The Mark of the King

by Jocelyn Green

  Moths and mosquitoes bumped against the casing of the lantern she held out to light her path. Clouds obscured the moon and stars. The farther she walked from the boisterous tavern, the more clearly she could hear the crickets chirping.

  And footsteps following.

  Julianne turned to look behind her but saw nothing but darkness beyond the pale glow cast by her flickering candle. She turned back to her path and continued, but her ears strained to hear anything other than nature’s night sounds.

  There it was again. Apprehension prickled her skin as she remembered Captain Girard’s words of warning. It’s just him again, she tried telling herself. He means to scare me, that’s all. But she knew the captain wouldn’t do that, even if he knew she’d be here at this hour. Not in the middle of a moonless night, when she might mistake him for an attacker, when he knew she had a gun.

  And certainly not when he had yet to return from his latest mission and was not even in New Orleans.

  She whirled around once more. “Hello?” she called. “Is someone there?”

  “No one at all.” The words slurred together in a voice she didn’t recognize. Alarm reverberated through her body. A drunk man was an uninhibited man.

  Energy surging through her limbs, she broke into a run, her satchel bouncing against her hip with every step. Footsteps pounded after her. In a flash of clarity, she realized she led him on with her lantern. She flung it aside and ran blindly toward home.

  Hardened ruts in the ground threatened to twist her ankles. Holes and chimneys underfoot threw her off her stride. She should yell for help. But she could not find her voice, could barely find breath as she rehearsed what she had to do. Get home. Get the gun. Load it. Fire it. An explosion sounded in her mind as she remembered the loading would normally take a minute. In the dark, how long would it take her? Did she have time before he caught up to her?

  Her skirts in her fists, she steered off course to lure him away from her straight path in the hope that he didn’t already know where her cabin was. Not many people did.

  “I can hear you, but I want to see you!” Was he twenty yards away or twenty feet? Closer? Julianne had lost all ability to measure distance by sound alone.

  Nerves on edge, she tiptoed around a cabin and began weaving her way toward home. Without her lantern, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, at least enough to distinguish the outlines of buildings.

  Blood roared in her ears. After a moment of silently changing her course again, she darted to her cabin and quietly slipped inside. Lord, please! It was all the prayer she could manage, and yet in the next moment, it seemed He had answered.

  The clouds passed from in front of the full moon. In the silvery light, she grabbed the Fusil de Chasse from under her bed and the powder horn and shot pouch. Her hands shook as she poured powder into the barrel. Powder, wadding, ball, wadding, she chanted in her mind, and remembered to tamp it down between each one. The ramrod trembled in her hand, and it took three tries to fit it into the end of the barrel the first time. Minutes sped by.

  Finally, she poured powder into the small pan under the cock, closed it, and burst back outside. She held the gun to her shoulder and strained to catch any movement that would give away the man’s position. Her range was one hundred yards. If her aim failed, as it was very like to do, would she hit a neighbor’s cabin instead? Harm an innocent person?

  Clouds veiled the moon once more, and darkness dropped down like a shroud. Heart thundering, her shoulders and arms began to burn with the weight of the gun. Oh God, she prayed, let this cup pass from me. She could not bear to fire into the night.

  “Come no closer!” she called out. “I’ll shoot!”

  “I will have you!” It was a growl now.

  Julianne spun toward the voice, braced herself for the recoil, and squeezed the trigger. The blast rang in her ears, and the smoke caught in her throat. She heard nothing else. Was he gone? Or just waiting?

  She ran back into the cabin and, with fumbling movements, loaded the gun once more. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she stared at her door and waited, her Fusil de Chasse at the ready. Minutes felt like hours, and still no one came. Every noise from outside—the high-pitched bats, a gurgling owl, incessantly humming mosquitoes—plucked at her nerves. Though she shivered with cold, she knew better than to light a fire.

  By dawn, however, no attacker had returned. Julianne was alone in her cabin with nothing to show for last night’s terror but memories and a gun that was ready to fire.

  Rain pattered the palmetto roof above Julianne like a thousand tiny feet. Resting her hand on her belly, she thanked God again that last night’s scare had not turned tragic. Whoever had followed her home from the tavern was not like to return. Captain Girard had been right in teaching her to use the gun. She’d need to thank him once he returned from his mission.

  Sudden cramping seized her, and her hand tightened over her middle. Then it vanished, as suddenly as it came. It could be nothing, she told herself. But beads of sweat crowned her brow. Though her heart railed against the idea, in her mind she knew the truth: Even a midwife was not guaranteed a healthy baby.

  Pounding jerked her attention to her door. Before she could form a complete thought, her heart leapt into her throat and she scrambled for the gun.

  “Madame Midwife? You come for Dancing Brook.”

  She knew that voice. Exhaling in relief, she replaced the gun beneath her bed, crossed to the door, and opened it. Running Deer filled the frame with his broad shoulders, rain wicking from the fringe on his deerskin cape. He stood there, unblinking, while water streamed from his long hair and dripped from his nose and chin. Spreading her cloak over her shoulders, she snuffed out her candle, grabbed her birthing satchel from its hook, and followed him out into the rain.

  “May we stop at the inn to fetch my apprentice?” Julianne asked. When Lisette’s work in Francoise’s kitchen allowed, she accompanied births as an eager assistant.

  “No time.”

  She bowed her head to the rain and lifted her skirts above the mud sucking at her feet. Running Deer looked behind him only twice to make sure she kept pace.

  When they arrived at Pascal Dupree’s property east of the settlement, Running Deer took her into the slave quarters, where she found Dancing Brook panting and gasping on a pallet on the floor.

  Julianne turned to Running Deer. “Does Officer Dupree know of her condition? Why did he not send for me sooner?”

  Running Deer grunted. “He no send for you. Dancing Brook ask for you. He at tavern. He not know.”

  Dancing Brook pointed to something on the floor beside her, and Julianne saw that she had already collected some slippery elm. A bowl of warm water and a stack of cloths were beside it. Julianne thanked Running Deer and dismissed him from the room before turning back to her patient.

  With the few words she had learned from the captain, she tried to speak comfort to the girl as she rubbed her hands with slippery elm and water, then sat on the floor at the end of the pallet. A tactile examination showed the waters had ruptured and the baby’s head was already presenting. Julianne smiled and told Dancing Brook to push with the pain.

  Dancing Brook’s face contorted with the next contraction, but she bore the agony without a sound.

  “That’s it, you’re doing well.” Truly, it did not take a midwife’s skill to attend this birth. Dancing Brook and the baby were doing all the work. “The baby will be here soon.”

  As if in sympathy, a spasm claimed Julianne’s own stomach. When it released her, she beat back her alarm until it hid behind the present moment. Fear was a distraction she could not allow. Not now.

  In three more silent but strong pushes, a perfect baby boy was delivered into her waiting hands. His pale skin surprised her, but the infant was as alert and strong as he could be. Not much later, the afterbirth easily detached and slipped out as well.

  After tying off and cutting the navel string, Julianne bathed Dancing Brook’s son in wine, wrapped him in
a blanket, and handed him to his mother. He let out a lusty wail, and the women laughed approvingly.

  “His father will want to know he has a son,” Julianne told Dancing Brook. It was a midwife’s business to record in her ledger the lineage of every child delivered.

  Dancing Brook spoke too quickly. The syllables tumbled over themselves until tears streamed down the broad planes of the girl’s cheeks.

  “Slow down,” Julianne pleaded. “Again, please.”

  But repeating herself rendered Dancing Brook’s speech no more decipherable. Until one word, sprinkled throughout her speech, rose to the surface, overshadowing everything else. Julianne’s heart sank.

  “Dupree?” she asked. “Pascal Dupree? Is the father?”

  Dancing Brook nodded and clutched her baby tightly to her chest. She said another word then, over and over, as she rocked her newborn babe. Julianne had no idea what it meant.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When the autumn sun was high in the sky the next day, Julianne returned to Officer Dupree’s home to check on Dancing Brook and her baby. But before she could knock on the door to the slave quarters, crying filled her ears. Not a baby’s cry. A mother’s. She was keening.

  With a quick rap on the door, Julianne let herself in. Dancing Brook was on the dirt floor, smearing ashes on her face. Dread building, Julianne swept the room with her gaze. “Where’s the baby?”

  Dancing Brook shook her head. “No baby,” she said. “No baby. Dupree. . . .” And then the word again that Julianne didn’t understand. But it was enough to ignite a fire in her chest.

  Anger leapt over her sorrow and licked through Julianne’s veins. She whisked out of the slave cabin and marched to Dupree’s front door. She pounded on it, then clasped her hands and bit her lip to check the torrent of words bubbling just beneath the surface. A midwife’s reputation could be ruined by a lack of self-control.

  Running Deer opened the door. It took all her strength to maintain an even tone as she inquired for his master. But she was rewarded moments later when Pascal Dupree greeted her and invited her in.

  “You honor me with your presence!” He took her hand to kiss it, and it was all she could do not to pull away.

  “I was present last night too, as it happens.”

  Officer Dupree’s smile drooped. “Is that so?”

  She followed him into the salon, where the sun streamed through the wide open windows, infusing the paisley rug with its warmth. He sat in a scarlet brocade armchair near a game table, the skirt of his jacket fanning in thick folds from his waist, and motioned for her to do the same. “Play a hand with me? No? Just as well. I have a habit of winning, you know.” He laughed as he slapped the table.

  “I delivered Dancing Brook of a fine, healthy boy last night. Yet when I visited the mother a moment ago, all I found was her wailing in mourning and no baby to be seen.”

  “Ah, well.” The officer shuffled a deck of cards, the sound muted by the table’s green felt covering. Behind him, an ornate clock ticked the seconds away. “Don’t all babies go to heaven? And yet if he’d survived to be raised by a savage, he might have followed his ancestral religion, and his soul be lost forever. So it was merciful that the infant was weak and God took him in the night.”

  Julianne felt as though she’d been punched. “No.” Her voice was hard. “Not that child. I don’t believe it. It was the easiest birth I’ve ever attended. He was eight pounds, by my reckoning, and hearty and hale.”

  The sparkle in Officer Dupree’s eyes vanished, and his dimples retreated. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  She was. “I’m telling you the truth, and I expect the same courtesy of you.”

  Dupree stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles, his gaiters dazzlingly white in the sunbeam. “I’m sure it isn’t easy for you to hear it, being the midwife, but your patient’s baby is dead. And that is the absolute truth.”

  No. Not that beautiful, perfect, healthy baby. Despite her best efforts not to feel the loss so keenly, tears sprang to her eyes. “My patient’s baby,” she repeated, anger sharpening her tone. “You mean Dancing Brook’s baby. Your son.”

  He blanched but recovered himself with a laugh. Sitting forward, he leaned two cards against each other on their edges, then added a third, and then a fourth. “How would you know who the father is?” His tone was casual, but the slightest tremor in his hands gave him away.

  “She told me. It is a midwife’s duty to record each baby’s lineage.”

  “Record? You’ve written it down?” At once the cards collapsed and he was on his feet.

  “What did you do, Officer Dupree?”

  “She doesn’t even speak French. And even if you could decipher a few words here and there, you can’t trust a slave’s testimony. It will never stand up.”

  “But mine will. Or didn’t you know that a midwife’s word is as trusted as a priest’s?”

  A laugh burst from him. “You’re comparing yourself to a priest now? Oh, this is too much!”

  Julianne narrowed her eyes at him, seething with indignation. “And you playact as if you’re Bienville himself! How do you think your superior officer will enjoy hearing that you abuse your slave—and her baby?”

  Dupree’s coloring bloomed a shade to match his upholstery. Her words had found their mark. He grabbed her arm. “How would he enjoy hearing that the colony midwife is a murderer?”

  A gasp escaped her.

  “That’s right. I know what you are. Had a nice little chat with a girl named Helene at the tavern last night.”

  Julianne bristled. So Helene’s tongue was as loose as anything else she wore.

  “She told me all about your imprisonment at Salpêtrière and how you were condemned for the murder of one of your patients.”

  His words were daggers, flaying Julianne’s confidence clean away. She jerked to break free, but he caught her other arm and pulled her against his chest. When his gaze probed the edge of her square neckline, she fought to control the breath straining against her corset.

  “But how do you think the rest of New Orleans will feel about putting our valuable women and babies in your bloodied hands?” Dupree’s breath smelled of brandy. “The very one Bienville hired to deliver life delivers death instead? Maybe it was your fault Dancing Brook’s baby died.”

  “Unhand me this instant!”

  “If you speak against me, no one will believe you. Not after today. I could tell you, for instance, that I smothered that baby with a pillow as soon as I found it.”

  Chills spiraled up and down her spine. “You couldn’t have. Not your own son.” But she was beginning to believe he could. Shock stilled her.

  He took a step back from her but still held her arms firmly in his grasp. “We could have used you at the barracks yesterday.”

  Julianne frowned at the sudden change in conversation.

  “One of our men was shot. Matthieu—do you remember him? He was shot in the arm, right here in New Orleans. When I told him I’d fetch you to come tend him, he said it was you who shot him.”

  She stared at him. “Matthieu?”

  “I told him to keep quiet about it, naturally, that there had been some mistake and that we shouldn’t malign your name without good cause. Imagine my surprise when Helene filled my ear. How disappointed I was to find your character is already corrupt.”

  Fear raced through her veins. “Someone followed me home from the tavern. I told him to leave and he didn’t. I defended myself!” Her words came in a torrent.

  “With a musket ball. Attempted murder. Matthieu is living proof.”

  Before Julianne knew what was happening, Dupree grabbed the top of her left sleeve and ripped downward, popping the shoulder seam wide open. Her right hand flew to cover her fleur-de-lys, but it was too late.

  “Evidence of your character is permanently proclaimed on your skin.” He sighed, as if regretful. But his eyes told a different tale. “Your behavior cannot go unanswered.”

 
; A memory ricocheted in her mind. A woman’s torment on public display. A voice in the crowd to explain. She’s a girl of bad character. We have no police. The soldiers make examples of them to deter others from following her suit. We must have order, you know.

  When Dupree began leading her away, she knew where he was taking her.

  Rope pinched Julianne’s bare wrists as three soldiers wrestled her pregnant body to a wooden horse in the open square by the waterfront. After delivering her to his soldiers, Dupree had taken his leave, saying he had no stomach to watch, though he knew it must be done.

  One of her eyelids was swollen shut, thanks to the fist planted there when she fought against the soldiers who ripped off her gown, leaving her only in her chemise and petticoat. Beyond the dozen soldiers waiting impatiently for their turn at her, a circle of onlookers cinched ever tighter. Helene stood at the front of the crowd, her bosoms half exposed in the indecent garb of her trade. Her smile triumphant, she tossed her loose hair over her shoulders before pressing her fists to her hips.

  Shame churning her gut, Julianne squeezed her eyes shut and sipped shallow, rapid breaths of air that smelled of spoiled fish. Wind tugged her hair from its pins and whipped it about her face.

  “I present to you the colony midwife! At last exposed for what she really is—a convicted felon. Her crime? Murder in the birthing chamber. Attempted murder of the king’s soldier, Matthieu Hurlot.”

  “I knew her in Paris!” Helene cried out. “He speaks the truth!”

  Julianne wondered if Matthieu was in attendance as well, but she refused to scan the crowd. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the muddy ground, where boot prints held last night’s rain and mosquitoes rose up with a keen, sharp buzzing.

  Judgment filleted her. Condemnation buffeted her ears as she hunched over the wooden horse. This isn’t real, she told herself. It’s a nightmare.

  But then stripes of fire were laid on her back, ripping through linen and flesh both. Over and again, the whip crisscrossed her back until shreds of fabric fell to the ground in ribbons, leaving her bloodied back bare beneath the glowering sun. Relief came only when the whip passed from one soldier’s hand to another, so that all may have their share in the exhibition. Darkness crowded her vision. The crowd wavered.