Hunting for the Mississippi

by Camille Bouchard

  He seems to be very nervous.

  “Let’s hope nothing happened to them,” Joutel sighs, mirroring our leader’s concerns.

  Again, De La Salle just nods. His felt hat slaps against his thigh and the fingers on his free hand twiddle frantically with the curls on his wig.

  I see that a few of our men are secretly looking at him. It seems like I’m not the only one to be intrigued by the nervousness that seems to have taken hold of René-Robert Cavelier de La Salle this morning. He’s more nervous than ever.

  We often joke among ourselves about his odd tendency to sense danger for no reason, to see threats that rarely turn out to be real... But since dawn, in his nervous twitches and hesitations, we’ve seen more tension than usual.

  Perhaps the bad weather of the past few days has worsened his fixations. Perhaps they can also be put down to the prolonged absence of his nephew Moranget, his lackey Saget, or his Savage Nika, three people he holds dear. I don’t know.

  What is he feeling? What is he so concerned about? It really seems as though the leader of our expedition can see something coming. Something that he alone can see...

  32

  CROSSING THE RIVER

  The river is lower now, and Mr. De La Salle decides to go look for the men who have disappeared.

  “You have not loaded your musket correctly, sir,” Henri Joutel tells him.

  I rush to offer my services.

  “Please, let me, sir.”

  I take Mr. De La Salle’s arquebus, place the powder required in the barrel, insert a medium-calibre musket ball (enough to kill a close enemy on the spot but not a distant animal), push down the wad, make sure the wick is nice and dry, then hand the weapon back to our leader.

  He doesn’t thank me. He ignores me, as usual. But perhaps this morning that’s because of the worry that’s gnawing away at him.

  One of the Recollect priests steps forward. Contrary to common sense, the priests on our expedition insist on walking in their awful frocks—they’re warm, heavy, and very awkward indeed in the swampland, meadows, brambles, and undergrowth.

  “If it might reassure you, sir, I’m coming with you,” he announces.

  De La Salle nods. His face remains turned to the other shore, where only the tall grass of the plain can be seen. Still without saying a word, with a simple nod of the head he motions for a Native to come with him, too.

  I’m still holding the boiled-leather flask containing the musket powder. I put a few of the balls in my pocket.

  “I’ll reload, if need be, sir.”

  De La Salle still doesn’t answer. It’s as though I don’t exist. But I know that with his lackey gone he must be pleased to hear my offer. I take his silence to mean that he agrees.

  I give Pierre Talon a quick wave goodbye and run off toward the river, following our leader, the Native, and the Recollect priest.

  The waves are still high when we cross the ford. Twice I have to hold on to a rock to stop myself from falling into the water, and it’s not easy keeping the powder dry. By the time we reach the other side, the spray has soaked us from head to toe.

  We wade a little longer through the marsh, knee-deep in water. I hold the flask above my head and look all around. All we need now is for a deadly snake to bite me or—worse!—for a crocodile to go for my throat.

  “Vultures!”

  Mr. De La Salle’s voice is a little unsteady. We’re back on dry land and I’m busy emptying my buffalo-hide shoes of their leech soup.

  “Something’s happened,” the priest replies.

  Not far away, huge black birds are circling the plain and the edge of a scattered forest. But we have no way of seeing what they’re flying over.

  “The Savages?” the Recollect wonders aloud, worried.

  “Perhaps,” Mr. De La Salle replies, lighting the wick of his arquebus.

  “Let’s hope nothing happened to your nephew or—”

  “We’ll call them.”

  He raises his musket to his shoulder and fires into the air. The vultures briefly scatter at the sound.

  “Allow me to reload, sir,” I offer Mr. De La Salle.

  But he has already walked off. He has recognized one of our men. Standing by a tree trunk, he’s waving his arms at us. I’ve just realized who it is myself: it’s Jean L’Archevêque.

  “Praise God,” the priest sighs.

  Mr. De La Salle should be pleased too, but I can still see the nervousness in his every movement.

  He can still see something coming.

  “Your weapon, sir,” I insist.

  Either I needed to speak louder or his mind is elsewhere. Without paying any heed, he walks off slowly in L’Archevêque’s direction. All his senses seem to be on alert: he keeps looking left, then right, then left again...

  “Very well, Jean,” Mr. De La Salle suddenly shouts at L’Archevêque. “So where is my nephew Moranget? Why has he not come to meet me?”

  L’Archevêque, who also looks a little nervous, steps forward, clutching his musket.

  “Moranget is adrift, sir!” he shouts.

  De La Salle stops in his tracks.

  “What do you mean, adrift? In the river?” he replies, his voice shaking.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did he drown?”

  By way of an answer, L’Archevêque bites his lower lip and looks our expedition leader in the eye. Right then, amidst the high grass, I see the reflection of an arquebus. It’s pointed right at Mr. De La Salle’s head.

  33

  MR. DE LA SALLE’S

  PREMONITION

  When I see the smoke begin to rise around the arquebus, instinct makes me close my eyes. I hear the sound of the detonation, new cries go up from the birds, then I open my eyes again.

  Mr. De La Salle is still there, not far from me, but on his knees. For a fraction of a second, I think he’s readying himself to beg the man who’s to shoot him down for mercy, but then, suddenly, his wig slips off his head. Now I can see the wound on the side of his skull.

  The leader of our expedition falls, face first. His last words were to express concern that his nephew Moranget had drowned.

  Jean L’Archevêque runs a nervous hand across his face, then looks toward the man who opened fire. The man walks out of the grass he had been hiding in.

  Pierre Duhaut!

  “May our Lord Jesus Christ protect us!” gasps the Recollect priest.

  The priest acts precisely how I expected Mr. De La Salle to, kneeling down to ask for grace. The Native man who came with us runs away. I’m rooted to the spot, unable to take in the drama that has just unfolded. It all seems too unreal: a merchant firing a musket ball at point-blank range into the head of a nobleman and the head of a mission into the bargain! It’s practically treason. At the very least, a case for the hangman and gallows.

  “Fear not, fear not!” L’Archevêque says, holding out a hand to the priest. “Duhaut, do not reload! You have nothing to fear, not from the reverend and not from Eustache. We will not harm you, Father, we swear. Nor you, big lad. We had no bone to pick with you. Our fight was with the leaders who despised us and—”

  “With the kid, too!” Duhaut cuts in, stuffing his arquebus with powder without taking his eye off me for an instant. “That brat has been out to get us for too long now. He’ll jump at the chance to turn us in.”

  “So what?” grumbles L’Archevêque, striding across the six paces that separate him from his partner in crime to snatch the musket out of his hands. “We agreed to get rid of Moranget and his uncle. That’s done. The hostilities have ended. Kill Eustache and you’ll have to do in all the others, too. They’ll all be against us then. Every one of them’ll be a potential snitch. As things stand now, most people approve of our handiwork.”

  He turns to the Recollect.

  “Isn’t that
right, Father?”

  “Yes... Yes, of course. We approve... I mean, we do not approve, but we do understand.”

  “And you, Eustache?”

  I’m about to reply that not only do I not agree with their disgusting actions, but I’ll be mounting a conspiracy the first chance I get. I don’t have time to, though. Leaping out like a monkey, arms raised and legs bent, Liotot suddenly appears. His hair and beard are filthy, his appearance is nothing short of dishevelled, and his face is twisted into a sadistic, mocking grimace. He’s chuckling to himself like the madmen who sometimes wander around outside the lunatic asylum back in La Rochelle.

  “Look at the state of you, milord! You’re less smart now, aren’t you, milord?”

  And he kicks away at Mr. De La Salle’s lifeless figure, desecrating the body of a man who, if you ask me, is worth ten pathetic losers like Liotot.

  “Take that! And that!”

  Hiens appears in turn, glancing indifferently at the priest and me. For now, they’re most concerned with plundering Mr. De La Salle’s possessions. Just as viciously as Liotot before them, they forget about their humanity and any respect for a defeated adversary and take out their hatred on the body using their fists and feet. Next they undress him, one keeping his shirt, the other his pants, a third his shoes or hat, even the wig, in a share of the spoils that makes me want to spit in their faces.

  Only De Marle stands back, shaking with fear and disgust. Clearly he doesn’t approve.

  The Natives who came with us watch the scene, their surprised amusement giving way to real horror. No doubt they’re wondering what we might do to them, mere allies, if this is how we treat our leaders.

  “Joutel’s turn now!” Duhaut announces. “Time to get rid of another louse and anyone who tries to come to his aid.”

  He turns to me as he says this, almost hoping I’ll step in.

  “No!” says the priest. “Gentlemen, I implore you. Please do not further blacken your souls.”

  “Our souls are already stained, Father,” says Hiens. “One less murder isn’t going to spare us eternal damnation.”

  “Joutel is all right,” L’Archevêque pleads, without looking at his companions, preferring instead to focus on the dagger they’ve just taken from De La Salle’s personal effects. “He knows what’s good for him. He knows he can’t change a thing now.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Liotot barks. “Not sure at all. I’d rather see him dead.”

  “Me too,” spits Duhaut.

  He stares at me hard with burning eyes before he goes on.

  “And anyone who tries to get involved will get it too.”

  “And not just a musket ball to the head,” adds Hiens. “That would be too quick, too gentle. A knife to the gut. That way he’ll bleed for a long time. A long time.”

  We retrace our steps to find our way back to camp, but the rebels leave Mr. De La Salle’s remains to the vultures and wild animals.

  “What a sad end,” I think. “The man might have had many flaws and obsessions, but he managed to overcome everything that stood in his way to leave France an empire right in the middle of Spanish America.”

  The life of an explorer can be just like the life of a widow: tough.

  34

  BACK AT CAMP

  Back at camp, I’m relieved to see that Mr. Joutel is nowhere to be found. He left with two horses to let them graze. So he’s safe from the murderers. De Marle, sitting at the entrance to his shelter, is trembling from head to toe, telling anyone who will listen what he just saw.

  “We killed four buffalo and were smoking them, waiting for Moranget to come back with the horse to carry the meat to camp. We had set the marrowbone aside. We had eaten a lot, it’s true, but there was plenty left. We found and killed the buffalo, after all. But Moranget lost it when he saw we hadn’t waited for the others before eating. He said we were taking advantage of the situation to get more than our fair share. A fight broke out between him and Duhaut. So Duhaut, L’Archevêque, Hiens, and Liotot decided to kill Moranget, Saget, and Nika while they slept.”

  He is deathly pale and takes big swigs of brandy as he tries to find the courage to go on with his story.

  “Liotot struck Moranget with an axe, then he cracked open the skulls of Saget and Nika. I couldn’t speak I was so scared. Hiens, Duhaut, and L’Archevêque kept guard in case the Natives tried to intervene. The lackeys died on the spot, but not the nephew. Moranget picked himself back up. There was blood everywhere. He kept opening his mouth to speak, but nothing intelligible came out. It was awful. I hadn’t wanted any part of it and now I had to step in. ‘Otherwise you might turn us in,’ Hiens said. And Duhaut pushed a pistol into my hands. They made me fire. Moranget didn’t make a sound between the axe falling and then the ball from the pistol hitting him. After that... after that...”

  “After that, it’s just like Eustache and I told you,” the Recollect concludes, crossing himself. “They waited for Mr. De La Salle to arrive before slaying him, too. Then talk turned to ridding themselves of everyone close to our leader.”

  “They came back to kill us?” worries a fellow priest.

  “No,” De Marle replies, still shaking. “Only Mr. Joutel. They won’t harm anyone who swears on the Bible to keep quiet about everything that’s happened. They promise to spare those who agree to say our leaders were killed by the Indians, or taken by disease, or... anything at all, just not killed by their own men.”

  Instinctively, I glance over at the murderers. Pierre Duhaut, off to one side, is pretending not to look at us, while Liotot and Hiens are trying to reassure the Native guides. Several of them are threatening to leave the group: they never know what we’re likely to do next.

  “I don’t see Jean L’Archevêque,” one of the Recollects murmurs. “Could he already be off trying to kill Mr. Joutel?”

  Suddenly worried, I leap to my feet and dash off to find the two men. It takes me no time to see them, walking towards us, side by side. Each is holding the bridle of the two horses Henri Joutel had led off to graze.

  “There he is!” Duhaut shouts. “Death to the traitor working for the tyrant!”

  And he whips out his pistol, running off in the direction of the two men.

  “No, stop, Pierre! Stop!” Jean L’Archevêque shouts at him. “I explained the situation to Mr. Joutel. He understands. That’s why he didn’t run away. He’s not armed and—”

  Too late. Consumed by hatred, Duhaut pulls the trigger.

  Click!

  Saturated with humidity, the powder doesn’t catch fire.

  “Curses!”

  The rebel hurls his pistol to the ground. He turns to Hiens, who is holding his arquebus.

  “Kill him!” he orders.

  “No, I said!” L’Archevêque shouts, moving in front of Joutel. “We’ve killed enough for now.”

  Hiens hesitates but doesn’t lower the barrel of his musket.

  “Mr. Joutel accepts all of our conditions,” L’Archevêque insists. “He’s a good officer... and we need him and his experience to find the Mississippi.”

  “I submit to your conditions,” Joutel confirms. His voice is subdued, containing not even a hint of the fury I would have liked to hear from him.

  Great men are easily won over, by the looks of things. Duhaut continues to work himself up.

  “He’ll betray us once we get to Canada. We’ll be hanged or sent back to Europe, chained up in a ship’s hold.”

  “Why go to Canada?” Hiens scoffs, with his usual disdain. “We can go back to Fort Saint Louis. We’ll rebuild our lives there. There’s everything we could wish for. Safety. Food. Even women...”

  As he says it, he and Duhaut both look at me for a split second. Both are thinking the same thing. Pretty Delphine would make a tasty morsel. The widowed Mrs. Talon, too.

  A wave of hatred rolls aga
inst my heart with such force that it leaves me dizzy. Then I feel better. I thank God for keeping the fire burning inside me that will fuel my ambition. If I had to quell my ill feelings and aversion toward the men behind the deaths of Lucien Talon and Marie-Élisabeth, I would no longer be able to live with myself.

  My hatred for Duhaut and Hiens—for Hiens especially—keeps my heart and lungs working. Blood and air are keeping me alive. And where does life come from? From God.

  Who said that God was against vengeance?

  “God is against vengeance,” objects a Recollect priest that same evening, while trying to calm those who remain faithful to our leaders. “Remember the message of peace brought by Jesus Christ. Only before their Creator can these murderers answer for their actions, only when they are judged at the brink of eternal life.”

  Joutel silently approves, his head lowered, ashamed at having given in to the rebels’ demands, sorry for lacking the strength to stand up to their will, contrite at having been refused the only means of recovering a little of his dignity: avenging our leader’s death.

  “There’s a certain fairness about how they have offered each of us the command in turn,” the priest goes on. “That’s showing repentance in a way, right there. They must already be regretting actions that were born of fleeting despair, passing anger. And having agreed to spare Mr. Joutel’s life as well as our own shows there is goodness in them yet. Salvation, perhaps, for their damned souls. At any rate, we might manage to escape our fate, but they shall not.”

  * * *

  The murderers are wary of letting anyone but themselves lead the group. And from what I’ve been able to overhear, Pierre Duhaut seems to be clinging to power as best he can.

  “We’ll take the Mississippi and reach friendly missions where we’ll be safer.”

  “Safer?” Hiens exclaims, loud enough to be heard by people like me who are a good distance away. “In forts full of soldiers? Soldiers who might throw us in prison on the spot for having killed a nobleman in the service of the king?”