Utterly exhausted, she curled on her side just as he lay down behind her. He extended one arm as a pillow beneath her head, and with the other loosely encircled her waist. She couldn’t be sure if she felt him press a kiss to her hair or if she had only imagined it. Warmed by his nearness, she drifted to sleep with his heart beating gently against her back.
Chapter Seven
Mosquitoes droned in the heavy air. Waving them aside, Marc-Paul could almost smell oranges as he walked between two rows of sun-soaked citrus trees. Grateful for the shade even at this early hour, he stepped into the covered, ground-level gallery and knocked upon the front door of the grand residence of Governor and Commandant General Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne de Bienville. As the seat of government had not yet been constructed, Bienville conducted business from his home, four hundred paces outside New Orleans.
The door opened, revealing a muscular African wearing the garb of a French butler, complete with white ruffles at his throat.
“Hello, Caesar. I’ve come to see the governor.” Marc-Paul removed his hat. “He’ll want to hear my report.”
Nodding, Caesar widened the door, allowing Marc-Paul to pass. “He is breaking his fast. This way.” Caesar’s Senegalese accent thickened the French on his tongue as he led Marc-Paul to the dining room, where the smell of eggs and warm bread with blackberry jam permeated the air.
“Sir,” Marc-Paul said as he entered. “You wanted to see me as soon as I returned.”
Bienville looked up, his furrowed brow framed by his wig of white curls. “So. We have a fresh batch of convict colonists then, do we? Already married and ready to populate?”
“The flute also carried Germans and Swiss, eager to farm real food and with the skills to yield a harvest, God grant it.” The tobacco crops the Company of the Indies insisted upon did nothing to relieve the colony’s hunger.
“And how many disembarked?”
Marc-Paul poked one corner of his tricorn hat into his palm. “A dozen farmers, plus about one hundred fifty convicts. Fever and malnourishment exacted a heavy toll. Of those who survived, dozens are being transported to other settlements along the coast and in Illinois Country. The French settling in New Orleans are lodging at the barracks until they can build their own cabins here, and the Germans and Swiss will soon go upriver to farm the land west of here.”
Bienville shook his head. “Aside from those who can work the land, the rest will be a drain on us, not a help. I’d rather they just ran away. Speaking of which, while you were away, three sergeants and five soldiers deserted Mobile, convinced two-thirds of the garrison at Fort Toulouse to join their revolt, seized and bound their officers, and made a dash for Carolina.”
Marc-Paul’s cravat felt suddenly tight around his throat.
“The officers escaped their bindings, however, and enlisted two hundred fifty Alibamon to capture and kill the deserters.”
“And they were successful?”
A grim smile curled Bienville’s lips. “I have their scalps to prove it.”
“French scalps,” Marc-Paul clarified. His stomach doubled over even as he straightened his spine.
“Deserters’ scalps. This happened right around the time we were recapturing Pensacola from the Spaniards. Desertion cannot, will not be tolerated. I know you agree.”
Of course he did.
“Well, what news from France? Did you manage a tête-à-tête with the Regent?”
“I did.”
“And?” Bienville leaned forward. “Was he convinced?”
“He won’t break his twenty-five-year contract with Law’s company. Reminded me that the war drained his resources, so he can spare no more provisions for the colony.”
“Confound him!” Bienville’s chair scraped the floor as he rose and began pacing the room. His disproportionately large head in full wig resembled that of a lion. “Before the war, France had the largest military in Europe. Now look at us! Shameful. He wants Louisiana riches to refill his empty coffers, to be for France what Mexico is for Spain, but he gives us none of the tools we need.”
Marc-Paul waited, spinning his hat in his hands, while the stymied founder of New Orleans simmered. Clearly this village, where Bienville had ceremoniously broken the first river cane two years ago, was not developing as he had planned. At Bienville’s request, Marc-Paul had personally met with the Regent to explain the detrimental effects of having prostitutes, convicts, and deserters continually dumped on the shores of Louisiana. No letter even hinting at such sentiments would have made it to the monarchy. The Company of the Indies stationed agents at every French port to confiscate all letters carried by those coming from Louisiana in order to manage public opinion of the colony.
“And did you ask for more troops? More provisions for the garrisons? More flour for the colonists?” Bienville prodded.
“I did more than ask, sir. I made our case so . . . assertively, let’s say, that I came near to being thrown out of court on my ear.”
Bienville glowered. “And?”
“I was informed that all that could be spared was already being sent.”
“While the monarchy was feeding you that line, I had nothing to feed our soldiers!” the commandant sputtered. “I suppose I already know the answer to your request for one hundred thousand livres’ worth of merchandise.”
“Denied.”
The Canadian shot Marc-Paul a look that should have been reserved for the Duke of Orleans. Understandably so. The merchandise was needed for the continuous gift-giving between the French and the Indians. In all of Louisiana there were fewer than two thousand French settlers, spanning from the Gulf of Mexico to the Great Lakes, and from the Rocky Mountains to the Appalachians. The number of Indians in French-occupied lands was estimated at two hundred thousand. Gift-giving and smoking the calumet cemented friendly relations.
“What does the Regent suppose will happen to Louisiana if we fail to supply gifts to our Indian allies?” The governor’s voice lowered. “We are at war, Captain Girard. Did you know?”
“With Britain by proxy, you mean. Correct?” Since the peace treaty ending the War of the Spanish Succession six years ago, Europeans in North America had attacked each other through their Indian allies. Spain was now France’s ally, and Pensacola was in French possession, so Florida was no threat to the Mississippi Valley. But the British continued equipping Chickasaw warriors, just as the French supplied the Choctaw. For the last five years, Bienville had punished the Chickasaw for refusing to cease trade relations with the British by hiring Choctaw to ambush pack trains on the Trader’s Path, a wilderness trail from Carolina’s Charles Town to Chickasaw villages in the interior.
“You are only partially correct. We are now at war with the Chickasaw.” Bienville walked to the window and folded his hands behind his back.
Marc-Paul followed him, dismay mounting. “Directly?” The French would be wiped off the map.
“Of course not. We use our allies. I’ll spill Choctaw blood before our own.” The governor turned to face the captain. “While you were sailing across the Atlantic this spring, the Chickasaw accused a French fur trader of being a spy and executed him. They have tired of our ‘silent war’ on the Trader’s Path. They wish to fight more openly, and I oblige.”
“By using Choctaw mercenaries.”
“Who are only too happy to be paid for killing their own enemies. It is the Chickasaw—incited by British slave traders—who have killed Choctaw and sold them as slaves for the Caribbean Islands for the last ten years. We’re merely equipping our allies for revenge.”
“As you say.” Marc-Paul cleared his throat. He knew better than to point out that if the British and French left the natives in peace, there would be far less revenge to exact.
“So now you see why the Regent’s refusal to grant us more supplies puts us in an even more precarious position. I pay the Choctaw to attack Chickasaw villages, but results are minimal. Meanwhile, Chickasaw retaliate successfully on both Choctaw villages and new Frenc
h settlements up north, on the Yazoo River. If the Chickasaw are not checked, if they interrupt French traffic on the Mississippi . . .”
“I understand.” The settlements would be cut off from one another—from food, supplies, and reinforcements. Isolated and vulnerable. France’s only defense was the Choctaw. And the Choctaw’s only motivation was payment.
“Go to the commissary and conduct a complete inventory of our stores. Don’t trust the ledger. I want a fresh count of all we have.”
With a wave of Bienville’s hand, Marc-Paul was dismissed. He saluted his superior officer, replaced his hat on his head, and took his leave.
Beyond the absent wall of Julianne’s three-walled cabin, champagne clouds tufted the morning sky. She stiffly pulled on her steaming silk gown, but smoothing the wrinkles from her mud-splattered skirt proved as useless as taming the waves in her chin-length hair. Since Simon was fishing for their breakfast, she would go to town to collect their dowry herself.
The soft ground gave way like a sponge as she followed a faint footpath unspooling toward the river. Rain-sharpened scents of earth and wood spiced the air. The gradual slope uphill took her past other cabins, outside of which men stirred their fires and women ground pestles in wooden mortars. Their voices mingled pleasantly with the laughter of their children. Julianne wished them good day, and they returned the greeting, but their gazes rested overlong on her cropped hair.
The settlement was a study of brown and green: muddy trails spiked with weeds, rust-colored cypress dwellings topped with palmetto thatch, the grey-green moss dangling from trees in the swamp behind her home. Even the river burnished more bronze than blue beneath the blazing sun. While Paris on the Seine was fragrant with café au lait, fresh bread, leather, straw, and wine, New Orleans here by the Mississippi smelled of fish, coffee, corn, bear grease, and eau-de-vie, a cheap variety of brandy.
During the brief walk from her home, humidity licked Julianne’s skin, and the breeze did nothing to cool it. Her dress, still damp from last night’s storm, stuck uncomfortably to her body. As she passed the tavern, she noticed it leaned slightly off-kilter, most likely due to sinking ground, which gave a fitting drunken air to the building. Completing the impression, its thatched roof sat rakishly atop the whole, like a cap pulled at a slant across a brow. Beyond it, the barracks reeked of last night’s liquor. Shamelessly, a man relieved himself just outside the crude building.
Quickly averting her gaze, Julianne crossed the open square to the Company of the Indies’ warehouse and ducked inside. The door scraped against the wood floor as she shut it behind her and waited for her eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. A handful of men with skirted waistcoats swinging at their hips and frilled jabots ruffling at their throats seemed to be inventorying the supplies lining the walls. Shelves bore all manner of goods for sale: bolts of silk, pots of bear oil, brandy, muskets, corn. Smells of sawdust and alcohol permeated the air.
A small, bespectacled man stepped out from behind his polished walnut desk. At the sight of his voluminous powdered wig, Julianne’s hand flew up to smooth down her hair.
“I am Monsieur Godefroy, company clerk. State your business, if you please.” He pulled from his waistcoat a gold pocket watch and checked the time. Tapped the toe of his silver-buckled, high-heeled shoe.
She swallowed. “The dowries from the flute that arrived yesterday should be here by now. I’ve come to retrieve mine.”
Godefroy raked Julianne with a scrutinizing gaze. “Dowries?”
This should not be news to the company clerk. “In Paris, Monsieur Nicolas Picard forced us to marry and compensated each couple with a dowry, which was to be delivered to us upon arrival here.” She cleared her throat and attempted a smile. “We’re here.”
“As I see.” The clerk’s nose wrinkled. “But I’m afraid I’ve seen nothing in the inventory about any such thing.”
Suspicion prickled her neck. “There were individual bundles of clothing—trousseaus—and three hundred livres per couple. I saw the packages loaded into the cargo hold with my own eyes. If they aren’t in the warehouse and the ship has been emptied, how do you explain this?”
Godefroy returned to his desk and sat. Leaning his elbows on the green felt topper, he tented his fingers. “It’s not my concern.”
“If they were stolen . . .” Julianne could not think how to finish. Of course they were stolen.
“That’s a serious charge, madame.” But Godefroy’s expression remained calm. Apathetic. “Unfortunately, it’s not within my purview to investigate.”
Heat flooded Julianne’s limbs. “Surely this isn’t the end of the matter?”
Godefroy shrugged. “If there ever were any dowries in the first place—and I’m not conceding that there were—they’ve likely been divided up and sold already. To be frank, I’m not convinced you would have made good use of the resources anyway. Good day.”
Stunned, Julianne struggled to maintain her composure as she turned and left the warehouse. Leaning against the outside wall of the building, she closed her eyes and released an exasperated sigh. What were the new colonists to do? Were they all reduced to beggary, debt, or thievery? She opened her eyes and reminded herself that at least she was not in Salpêtrière.
But the freedom Louisiana offered was a distorted version of the portrait painted by Nicolas Picard in Paris. Hemmed in by river and swamps, and suffocatingly small at less than one square mile, New Orleans’s entire population could fit in Salpêtrière’s Saint-Louis Church twenty times over. And though she wore no shackle on her ankle, arriving on the convicts’ ship had marked her as clearly as the brand beneath her sleeve. She could only hope that as her hair outgrew its telltale length, she too would outgrow the stigma.
A cry pierced the air. Quickly Julianne rounded the corner of the building until she faced the open square beside the barracks. Soldiers and civilians were gathering in a wide circle, facing inward.
“Stop! You can’t do this!” A woman’s voice climbed higher than all the others. It was coming from inside the circle.
Hurrying over to the crowd, Julianne saw two soldiers wrestle a used-up-looking woman onto a wooden horse. A hank of her hair fell over one eye, and blood smudged her lip. A strip of cheaply made lace had been ripped from her chemise and now dangled from the neckline barely covering her bosoms.
“What’s happening?” Julianne asked. Her gaze remained riveted on the beaten woman and the soldier now raising a whip above his head.
“She’s a girl of bad character. The soldiers make examples of them to deter others from following her suit.”
Screams ripped from the woman’s throat as the whip sliced through her dress and the flesh beneath it. A tavern girl falling out of her bodice clawed at a soldier’s arm, shrieking, but he shook her off.
“Why, what has she done?”
“She’s a prostitute, but that’s common enough. She’s being punished for stealing from her customer while he slept. We must have order, you know.”
“She is publicly flogged for this? What of the police, can they not handle the matter themselves?” Julianne raised her voice to be heard over the piteous cries of the woman.
The man turned to look at her for the first time, and recognition flashed in his eyes as he took in her short hair. “We have no police in New Orleans,” he snarled. “And no lawyers, either, by order of the king. We police ourselves, and the soldiers mete out our judgment, with a little help from a whip and a wooden horse. Try and stop it, and you’ll be next.”
Julianne stepped back, the woman’s screams clamoring in her ears. Whatever notions of liberty she had attached to this wild place were slipping away like sand.
Chapter Eight
Back in the settlement, sharp, successive tugs on Marc-Paul’s sleeve pulled his attention from the commissary looming ten paces ahead of him. A little native boy grinned up at him. Bending to the child’s level, Marc-Paul spoke in the native tongue. “Why, this can’t be Walking Wolf! You’re so muc
h taller than the boy I remember!”
“Yes I am!” The little boy produced two brown eggs. “For you! Very fresh, very good. Already cooked in the shell.”
“Ah, beautiful!” Marc-Paul’s stomach growled at the sight. He carefully took the eggs in one hand. “Tell me, have you seen Red Bird here today?”
The boy shook his head.
Marc-Paul straightened. “Next time you see him, please tell him Captain Girard is back from France and eager to hear from him.” He withdrew a few colored glass beads from the pocket of his waistcoat and offered them to his little friend. “Many thanks.”
Walking Wolf’s eyes sparkled as he accepted the trade and scampered away. As Marc-Paul watched him dart across the square, between other natives who had come to trade or gossip, he prayed the message would reach Red Bird without delay. If Red Bird was still alive to receive it.
Turning back to the business at hand, he marched into the commissary and straight to the clerk’s desk. “Your ledger, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The thin private spun the book around so Marc-Paul could inspect it. He turned to the records of goods earmarked as gifts for the Choctaw and traced with his finger the column of text:
Limbourg cloth, blue and red
White blankets
Striped blankets
Regular trade shirts, for men, as long in front as in back
Ordinary trade muskets
Gunpowder
Pieces of scarlet-colored woolen ribbon
Rough vermillion in one-pound sacks and in barrels of 100 and 50 pounds
Red lead
Blue and white drinking glasses, assorted sizes
Woodcutter knives
Musket flints
Trade scissors
Flintlocks
Awls
Mirrors in cases
The Mark of the King Page 8