Hunting for the Mississippi

by Camille Bouchard

  Sometimes, weather permitting, we can make out the people watching us from the ships in the distance. Sometimes I wave at Mom, and at Marie-Élisabeth…

  It’s strange to be so near and yet so far.

  “Mr. Joutel, can you ask eight volunteers to cut down that big tree over there, near the bend in the river? It would make an excellent canoe.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Lucien Talon and I happen to be right beside them, adding wood to the fire of the men who lead us.

  “You’re a carpenter, aren’t you?” Henri Joutel asks Marie-Élisabeth’s father.

  “I am indeed, sir.”

  “So there’s a job for you.”

  And so I find myself wading upriver with Lucien Talon, the marquis de La Sablonnière, Desfloges, Oris, and the three inseparable beasts: the Duhaut brothers and Jean L’Archevêque. At first I was still worried about how the elder Duhaut brother might react to me being there, but I quickly discover that he is completely indifferent to me. He’s either forgotten, or he’s not one to hold a grudge.

  Or else he thinks I’m so insignificant that I was no worse than a mosquito, irritating him for a second or two.

  * * *

  We don’t see the Natives until they’re already upon us. There are twenty or so painted warriors, brandishing leather shields, spears, flint knives, and tomahawks (a weapon that is basically just a rock on the end of a stick).

  Six of our own are surrounded. The Duhaut brothers were off by themselves—one to pee in the bushes, the other chasing a partridge—and manage to get away. They’ll alert the others.

  We’re not armed, apart for the marquis de La Sablonnière who has a sword. But by the time he manages to draw it, two sharp points are already pressed against his chest, ready to bore into him at the first sign of resistance.

  With his axe, Oris manages to drive back the first attacker to rush at him. This earns him a club to the head and he collapses, unconscious in the mud.

  Lucien Talon and I, standing side by side, are immediately facing two tomahawks and a long flint knife. We show no sign of rebelliousness or a desire to flee.

  I’m too stunned to really grasp what’s going on. And strangely enough what makes me saddest of all is less my fate than the needless brutality the two Natives show toward Lucien Talon. They shove him in the back with their weapons, believing no doubt that I’m just a child. One of them hauls me along by the arm, without really hurting me.

  Oris is still unconscious and is dragged away by the feet. His head bumps against rocks and roots along the way. Desfloges is in tears, imploring his torturers—unmoved, they seem only to treat him more roughly than ever—while Jean L’Archevêque swears at them with oaths that almost leave me blushing. Only the marquis de La Sablonnière surprises his captors by walking more quickly than them, with the arched back of a hidalgo, impervious to their slaps and the scratches their spears leave behind.

  “Are you OK, Eustache?”

  “I’m OK, Mr. Talon.”

  We reach the top of a knoll that’s bare of vegetation. I almost shout out with surprise. It’s the first time I’ve seen a Native village.

  Fifty or so dome-shaped huts are scattered around. They are made from bulrushes and dried animal hides draped over curved poles. Hundreds of naked Natives, all brightly painted and wearing feathers or shells, watch us arrive in silence. I’m pleasantly surprised: the girls have their breasts, bellies, butts, and legs on display for all to see. I pretend not to notice.

  Everyone is staring at us. There’s no doubt it’s the first time these villagers have ever set eyes on Europeans. Our features, our pale plain skin, the hair on the adults’ faces, our clothes… Everything is new to them, too. And some look worried. Some Natives, it seems, are annoyed that we were brought here.

  In a strange, guttural language...

  “It sounds like a hen clucking after her young,” Jean L’Archevêque mutters scornfully.

  …in a strange language, as I was saying, a bent-over old man—who looks to me to be their chief—is hurling abuse at the man who led our captors here.

  The two argue for a moment until the warrior gives in. He leaves us and strides over to a hut, venting his anger by pushing over a pot full of gruel that had been hanging from a wooden trammel over the fire. A woman scolds him and drags him inside.

  It might have been funny in different circumstances. But nobody so much as cracks a smile. Least of all Oris. He has come to and is looking around groggily, an enormous bump on the side of his head.

  The chief walks over and looks us up and down in silence, walking through the middle of our group. He finishes his inspection in front of me, shaking his head, as though saying to himself, “And they even kidnapped a child.” It might have reassured me. But instead it annoys me, as usual.

  Then again, maybe that’s not quite what the old man is thinking.

  He has a kindly face, not too quiet, rather conciliatory. He motions to the captors and for a moment I think it’s to let us go and ask us to go back to where we came from. But that’s not what happens.

  “Hey! Easy does it, you Savages! Easy does it!”

  Oris grumbles as he is shoved forward with a spear so that a Native who is wearing even more feathers and paint than the others can examine his bump.

  “He must be the village medicine man. A sorcerer,” Lucien Talon ventures.

  Oris is brought over to this doctor of sorts and we are urged to gather again among the huts. Still with the help of their weapons, they make us sit around the fire. A dog’s carcass is roasting over it and a clay cooking pot sits to one side. It’s full of a thick-looking soup.

  “It’s called sagamité,” Marie-Élisabeth’s father tells me. “It’s boiled corn and meat scraps.”

  “Is it good?”

  “When you’re really hungry, yes.”

  But Lucien Talon is laying it on too thick. When the women begin to dish it out in big banana leaves, I find it delicious.

  “Don’t eat it, kid,” Desfloges tells me in a shaky voice. “They’re out to avenge their compatriot, the one we found dead. They’re poisoning us.”

  “What are you talking about?” De La Sablonnière retorts, bringing the sagamité to his lips. “If they want to kill us, they have plenty of spears.”

  His logic doesn’t convince Desfloges, and Jean L’Archevêque laughs as he wolfs down a huge mouthful.

  * * *

  Our captors have been forbidden from approaching us, and for the rest of the evening the women lavish us with attention—they give us food and water, they run their hands through our hair, they even give long, lingering kisses to Oris, who is back with us now, a leaf dressing covering his wound. For prisoners, we’re being rather well looked after.

  “They’re afraid we’ll retaliate,” Lucien Talon whispers to me, as though afraid the Natives might understand. “Some of them saw the arquebuses in action when they came to visit us. They must have told the elders that, if they mistreat us, they will be massacred when Mr. De La Salle comes to demand we are set free.”

  “Do you think we will be held prisoner for long?” I ask, a little frightened all the same.

  “I’m sure we’ll be free again very, very soon.”

  14

  THUNDER

  IN THE BLUE SKY

  They split us up. We each spend the night in a different hut. Maybe the Natives are frightened we’ll work together to plan our escape. After all, it’s easier to keep an eye on a single prisoner alone in his corner than six who might be up to something.

  And so I end up with a family where I quickly become a game for the children. They are between two and six years old. The parents let them walk up to me, touch me, then jump all over me. I make them laugh, holding them upside down, rocking them back and forth, and pretending to be their horse.

  In the morning,
when a big group of men armed with arquebuses arrives in the village hot on the heels of Mr. De La Salle, I greet our liberators with a kid on my shoulders and two more clinging to my pants.

  Our men—who seem mighty pleased to find us alive—look the part: gruff and aggressive. They are constantly blowing on the matchlock wicks of their muskets, coaxing them back to life. I’m pleased to see that the common enemy seems to have rallied everyone together.

  The old man who had been rebuking our captors’ leader the night before and who seems to be the village chief walks forward with a stoop to meet the leader of our expedition. He runs a bony hand across his own chest before doing the same to De La Salle. He repeats the strange gesture on his arm, then on De La Salle’s.

  “It’s OK,” De La Salle shouts to us, without taking his eyes off the chief. “It’s a sign of peace. He’s demonstrating his friendship. But don’t let your guard down. Make sure there isn’t a group of them waiting discreetly off to the side. They can be more cunning than foxes.”

  When the chief has finished his friendly ritual, he explains in his strange language things that even Mr. De La Salle doesn’t seem to understand a word of—and this from a man who knows a great many nations along the Mississippi. The old man points to me and the other prisoners and for a moment I think it’s to ask us to go back to our friends. But Mr. De La Salle interprets for us.

  “The old rascal would like a gift or two in exchange for freeing our people.”

  “A gift or two? He must be joking!” grumbles his nephew Moranget, raising his arquebus. “I’ll give them every shot from my musket. How about that?”

  “Calm down,” growls De La Salle. “I don’t want to get on the wrong side of them. We have enough problems to resolve among us as it is, without adding to them.”

  Our leader leaves the old man and comes across to De La Sablonnière, who as a nobleman and infantry lieutenant, can speak for our group.

  “Were you manhandled, marquis?” he asks him.

  “No, sir,” he replies right away, looking scornfully at Moranget. “These people were perfectly proper with us. They fed us and received us amiably.”

  De La Salle stares at the wound on Oris’s head but doesn’t say a word.

  “Mr. Oris tried to kill a Savage with his axe, sir,” De La Sablonnière explains. “The Indian was simply defending himself.”

  I suddenly realize that the children surrounding me have left and are now a few paces behind me. The kid who had been sitting on my shoulders is in his mom’s arms. Parents are discreetly sending their little ones back to the huts. Here and there, I can see other couples doing the same. A clash is in the air.

  De La Salle hesitates a while longer in front of Oris, then turns to speak to the village leader.

  “Very well,” he says. “We shall consider the incident closed if your chief—”

  BOOOOOOM!

  He is interrupted by a noise like thunder, loud and unexpected in equal measure. All the Natives throw themselves to the ground, shrieking in terror. The women beg for mercy, the children are in tears, the men are stunned and frightened.

  It must be said that such a commotion in a clear blue sky is enough to surprise anyone unaccustomed to it.

  Only we Europeans do not gaze heavenward. Instead, we look over to the bay at the foot of the slope. The trees and hills stand in our way, but our liberators seem to know what’s going on.

  “It’s L’Aimable,” Barbier whispers. “I’d recognize that cannon anywhere.”

  “It’s the distress signal,” says Henri Joutel. “It’s on the sand bar.”

  “I knew it!” De La Salle says, trying to contain his rage. But he looks more worried than angry. “They must have run the ship aground.”

  “We don’t have a minute to waste talking to these damned Savages, sir,” splutters Moranget. “Let’s put a few holes in a chest or two to free our men and let the soulless beasts consider the consequences of their actions.”

  De La Salle doesn’t respond to his nephew directly. He turns back to the Indian chief to ask for our freedom. The man is already standing, too proud to let fear keep him on the ground. He motions that he will let the prisoners go without further ado.

  “Very well,” says De La Salle, lowering the barrel of Moranget’s arquebus with his hand while he looks at the chief. “Mr. Joutel?”

  “Sir?”

  “Hand out a few trinkets to these braves so that they see there is more to be gained by working with us than against us.”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  I can see the relief and satisfaction on Henri Joutel’s face as he rummages around in a bag at his feet. The same can’t be said for Moranget, a quarrelsome individual, who seems deeply disappointed by our leader’s conciliatory attitude.

  “But, Uncle,” he says. “If we’re so weak… I mean… generous with them, they’ll attack again just to take advantage of our generosity when the time comes to negotiate our prisoners’ release. If we kill a few of them now, they’ll learn their lesson and leave us in peace.”

  Our leader turns to his nephew. I can’t see his face from where I’m standing, but one thing is for sure: judging by Moranget’s disappointed expression, De La Salle doesn’t share his opinion.

  “Better this than make enemies of them, Crevel, believe me. I saw them fight at the Mississippi. Their weapons might be less powerful than our own, Crevel, but when they fight… My God, when they fight…”

  Moranget’s face crumples and he gives in sullenly. When he at last points his musket back at the ground, I lose interest in him. Henri Joutel, showing off a broad grin amidst his bushy beard, hands out bracelets and bells to the Natives, who yelp with delight. My friends have already taken the path leading out of the village. I’m about to set off after them when I feel something grabbing at my pants.

  I turn around and find myself face to face with one of the kids from the night before. He’s come back out of the hut to find me.

  I can’t get rid of him until I’ve given him a big hug.

  15

  THE BIRTHDAY

  “A cake?”

  Mom is crying her heart out as she hands me a little golden ball wrapped in a handkerchief. We’re sitting on the rocks down by the river, getting ready to set up a first camp on shore without really knowing if it will be permanent.

  “For your birthday,” she replies.

  “My birth— It’s my birthday?”

  “You’re thirteen. You turned thirteen yesterday or the day before, I’m not sure.”

  And she sobs even louder. Behind her, the sinister silhouette of L’Aimable lurches out on the water. Waves break against her yards, sending out creamy ripples of foam. The ship has run aground in the shallows, outside of the buoys that Barbier, the pilot, had nonetheless been careful to draw attention to.

  Water flooded steerage, and the sailors were unable to salvage many supplies. But they rush to move our provisions onto land in case a storm topples or sinks the ship for good.

  L’Aimable is now amiable in name only.

  “Congratulations, big lad!” Lucien Talon says to me, with a pat on the back. “This time you really are a man.”

  “Oh! Not for another year,” says Mom between sobs. “He’s still so small. I mean… so young.”

  “In a little while,” Isabelle Talon goes on, “it will be Marie-Élisabeth’s birthday, too. She was born in March. Eleven, she’ll be. Then Jean-Baptiste will be eight. Pierre, nine… Their birthdays are all about two weeks apart.”

  Again without any warning, Mom holds me tight, wetting my hair with her tears. She was so frightened when she heard I had been taken away by the Savages. She feared all she would ever see of me again would be a mutilated body, scalped and half eaten by cannibals. When the ship wrecked, she shouted to the heavens that it didn’t matter a bit so long as God returned me to her, sa
fe and sound.

  “We couldn’t care less about the ship! We couldn’t care less about the wine, cider, dried meat, and sea biscuits. Just bring me back my son!”

  “Hush, Delphine,” Barbier’s wife had urged her. “There’s talk of sabotage as it is, what with all this quarrelling between our men. If you don’t want to end up in the dock…”

  But as she said it, Barbier’s wife gave Mom a funny look. Or at least that’s what Isabelle Talon says.

  “I heard her say, ‘I wouldn’t put it past that damn widow to have made a pact with the devil to get her son back,’” says Mrs. Talon. “I laughed at her and she called me a witch too.”

  “She’s such a hateful woman,” Lucien Talon replies.

  When the ship wrecked, Mom wasn’t able to save our few belongings, our only memories of Armand. Instead she devoted her energy to gathering up what she would need to make me a ball of birthday cake. To celebrate my return (if I ever returned) and my birthday.

  “You’re not going to eat it?”

  Her question draws me out of my thoughts. I’m still holding her gift. I stare at it without moving.

  “I’ve never… had cake.”

  “I know,” Mom gasps, still fighting back tears. “I wanted to give you something to remember.”

  I smile at her to show I’m grateful. Right beside us, the Talon brothers are looking on enviously. Madeleine is more brazen and is resting her elbows on my knee in the hopes that I’ll let her have a bite. I look around for Marie-Élisabeth. I find her still off to one side, staring at the wreck. Her mind far from us.

  I want to give her a piece of… all of my cake, just to see her smile again.

  Marie-Élisabeth.

  “Eat,” Mom insists, beginning to worry I don’t like my gift.

  I bring the ball of flour, grease, and sugar to my lips and sink my teeth into it. An unreal sensation washes over my mouth. I’ve never felt anything like it. It’s not a flavour: it’s an emotion. It’s palpable. It takes my tongue by storm, my palate, head, nose, ears... then my eyes.