in him a strong urge to snatch her by the hair. “Says the common-born wench who cannot walk past a mirror without stopping to admire her own face and form. And who is stupid enough to take the word of a ten-year-old savage over an officer of His Majesty’s marine.”
“How dare you!” Aimée slapped him.
Nursing his stinging cheek, Julien eyed her coldly. “I shall deal with you later,” he said between his teeth. “For the moment, I have more important things to do. I advise you to take yourself back home and pray that I forgive you before the morrow.” He turned on his heel and mounted the steps, crossed the gallery, and entered the chapel.
He walked through the empty sanctuary, which was softly lit by a cluster of tallow candles beneath a rather plebeian plaster bust of some bearded saint. A second door opened out onto the interior gallery facing the drill green. Judging by the light streaming from the open windows of headquarters, Bienville would be there, joking and drinking with his cronies, even at this advanced hour.
That an accident of birth had placed such a crude, ramshackle personality in command of this outpost would have driven a less patient man than Julien to rash action. But as one who carefully played the hand he had been dealt—looking for and pouncing upon weaknesses in the enemy, pressing opportunities as they came, milking every advantage—Julien knew it was only a matter of time before he came into his own.
Turning to his right, he approached the door of Commissioner Nicolas de La Salle’s office. La Salle, whose contempt for Bienville rivaled Julien’s own, would no doubt welcome his intelligence. He rapped sharply upon the door.
“Who’s there?”
“Dufresne, sir. May I come in?”
“Dufresne?” La Salle himself lifted the latch and opened the door. He eyed Julien up and down. “What are you doing here?”
Julien hoped he’d managed to eradicate the bloodstains from his clothing. “I came to see if you require anything before I go off duty, sir.”
“No, I—wait.” La Salle opened the door farther, as Julien had hoped he would do. He scowled. “Did Bienville send you?”
“As a matter of fact . . .” Julien paused, looked over his shoulder in the direction of the lighted windows. “I was hoping you would say nothing of my being here. The commander is a bit, shall we say, territorial these days.”
“Yes, you might well say that.” La Salle relaxed somewhat. “What do you want?”
“I bring fresh developments in Bienville’s delay in retaliation against the attack on our peace contingent. Sir, I . . . cannot remain quiet when this unnatural timidity could result in danger falling upon the settlement.”
La Salle shoved at his wig. “Come in, then, but be quick about it. What we are planning must stay in this room until the time is ripe for action.”
Julien slipped past La Salle. The room was several feet longer than the commander’s cluttered office and seemed even bigger because of its Spartan cleanliness and order. The commissioner’s large oaken desk, empty chair, and floor-to-ceiling bookcase took up the far end of the room. Ranged in front of it with military precision sat a line of wooden chairs occupied by perhaps a dozen artisans and merchants of the settlement—all of whom had at one time or another come to loggerheads with Bienville.
Julien knew them all by sight and had had business dealings with many. He followed La Salle and stood back with an assumption of modesty while the commissioner introduced him.
“Gentlemen, Dufresne brings us an update of Bienville’s determination to hold the inhabitants of our colony hostage while wild savages, armed by British agents, advance upon us. Please hear him out.” La Salle sat down behind his desk and linked his fingers across his paunch.
Julien executed a brief bow. “I regret to inform you that I just intercepted an Indian scout sent in to ascertain the strength of our garrison. Suffice it to say, he did not make it out alive.”
As expected, there was an eruption of outrage and fear. La Salle jumped to his feet. “What? You didn’t tell me—”
“Wait!” Julien overrode the outbreak of raised voices. “Commissioner, the situation needs to be discussed among cool heads. If Bienville refuses to send out a detachment to demonstrate our strength to the savages, the least we can do is to encourage each man to prepare to defend himself and his household.” He lowered his gaze. “I hope you all understand why I cannot directly lead this action—it would be seen as insubordination at the very least; mutiny at worst.”
The words were barely out of his mouth before Father Henri surged to his feet. “No need for the aide-major to stand at the forefront of our protest.” He laid a dramatic hand over his crucifix. “I am not afraid to show Bienville what I think of his lack of leadership. This very day he has shown leniency to a woman caught in an act of treason! I have corresponded more than once with Minister Ponchartrain about the commander’s habit of lining his own pockets at the expense of those he is duty-bound to defend. Gentlemen, citizen-warriors! As Scripture states, the man of God is abjured to stand firm, fully armored against the day of evil.” He looked around, fire—or perhaps peevishness, it was hard to tell the difference—in his prominent eyes. “The day of evil is here! Who will stand beside me?”
A chorus of agreement testified that “cool heads” had been superseded by angry ones.
Julien stepped back, more than satisfied. If one must be denied a title of nobility due to an accident of birth, then the next best thing must be military power earned by intellect and cunning. If Bienville fell or was recalled by the Minister, there was no one more qualified to replace him than himself. On the other hand, if the British were to succeed in their campaign to force France out of the southern territories, he had set himself up for guaranty of favor.
Yes, he fancied that he had managed this affair well so far. One more step, and his work for the night would be complete.
“Gentlemen.” He raised a diffident hand. “I applaud your decision. And should you need ammunition for the coming battle, I happen to hold the key to the powder magazine.”
Geneviève put her arm around Raindrop and led her toward one of the armchairs in a corner of the officers’ living quarters. She sat down, drew the child into her lap, and held the thin, shivering body close until Raindrop relaxed and her sobs quieted to intermittent sniffles.
Awakened by the door slamming shut in a gust of wind, then the commander’s loud voice, she had peered into the common room at about the same time Marc-Antoine limped to the doorway of the barracks.
Having missed the onset of the conversation, she didn’t completely understand what it was about, but clearly Raindrop was overset. When Tristan looked up and saw that Geneviève was awake, he’d looked relieved. Motioning for her to take charge of Raindrop, he’d gone off with Bienville and Marc-Antoine into the commander’s office.
She kissed the top of Raindrop’s head. “Have you had anything to eat tonight, my dear?”
“I’m not hungry.” Raindrop sat up and rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “What’s going to happen to Mademoiselle Aimée?”
“What do you mean?”
Raindrop glanced at the closed door of Bienville’s office. “She went to meet Monsieur Dufresne. I said she ought not—but she wouldn’t listen.” She clasped her hands together. “Please, mademoiselle, you’ve got to make them go after her!”
Aimée would do that, of course. She was both bullheaded and naïve, a deadly combination. Geneviève knew she was going to have to go after her sister, because the men, it seemed, had forgotten about her.
“I will do that,” she promised, hugging Raindrop. “But first let me fix you a hot cider, and you can curl up here while I talk to the men.” With any luck, Raindrop would relax and fall asleep. She herself felt refreshed after her own nap—strong enough even to c
hallenge the arrogant Julien Dufresne.
Aimée had heard enough. Feeling as if a blindfold had been snatched from her eyes, she slid to the damp floor of the gallery under the window of La Salle’s office.
Her first reaction was outrage at Julien’s duplicity. Or perhaps one might more accurately call it triplicity. Until tonight, he had been her ardent suitor, the man who called her cherie and belle, and other lovely words, as if she were a princess straight out of a castle. Then he had called her common born and stupid. She shivered a little, remembering his threat to deal with her later.
Then there was Julien the trickster, who had talked her into defying her sister’s wishes, encouraging her to go through Geneviève’s trunk and snoop out the Bible with its damning letter from Jean Cavalier. Julien would never have known about Cavalier if Aimée hadn’t babbled to him like a child in her hurt feelings. Then to use her words to pin a charge of treason on Ginette, when Aimée knew in her heart of hearts that her sister simply wanted to be left alone to worship God as her conscience dictated. Almost as bad was this Machiavellian turn on Monsieur Bienville. The commander might be less than tactful at times, but he had seemed to trust and like Julien. So why had Julien betrayed him to the men inside that room? Offered to help them take up arms against Bienville and his officers?
Worst of all . . . Raindrop had seen evidence of his brutality with her own eyes, the killing of that Indian in cowardly fashion. And he had not denied it! In fact, she was quite certain that Julien had poisoned Ginette’s bread with the intention of murdering Tristan Lanier rather than that poor Indian boy.
Truth.
She almost gagged on it. She sat under the window, forcing herself to inhale and then exhale, one lungful at a time, until she could formulate her next move. A princess, she supposed, would simply expire from fear, hurt, betrayal, stupidity, while she waited for some prince to rescue her.