Quantities were marked in columns of black ink beside the goods. If the ledger was accurate, Bienville had a little more than twenty thousand livres’ worth of merchandise. It was enough to distribute during the next four-week ceremony with tribal leaders in Mobile, but could it possibly stretch to fund this war?
With a word of explanation to the clerk, Marc-Paul took the ledger and walked the commissary aisles, matching the written quantity with the actual number of goods on hand. Some of the numbers matched. But those that didn’t sent suspicion spiraling through his middle.
Carefully, he flipped to the ledger pages that recorded inventories for the garrison. If numbers in any of these columns jumped by the same deficiency he noted on the gift-giving side, he could trust that the missing items had simply been stocked in the wrong section of the commissary.
But he found no such tidy solution. After searching every shelf in the warehouse, Marc-Paul returned the ledger to the clerk. “The numbers are wrong.” His tone was flat.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” The clerk sat up straighter, spreading his hands possessively over the ledger.
“There are fewer gifts in stock than your book indicates.”
“Fewer gifts? Of what nature?” He turned the pages in the ledger until he found the list he was looking for.
“Ten muskets, ten pounds of gunpowder, twenty pounds of balls. Gun flints too.” These same gifts that brought peace could also fund war between native peoples, a tactic used increasingly by both France and Britain to secure their own interests.
The clerk paled. “Surely there’s been some mistake.”
“Surely, indeed.” But Marc-Paul had a sinking feeling that the missing weapons were not lost by mistake but spirited away by someone whose foremost interest was not the good of France. Someone, he suspected, who would grow rich and fat at his country’s expense. He could only imagine how Bienville would react to the news.
“I’m sure I have no idea what caused the discrepancy.”
Marc-Paul would order a double guard stationed here, day and night. “You’ve not seen anything unusual, then?” he pressed. “Is there another clerk I should question?”
“I’m the only one.” Sweat glistened on his face. “The only time I haven’t personally been here was when I was ill with the fever. Officer Dupree took my place while I recovered.”
“Dupree, you say?” Marc-Paul frowned. Surely it couldn’t be.
“I don’t believe it.”
Marc-Paul swiveled toward the voice. “Pascal Dupree!”
Pascal gripped his hand and pulled him close enough to clap him heartily on the back. His trademark grin exposed the dimple in his sun-bronzed cheek, belying his thirty-two years. “I’ve been waiting for your return! Come, let’s walk by the river.”
Marc-Paul followed him outside, where they passed from the slanting shade between the commissary and the barracks into the glaring sun. “I thought you were at Mobile.”
“What sort of greeting is that, old friend? After all these years, you could at least feign some pleasure at our reunion.” Pascal’s green eyes twinkled as they walked along the top of the levee.
Marc-Paul chuckled. “Of course, I’m pleased to see you’re in good health, but you cannot blame me for being surprised. Or preoccupied. I’ve only just now learned of our war with the Chickasaw.” He pulled the two eggs from his pocket and handed one to Pascal.
“You mean the Choctaw’s war with the Chickasaw. Don’t be dour. You certainly didn’t learn that from me.” Pascal cracked his egg on his elbow. Marc-Paul did the same. “To your question, then. I was at Mobile, right where you left me. But I transferred to New Orleans to take command of your men in your absence.”
“You commanded my men?”
“Someone had to.” Pascal slowed his gait and looked over his shoulder toward the barracks. “Rascals.”
“Indeed. Likely more so with you in the lead.” Marc-Paul raised his eyebrow as he peeled the shell from his slippery egg. “Unless you’ve changed?”
A laugh erupted from Pascal, deep and throaty. His hand squeezed the back of Marc-Paul’s neck in an older-brother gesture, though he was but two years the senior. “Lucky for you, I’m the same friend who looked out for you when you first arrived in Mobile. The same friend, need I remind you, who saved your life.”
As if on cue, an alligator rippled through the river below, and Marc-Paul stood riveted as he watched its spiny back slide through the water, its eyes two knobs protruding just above the surface. It opened its massive jaws, scooped up some unseen prey, raised its head and snout, and gulped it down.
A shudder passed through him. He had seen those teeth up close once. He and Pascal had been paddling a pirogue of supplies between two forts soon after Marc-Paul had arrived in Louisiana. When a barrel of gunpowder had tumbled overboard, he jumped in after it, knowing Pascal couldn’t swim and thinking to retrieve it before the water spoiled it all. But a female alligator whose young were on the nearby bank interpreted the action as a threat. If Pascal hadn’t shot the twelve-foot reptile when he did, Marc-Paul’s saga in Louisiana would have come to an abrupt—and excruciating—end. Little wonder that he’d been fond of Pascal’s company. For a time.
“I remember quite well.” He brushed the eggshell from his fingertips and bit into his egg, relishing the flavor as he swallowed. “Pascal, some of the supplies in the commissary are missing. The clerk said you were the only other person who has been in charge of the ledger, while he was ill. Do you know what happened to the guns set aside for the Choctaw?”
Pascal cringed, then popped his entire egg into his mouth at once. Tucking some of it into the pocket of his cheek, he spoke around his food. “Don’t be cross now. I’ll restore what I owe as soon as I can.”
Marc-Paul narrowed his eyes. “What have you done?”
“Lost!” he blurted. “I’ve lost, Marc-Paul, a great deal, and to the wrong sort of card player, if you know what I mean. If I didn’t pay him off, it would have been the end of me. You’ve seen the sort of colonists France sends over here. They’re no gentlemen, you know that.”
“I also know that gambling is forbidden among soldiers, including officers.” He sighed and scanned the river again, too frustrated with Pascal to hold his pleading gaze. Huge limbs broken from trees somewhere upstream floated by, their branches clutching at the sky.
“I couldn’t say no to this character—if you had seen him, you’d have done anything he told you to do too! There is no law in New Orleans.”
“On the contrary.” Marc-Paul faced him again, anger simmering in his veins. “As officers in the king’s army, we are the law. Or at least, we are charged with maintaining it. Your choice to gamble cannot be blamed on your opponent.” The sun beat down upon his black felt hat. Sweat itched across his neck beneath his queue.
Pascal held up his hands, palms facing out. “I’ll pay it back. There is no scheduled gift-giving ceremony any time soon. I’ll get the guns back to the commissary well before they’re needed.”
“And the powder.”
“Yes, yes. Everything, just the way it was before. No one needs to know about this, mon ami. I’d consider it a favor if you allow me the time to fix this.”
“You’ll fix it, Pascal. Before you return to your own post.” God grant that it might be soon.
“This is my post now.” A grin chased the worry from Pascal’s face. “Grand, isn’t it? Together again, just like old times.”
Slapping a mosquito on his neck, Marc-Paul turned back toward the settlement. There was nothing grand about their “old times.” The last thing he wanted to do was repeat them.
Julianne sat on the deerskin in the fractured shade of her thatched roof. With lace fluttering at her low, square neckline and at the ends of her elbow-length sleeves, she braided wild grass in her silk-covered lap. Wind sighed through the pilings and palmettos. As she worked the spindly stalks into the beginning of a woven mat for her floor, she rehearsed how she would tell her hu
sband their dowry had been stolen.
Footsteps sounded on the path outside her home, bringing Simon back to her, but he stood taller, straighter than she had ever seen him before. Two canteens and a musket swung from his shoulder, and in one hand he held a string of enough fish to feed them both for the day. But it was his smile that made her discard her work.
“I see you caught more than fish!” Smiling, she rose to greet him with a kiss on his cheek. Rays of light wrapped her in velvety warmth.
“You have no idea.” He looped his string of fish over a piling before hanging his musket likewise over the top of the wall. “Thirsty?” He handed her a canteen.
Julianne nodded, grateful to finally slake her thirst. “How did you get all of this? I hate to tell you this, but if you’ve obtained it on credit—there is no dowry. For any of us.”
His face darkened. “What do you mean?”
“I went to the warehouse, and the clerk knew nothing about it. Or so he said.”
Simon grunted. “We should have expected as much. When has the Company of the Indies ever treated us fairly? But you mustn’t worry. I have something better.” His broad, rough hands enveloped hers. “Employment. All of this is advanced payment.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Please tell me—you’re not smuggling already, are you?”
Miraculously, he laughed. “No, ma chère. This time it is honest work for honest wages. But I never would have been fit for it had I not been a smuggler first.” He winked, then dropped her hands and drank from his own canteen.
Julianne followed suit. “Is it a secret, then, this honest work?”
“I am to be a boatman again, plying the waters between here and other Louisiana ports—Natchez, Mobile, even Fort Toulouse, which is even farther east than Pensacola but north of it. They need men to power barques and pirogues, to carry trade items or official correspondence between military forts. Fifteen livres a month. I warrant I’ll be able to drive a higher wage once I prove myself, though. There’s fighting going on, they say, between French soldiers and a nation of Indians. They need us boatmen now more than ever.”
Julianne frowned. “Will you be traveling to where the fighting is?”
“Hard to predict.” Simon shrugged. “But if smuggling taught me anything, it was how to sneak around. I was only caught but once. I’ll be fine.”
Hanging his canteen and hers from the pilings, he motioned to her to follow him as he ambled behind the cabin and plucked from the ground sticks that had blown in during last night’s storm. Julianne gathered kindling alongside him.
Though his back was to her, she could hear the smile in his voice. “There are a few forts west of the river, in Arkansas, that I won’t be traveling to. And the boats bound for Illinois Country don’t leave until August or September for the three- to four-month journey upstream, so we’ll determine later whether I’ll row for one of those.”
She straightened. Holding her branches away from her gown lest they snag Francoise’s silk, she carried them to the fire ring Simon had formed and dropped them beside it. “These warring Indians—are they anywhere close to New Orleans?”
“Hundreds of miles away, they say. My guess is it won’t affect you at all.” Simon joined Julianne at the fire ring and knelt on one knee, arranging the wood to allow air to flow between the sticks. “My one concern is that you’ll be lonely. I’ll be gone for weeks at a time, maybe longer.”
Julianne nodded. She had already considered this. “I’ll get along on my own in your absences.” Wind sashayed between them, light and sweet, and flirted with the tender flame flickering from the kindling.
Simon cupped the small flame with his hands for a moment before standing. His blue eyes twinkled as he smoothed her hair back from her face. “Are you so ready to be rid of me, wife?” His lips curved in a teasing grin, and when he bent to kiss her, she did not pull away even though he smelled of the morning’s catch.
“I meant no such thing, and you know it.” She swatted at a band of mosquitoes. “But Simon, think of this. In all those places you visit, you’ll be able to look for Benjamin, ask those you see if they know of his whereabouts. Surely we’ll find him now!”
The light dimmed in his eyes. “Your brother.”
Julianne’s hands dropped to her sides and were immediately swallowed up by the folds of her green silk skirt. “Yes, my brother. He’s the only family I have left.”
“No, he isn’t.” Simon held her gaze, clenching his jaw. His lips pressed flat and tight.
Unnerved by his sudden hardness, she looked away for a moment before responding. “Yes, husband, you and I have each other.” She fought to keep frustration from her voice. “But this isn’t about us. Surely you can understand that I love my brother.” Her throat closed around the words. How could she explain that their bond still held despite the time and distance that had come between them? “Please try. It would cost you so little and reward me so much.”
Exhaling, Simon hooked one of her curls behind her ear. “I’ll find out what I can. But if I come up empty, don’t be surprised. Louisiana is enormous. Finding Benjamin is as unlikely as coming close to any fighting.”
“But you’ll try.” Hope caught in Julianne’s chest as she threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear, and kissed him.
Day’s end down by the river brought the vibrato of bullfrogs and a chorus of crickets’ song to Julianne’s ears, overpowered on occasion by the crescendo of laughter surging inside the tavern. Eager to check on Denise, she let herself into St. Jean Inn and crossed through the storeroom on her way to the stairs. Her hand touched the railing, and she froze. She cocked her head. Listened. There it was again.
Screaming. A woman was screaming. Denise?
Julianne fisted her skirt and took the stairs two at a time. It didn’t take more than a moment to reach the room from which the shrieking came. Finding the door unlatched, Julianne pushed inside and came face-to-face with Lisette, the orphan who had shadowed her and Denise during the voyage.
“Julianne!” The girl’s freckles stood in stark relief against her pale complexion. “Saints be praised!”
“I heard screaming—” She looked past Lisette and saw Denise drenched in sweat, her face screwed tight with pain. A sheet draped her rounded middle.
“I came to visit Denise and found her like this. She asked for you. I didn’t know where to find you.” Lisette’s words came in short, breathless bursts.
She asked for you. The last woman to do so was Marguerite, and now she was dead. Julianne’s confidence faltered. But Denise was older than poor Marguerite was, and not as narrow. There should be no danger if the baby was positioned right. And this time, she would not allow the patient to be bled during the delivery.
“Well, I’m here now. Please find anyone who works here. Tell them we need wine and lard or oil. Plenty of water, clean cloths, scissors. An apron.” Julianne crossed to the washbasin and scrubbed her hands clean.
With a nod, Lisette scurried from the room.
“My husband is at the tavern. He doesn’t know.” Denise’s short brown hair was matted against her head. “Jean doesn’t even believe the child is his. But it is. You must believe me. My father had me imprisoned for rejecting his match for me, but I was no libertine. This child is my husband’s.”
“Of course it is.” Julianne rubbed Denise’s belly in soothing, circular strokes before probing the thin wall in search of the baby’s rope of spine. It wasn’t there. Instead, she felt a bulge, not hard enough to be the head, and too round and large to be an elbow or knee.
Malpresentation. Again. Fear cycled up her spine. A voice, soft and malicious, licked in her ear: Denise will die under your hands as well. She gritted her teeth.
Lisette burst back into the room, blond hair straggling from the bun at her neck. Rags draped her arms, a bottle of wine and a cup filled her hands, and behind her Francoise carried a pot of oil.
“Francoise.” Julianne twisted her hands
together. “Please, is there a doctor you could fetch?” She would not give quarter to her pride. She would not repeat the mistake she’d made before.
Gravely, Francoise shook her head.
“Julianne. You are a midwife, are you not?” Denise panted for breath, her gaze as sharp as daggers.
“I am not.” She tied an apron over her skirt just the same. “I was. It is not the same thing.”
“Delivered almost three hundred babies in Paris, you said. Were you lying?”
“No, no, of course not. I just want to take every precaution. Having a doctor here would be prudent, if possible.” If she had done the same for Marguerite, the girl’s blood would not be on her hands.
“Well, it isn’t. You will deliver me, as you promised you would.” Denise’s eyes glazed before she squeezed them shut at another contraction. The cords of her neck grew tight as she arched her neck and her back off the bed.
“We are really on our own?” Julianne whispered to Francoise.
“Never.” The older woman closed her eyes. “Heavenly Father, we beseech thee to have mercy on us, your children. Guide Julianne’s hands as she guides this baby safely from its mother’s womb. Protect them, Lord. Amen.”
Throat tight, Julianne nodded her thanks and set about her work. The scent of bear oil filled the room as she lifted the lid. The movement of greasing her hands shifted something in her heart and mind. Everything she had learned under Madame Le Brun, all that she was taught by the surgeons in the charnel house outside Saint-Côme church, every piece of it gathered to the front of her mind, waiting to be put to good use. Energy coursed through her. The miracle of life was at hand. So was the possibility of death.
Sitting on the stool at the end of the bed, Julianne instructed Lisette to help Denise take some wine and for Francoise to lay cloths beneath her hips. Keeping her eyes on Denise’s face, Julianne began her tactile examination beneath the sheet. The neck of the womb had opened, the bag of waters had already ruptured. But as she’d suspected, the baby’s head had not crowned.
“Denise, I must put my hand inside you. I need to feel where the baby is.” This is not Marguerite, she told herself. The outcome need not be the same.
The Mark of the King Page 9