The Mark of the King

by Jocelyn Green

  “I have enemies, Julianne. Benjamin was one of them.”

  She looked at him with pleading in her eyes, as though he could change the truth by sheer force of will. “You still haven’t told me how he died,” she whispered.

  Marc-Paul released her. She stood back and waited for him to speak. Dread stalled the words in his chest before he began.

  “Red Bird tracked and captured Benjamin. Honoring the Choctaw alliance with France, he returned him to Bienville, bringing with him the scalps of the Chickasaw who were lending him aid. Red Bird tried persuading the governor to give Benjamin a reprieve, especially since your brother had previously been so helpful in our understanding of our allies. Bienville asked for my testimony, and I gave it to him. The punishment for desertion is death, Julianne. His fate was out of my hands, out of Red Bird’s. Benjamin knew the risk. I visited him in prison and asked if he wanted to write you a letter, telling you good-bye. He said no. His end was too disgraceful, he said. He didn’t want you to think ill of him. So I respected his wishes. He didn’t want you to know. You cannot think I rejoiced over his death, ma chérie. I would to God he was still here for you. You have lost so much.” Marc-Paul looped his arms behind her waist and slowly pulled her to him. “I’m sorry.”

  Weak words for such a powerful confession.

  Julianne’s composure crumbled, and she squeezed her eyes shut. As Marc-Paul cradled her head against his shoulder, he couldn’t help but think that he’d just given his wife one more reason to seek solace in another man’s arms.

  Part Four

  Flood

  “It is most disagreeable for an officer in charge of a colony to have nothing more for its defense than a bunch of deserters, contraband salt dealers, and rogues who are always ready not only to desert you but also to turn against you.”

  —Sieur Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne de Bienville, 1719

  Chapter Twenty-six

  NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

  APRIL 1722

  Spring rain drove into the ground like arrows, pockmarking the mud and stippling puddles. In his garden, Marc-Paul looked down at the pools flooding the vegetables, and rainwater channeled from his hat as though from a gutter’s spout. New Orleans was about to learn if all the canals the colonists had dug at the behest of the city engineer would be enough to prevent another flood.

  Though he could not see it from where he stood, the swollen Mississippi roared around its bend. It was too fast. Too strong.

  “Etienne,” Marc-Paul called, “grab your ropes. I have a feeling we’re going fishing.”

  Muttering, Etienne ducked inside his cabin and came out with two coils of rope. After handing one to Marc-Paul, the men looped them over their shoulders and marched through the rain toward town.

  Just as he had suspected, the ditches along Decatur Street had already overflowed. River water, dark grey beneath the sunless sky, charged over and through the embankments. Soon the cold water spilled over the tops of Marc-Paul’s boots, weighting his every sodden step. Fish swam in the streets. But this was not what he wanted to catch.

  “Here we go. You know what to do.”

  Marc-Paul made a lasso of his rope. Etienne caught the pine box floating toward them, guided it into the rope’s ring, and Marc-Paul cinched it tight around its middle. A quick glance at the lid confirmed that the owner’s name had been carved into it. Good. More would come.

  In the spring, the river rose and pushed against the levees, into every pocket of air, every fissure created by burrowing crayfish. This time, the pressure had built until the coffins buried there were pushed from their earthen cradles and drifted on the floodwaters into the streets.

  Etienne squinted at a streak of light cracking open the clouds overhead. “Rain’s stopping.”

  “Not that it will help,” Marc-Paul said. Snowmelt at the north end of the Mississippi added volume to the river, which only compounded as it flowed south. The river strained its banks from Illinois Country on down, so by the time it reached New Orleans, a break in the rain could do nothing to slow its churning rapids.

  Marc-Paul and Etienne pulled the floating coffin to the barracks, where they stacked it on some poor private’s bunk and prayed it was high enough off the ground to stay dry until the river receded back into its banks. At Marc-Paul’s order, a dozen soldiers geared up to wade the streets as well, fishing for coffins that had been dislodged from the levee. Those soldiers remaining at the barracks were tasked with receiving and organizing whatever the “fishermen” brought back. The garrison would be in charge of draining each coffin and replacing it once the graveyard section of the levee was repaired. They’d need to match the coffins with the correct markers as well, assuming the markers were also recovered.

  “Why bury these poor souls in the levee at all when we know flooding might knock them loose again?” Raphael shouted across the barracks.

  “It has only happened once before,” Marc-Paul replied. “The water table in the ground between New Orleans and Lake Pontchartrain is too high to accept the bodies. The levee is the highest land for miles around.”

  “Clearly this isn’t working either!” Raphael swore as he stood in the doorway of the barracks, watching.

  Marc-Paul could not deny it. Odors oozed from the floodwaters that rushed between and around his tall boots, so foul he breathed shallowly through his mouth. The coffins that came into his hands sloshed with water and human remains. The soldiers wading through Decatur Street cursed among themselves as they followed Marc-Paul’s orders. Not for the first time, they scorned Bienville’s choice for Louisiana’s capital.

  Nearly every coffin contained someone Marc-Paul had known. As they were lassoed and shuttled to the barracks, memories bobbed to the surface. Men killed by arrow, tomahawk, musket ball, or drink. Mothers who did not survive childbirth. Germans who starved, Frenchmen who burned up with fever. Prostitutes taken by disease. Colonists had only come to New Orleans four years ago, but the death rate far exceeded the births.

  Shades of brown and grey laced together in the flowing water. Sunlight perforated the clouds. Large branches shivering with leaves came rushing toward them, along with rotten tree stumps floating on their sides, exposing their gnarled roots. As Etienne reached for the coffin headed his way, Marc-Paul formed his noose, ready to secure the box.

  Etienne grunted as he stopped the floating cargo against his legs. “Simon LeGrange,” he read from the lid, and the name struck Marc-Paul in the chest.

  The convict forced to colonize, Julianne’s first husband, and the largest presence in any room, he now floated helplessly like flotsam through the streets of a land he never wanted to begin with. And now New Orleans had spit him out, rejecting him and all the others who had been buried here. Though Marc-Paul didn’t consider himself superstitious, he could almost believe, between famine and flood, that this land fought against settlement. And that this land would win.

  Solemnly, he cinched the rope around Simon’s coffin, and Etienne dragged it to the barracks.

  Oh no. A sickening thought rolled Marc-Paul’s stomach. The baby. Julianne’s tiny son, Benjamin, had been buried at Simon’s feet. His box had surely come unmoored along with Simon’s, but where was it? Marc-Paul turned in a full circle. Land and river and sky crashed together. He squinted against the sunlight reflecting off the water.

  “Men!” he called to his soldiers. “Be on the lookout for a small one, about this long.” He held his hands about a foot apart. Such a small span of space, and yet what emptiness it represented in Julianne’s heart. “It . . . it is my wife’s son.” If it were not found, if her baby’s body were lost into the sea . . . A dull ache consumed him. Please, Lord, not this. Not this as well. He knew the wee babe was now in heaven and had no need for his earthly tent. Julianne knew this full well herself. But what mourning heart did not long for a place to quietly sow one’s tears?

  The barracks at his back, Etienne shook his head, jowls quivering, as he rubbed his swollen knuckles. His eyes misted beneat
h his craggy brows. “Blast this place. Blast it.” He threw his head back and stared at the heavens, lips moving silently, before surveying the waters around him.

  The river ruffled around Marc-Paul’s long strides. A cursory glance confirmed that the soldiers were performing their unpleasant duties, so he waded downstream to search for the baby. His heart felt as heavy as his legs pulling through the water. I’m sorry, he could hear himself saying to Julianne. Again. How many times had he said it? His jaw tensed. Despite his misgivings about his marriage, he still could not bear Julianne having more pain to endure.

  “Marc-Paul! There!” Etienne’s voice whirled Marc-Paul’s attention to a mass of tangled roots coming at him. Nesting inside was a small wooden box.

  Energy flooded Marc-Paul. He formed his lasso and threw it at the trunk. The rope caught, and the line pulled taut. Etienne threw his rope as well to help fight against the current. Together they closed the distance until Marc-Paul was able to free the tiny coffin from its trap.

  While Etienne unhooked the ropes from the roots, Marc-Paul bowed his head over baby Benjamin. Thank you, he prayed. Relief and gratitude poured into him as he carried his wife’s baby to the barracks.

  A soldier met him at the door and reached for the box, but Marc-Paul brushed past him. He wanted to lay the baby with his father once more. And after the levees were repaired, he’d lay them both to rest in the earth again, where they would stay until the next flood.

  That night, after Marc-Paul had assessed the minimal damage to his own property, he scrubbed the filth from his skin and fell into bed, exhausted. Julianne climbed under the covers, and though he was aware of her warm body against his, he could only think of sleep. With a chaste kiss to her cheek, he bade her good night.

  In the half-conscious state between wakefulness and slumber, scenes from the day’s work drifted back to him. Above Julianne’s rhythmic breathing, he could still hear the rush of the flood and feel the river water soaking his skin. Images and smells he’d experienced hours before lapped at his mind. At least he’d found Benjamin’s coffin. For that, he could rest securely.

  Marc-Paul’s eyes popped open. He stared into the dark. Benjamin’s coffin. Benjamin Chevalier. He hadn’t seen Julianne’s brother’s coffin. Did I miss it? His forehead ached, and he pressed his fingers to the ridge between his eyes. An owl hooted in the still of the night.

  And suddenly, Marc-Paul wrenched wide awake. He had surveyed the men’s work in the barracks before he and Etienne had come home. Closing his eyes, he reeled that memory back until he saw himself counting the coffins and inspecting them to find the names. They were in no particular order, of course, but if he had seen Benjamin Chevalier’s at any point, he certainly would have remembered it.

  Julianne hadn’t asked about it either. Why, when she was so eager to hear about Simon’s and her baby’s, did she neglect to ask after her brother’s remains? He should have been fresh on her mind from their recent conversation. And why had she been suddenly so curious about Benjamin’s end when she hadn’t bothered to ask since that first visit to Bienville’s home?

  If Benjamin Chevalier’s coffin hadn’t come out with the rest, where was it?

  The riddle burned in his mind until he could remain in bed no longer. Careful not to wake Julianne, he rose, dressed, and put on his tall boots once more, though they were still wet. Quietly, he stole from the house, plucked a shovel from the gardening shed, and set out.

  Fireflies blinked beneath the star-studded sky. Mosquitoes swarmed around him, but he was barely aware of their incessant buzzing as he squelched through the ankle-deep mud. Moonlight glowed dimly on the graveyard levee, now a ruined mess. He could see where the river had cut through it. The earth sagged in the gaps where the coffins had once been. Except for one lone spot where Benjamin Chevalier had been buried. The marker had been washed away, but Marc-Paul knew in his gut the coffin remained.

  Using the shovel as a walking stick, he sank deep into the mud as he made his way to Benjamin’s resting place. The air was thick with stench, and he muscled back a gag. Overhead, bats flapped erratically in the sky, swooping as they feasted on mosquitoes. With their high-pitched chirping in his ears, he thrust the shovel into the wet soil and heaved it away in sodden clumps, feeling like a grave robber.

  A thud announced he’d hit the top of Benjamin’s coffin. He’s there. Leave him in peace, a voice whispered in Marc-Paul. But there had to be a reason this one coffin was not washed away. He intended to find out what it was.

  He cleared the mud from the lid. Benjamin had been dead for two years. Looking inside was bound to be unpleasant. Bracing himself, Marc-Paul inserted the edge of his shovel between the warping lid and the box. He pushed down on the handle and heard the squeaking of the nails as they pulled free.

  He held his breath. Blood throbbed inside his skull like a clapper vibrating inside a bell. He tore off the lid and waited for a cloud to pass from in front of the moon. Slowly, by degrees, the moon shone its light into the open coffin.

  It was full to the top with rocks.

  Breath whooshed from him, and air rushed back in to fill his lungs. His heart beat a tattoo against his ribs as he used the handle of the shovel to probe and stir inside the coffin. Perhaps the body was buried beneath them, a precaution taken by the original gravedigger to keep it securely in place. If that was the plan, it had worked.

  But aside from the rocks, the coffin was empty. Benjamin’s body was gone. Don’t be a fool, Marc-Paul told himself. His body was never there. He speared his shovel into the soggy ground and leaned on the handle. Shock shuddered through his limbs as the wind chilled the sweat on his skin.

  Benjamin was alive.

  While he put the empty coffin back in its place, the gears of his mind felt rusty as they turned. All the way home, and as he washed the mud and stink from his skin, he could not rinse away his alarm. He had no idea what to make of his discovery. And until he did, he wasn’t ready to share the news with Julianne.

  He slipped back into bed beside her, but sleep was not likely to come.

  In the dark of night, Julianne stirred awake. Wind moaned outside the window, and she wondered if it would bring more rain. Then she startled with recognition. That was no wind she heard. It was coming from inside the house. Pushing herself up on one elbow, she strained her ears. There it was again. Lily was weeping in her room.

  Julianne sat upright and flipped her braid over her shoulder, but Marc-Paul stayed her with his hand.

  “I’ll go,” he whispered, and was gone.

  Pulling her knees up under her chin, Julianne crossed her arms around her ankles and listened to her husband’s rich velvet voice soothe a little girl’s fear or sorrow. Julianne would not have been able to offer such comfort, not without speaking Mobilian. So she remained, useless and alone, while the bed grew cold around her.

  As the sun rose, Marc-Paul returned to dress, only to leave again without a word.

  When he came home for dinner hours later, he was so aloof that Julianne’s appetite vanished. Lily played outside as soon as she was done eating, but Julianne remained at the table across from her husband, waiting for him to address her directly for the first time all day. Her fingers pleated the napkin in her lap, first one way, then the other. Finally, he caught her gaze with shadow-ringed eyes.

  “Didn’t sleep well last night?” she ventured.

  Marc-Paul shook his head. “Lily had nightmares. I meant to stay in her room only until she slept again, but I ended up drifting off on the floor. Still paying for it too.” He rolled his head from side to side, wincing.

  Julianne nodded. “You look exhausted.”

  “Well.” He sipped his coffee. “Losing sleep will do that.”

  “Next time I’ll go to her so you can rest.”

  “She wanted me.”

  The words stung. With a nod, she let the matter drop. But in her heart, she wondered why Lily would ever want her when she had Marc-Paul already.

  Three d
ays later, she found him packing in their room. Morning mist shrouded the house in a thick blanket of white, muffling the world outside.

  “I’m leaving again. A new mission.” He studied her as he told her. Fog’s lacy veil spilled in through the open window and hovered between them.

  Julianne leaned against the bureau, her heart dividing. One portion was lonely for him already, while the other portion felt only relief. Benjamin had grown bolder of late, finding her at home when Marc-Paul was in town. The secret ballooned inside her marriage, pushing her ever further from her husband. “How long this time?”

  “Of course. You want to know how much time you have.” He set his jaw as he stuffed a linen shirt into his leather valise.

  The hardness in his face startled her. Vapor dampened the air and filmed her skin. “What do you mean?”

  He stopped packing to face her fully. “Is there someone else?”

  Dread rippled through her. “How could you ask such a thing?”

  “You’re hiding something. You haven’t been yourself since I returned from Mobile. At first I thought it was just the strain of adding a child to the family, but then I heard a man came to visit you on Lundi Gras, and you let him into the house.”

  The room spun, and Julianne pressed back against the bureau, its brass handles stamping into her spine. Her mouth went dry.

  “I didn’t listen at first, couldn’t imagine you would do such a thing. I know I’m gone for long periods of time, but I trusted you.”

  “Marc-Paul!” A sob strangled her voice.

  “You want a child of your own, and I’m not giving that to you, but I never dreamed—” He stared at the bed they shared. “My worst fear is that I’ll come home and find you miraculously pregnant.”

  “How dare you!” she cried, aghast. “I would never do that!” The bureau rocked as she shoved away from it, and the glass hurricane tumbled from its top and shattered on the floor.