“I fear I disappoint you, my dear Chavalier, with my lack of alarm. You must forgive me.” The unctuous quality of the commandant’s voice was maintained only with an effort. Perspiration stood out on his forehead.
“It is not my forgiveness you will need, but that of the seven hundred men, women, and children you are sworn to protect.”
In the warmth of the room, there came to Elise, from the man on the other side of the table, the smell of well-tanned leather and woodsmoke, the bear oil scented with aromatic spikenard that had been used to seal his moccasins from water, and the sharp, wild freshness of the night air. The combination of scents was threatening as it clung to him, heightening the aura of virile masculinity and effortless power that he exuded. She turned her head in an attempt to escape it.
Chepart thumped the table. “I should have you run down, trussed up, and flogged just to teach you to respect this office!”
“Do so,” came the instant, scathing reply. “If you think you can.”
Impotent rage brought purple color into Chepart’s face. “Get out. Get out of my house and don’t come back! You half-breeds are all alike: lying, thieving, cunning bastards a thousand times worse than any blood Indian!”
“I understand your frustration, commandant, but it would be a mistake to let it blind you to your danger. I have delivered my warning and can do no more. I advise you to heed it.”
Reynaud inclined his head once more in a curt gesture that did not begin to express the contempt he felt. He allowed his gaze to sweep over the company gathered at the table: the pale-faced women, including the beautiful creature in gold brocade with the cold features of one who feels no passion or else has learned to hide it well; the men still standing in stiff poses. Swinging around with his swansdown cape spreading wide around him, he stepped toward the door.
Madame Doucet drew a deep breath as if released from a spell. She flicked a glance at Elise, saying in hushed tones, “A noble savage.”
“And a malodorous one,” Elise murmured.
Reynaud Chavalier checked, turned, his hard gray glance striking her face as he caught the edge of spite in her words. He had never seen this woman before, that much he knew. What then had caused her enmity? He had little vanity; still, he had sampled enough of the perfumed embraces of the ladies at court, the gambolings of Indian maidens as unashamed of their hungers as kittens, and the practiced seductions of older widows to know that he was far from unattractive to women. His surprise and displeasure was so great that it was difficult to maintain the expression of implacable indifference suited to the occasion. That the attack was so unexpected must be his excuse. It was not every day that a Frenchwoman saw fit to fling the most deadly of insults at the head of a Natchez of the ruling Sun class.
Elise caught the flare of angry interest, quickly suppressed, in the half-breed’s eyes. A wave of hot color sprang to her face as she realized what she had done. The lowest rank of Natchez, the common people who did the dirtiest work, were called Stinkards and by inference she had applied just that name to Reynaud Chavalier. She had not meant it, had not intended that he should hear her, still she would not disavow her words. Holding his gaze, her heart beating with heavy, sickening thuds, she lifted her chin in defiance.
Reynaud studied the pure oval of her face, the sensitive mouth, the direct amber eyes with faint shadows of vulnerability in their rust-flecked depths. Something in his chest tightened and he felt the sudden warm rush of the blood along his veins. Still, neither a warrior nor a gentleman crossed swords with a woman. Swinging around once more, Reynaud strode from the room, but as he let himself out of the commandant’s house he was frowning.
The evening had come to an abrupt end after that, of course. The commandant had stormed from the house to curse and kick at his trussed-up sentries. His guests, alarmed and yet at a loss as to what to think about the warning or what to do if Chepart would not act, had talked together in low voices while servants ran to bring them their wraps. Their host, profuse in his apologies and snide in his comments concerning Chavalier and the Natchez, had returned in time to see them off to their homes. He himself would go at once to the Natchez to look into this matter. He could promise them that he would be met with drink and feasting and all manner of merriment. They need not be concerned. The Great Sun was wily; there was no doubt that this talk of an attack was only an attempt to frighten the French, to prevent the takeover of their village. It would do them no good; this he, Chepart, would also promise.
Elise had left with the Doucets. There had been no opportunity to speak to Chepart concerning her barn, and so great was her distaste for the man after his display of choler and bad manners that she did not feel she could have taken advantage of it in any case.
She did not forget, however. She was up early the next morning. She put on her well-worn habit of hunter’s green velvet and ate a quick breakfast in the kitchen while she instructed the African woman who saw to the house in her tasks for the day. Carrying her broad-brimmed cavalier’s hat, she strode out to the small shed that served as a stable and barn. Her African man-of-all-work, Claude, was there. She talked with him about cleaning out the shed and making a dung heap for use on the fields in the spring, then went with him to show where she wanted him to start clearing the trees and brush from the site of the new barn. They looked at a cow that was due to drop her calf in late winter and discussed the possibility of trading milk and butter for some of the bantam chickens the Doucets were raising. As they turned toward the stable shed where Claude would saddle her mare, she paused to look around her, her chest swelling with pride at the sight of her well-kept arpents, four hundred in number, ten wide and forty deep. The land was solid, unchanging. It would never betray you, never hurt you. Here was something to love.
It was well after sunrise, nearly half-past eight by Elise’s reckoning, when she mounted her mare. If she rode toward the fort, she should be able to see the commandant as he was leaving his house, before he barricaded himself in his office inside the stockade. It was possible, of course, that he would not work today since it was St. Andrew’s Eve. Tomorrow would be a holy day, and it was the habit of many to indulge in feasting and relaxation from their labors before such religious observances. Not that there would be much made of the occasion here where they had only a small church that was without a priest except when one chose to visit on his way up or down the river.
The road that led from the fort to the Grand Village of the Natchez on St. Catherine Creek was little more than a muddy track rutted by the two-wheeled carts used by the French and flanked by a smooth path worn by the moccasin-clad feet of the Indians. It stretched the distance of a league and a half, winding uphill and down through woods that were duck with underbrush and hung with creepers, and was intersected here and there with trails that led to the lesser villages of the tribe. Now and then it passed a cleared area where the French held property. These open spaces contained neat houses, built of upright logs set in the ground, in the style of cabin derived from the Indians known as a maison de poteaux en terre, a house of posts set in the ground. The spaces between the log posts were packed with bousillage made of mud mixed with deer hair. These stout walls supported peaked roofs that spread out over surrounding galleries, protecting the windows closed only with contrevents, or shutters, from the wind and rain. In most cases, the floors were of earth packed and glazed by the tramp of feet. Spreading around the houses were fields with plowed rows lying fallow and cattle and sheep grazing in pastures still showing a little green among the brown grass of November.
The sun reached higher and was more brilliant as Elise trotted her chestnut mare out of her own front yard and along the track. Her holdings were almost exactly halfway between the fort and the Indian village, so her ride would be no more than a pleasant jaunt. The air was crisp, but not overly cold; a brisk trot would keep her warm. There was a breeze drifting through the trees, bringing down showers of leaves in gold, scarlet, and brown. They carpeted the road, making a
soft rustling sound as her mare trotted over them.
Elise had not gone two hundred yards when she heard a call. She glanced back to see three Indians standing in the road, one of them holding up his arm in a gesture of greeting. A sense of disquiet moved over her, then she dismissed it. It was not at all unusual to see Indians abroad. They traded regularly at the fort and often brought game or fish to the French farmers to exchange for chickens or geese. Indeed, quite a number had passed the house already that morning, moving along in groups of three or four.
Reining in her mount, she walked the mare back along the track to meet the Indians near her own outbuildings. She recognized one of them. He was the husband of Little Quail, an Indian woman who had been bought as a slave and used as a concubine by Elise’s husband. They had been friends, she and Little Quail, rather than enemies; their common hatred for Vincent Laffont had made them so. On his death, Elise had freed the Indian woman, allowing her to return to her village.
Little Quail’s husband was a dark, taciturn man. Elise had never liked him and was by no means sure that he was an improvement over Little Quail’s last master. Now he stood back with a grim look on his face while another of the three men repeated his greeting.
Elise had learned quite a few words of the Natchez language from Little Quail and also of Chickasaw, the lingua franca of the other tribes in the region that encompassed land on both sides of the Mississippi River: the Chickasaws themselves, the Choctaws, Tensas, Tunicas, Yazoos, Natchitoches, Caddo, Ouachita, and a half-dozen others. She returned the salutation with proper ceremony and asked their destination.
They were on their way to visit her holdings, they replied. The Natchez planned a great hunt of many days’ journey. They were sure to bring back much game, perhaps even buffalo, if they had weapons. They had been sent by the Great Sun to request the use of what firearms she might be able to spare for this noble purpose. In return, they would promise her ample meat to last her and the Africans who served her through the winter.
It was a tempting prospect, a gesture that certainly seemed peaceful and accommodating, instead of one of war. Being without a husband was most noticeable when it came to supplying game for the table. She could not afford to slaughter her cattle for food, not in quantity, and she did grow extremely tried of poultry. Sometimes she sent Claude out to hunt, but there was little to be had near the farm except for rabbits and an occasional squirrel. The big game had been driven farther into the forest.
She had only one musket, however. She did not like to let it out of her hands for any length of time, and it was entirely possible that the Indian who took it into his possession during the hunt might decide to keep it. She would receive recompense, doubtless, in furs and hides and meat, but that would not give her a weapon with which to protect herself. That last thought brought the night before, never very far from her mind, forcibly to the front of her thoughts.
She summoned a smile. “It is a fine prospect and I wish you the luck beyond your dreams. But I am in a hurry to see Commandant Chepart just now. Perhaps we could discuss it when I return.”
“But, Madame Laffont, by then it may be too late. The men of the hunt may have gone, and those of us without weapons not among them.”
“I shall not be gone long. In the meantime, you may ask M’sieu Doucet. If he does not give you firearms then you may still see me when I return.”
She kept her voice firm with an effort despite the fact that the spokesman for the three had stepped forward within reach of her bridle.
“It would only take a moment to fetch out the weapon.”
“But I do not have a moment,” she answered, smiling stiffly. Tugging on her reins, she wheeled her mare and thrust her heel into the smooth chestnut side. “I’ll see you when I return.”
Little Quail’s husband started forward, but the spokesman stopped him with a sharp gesture of one hand. Elise could feel them staring after her as she rode away and it was not a pleasant sensation. Her hands were trembling, she discovered, clutching tightly at the reins so that her mare jibbed at the bit. With a conscious effort she forced herself to relax.
The Indians had not approved of her refusal of the request of warriors. They thought that, a mere female, she should have a man to speak for her and to keep her in line. They were as bad, if not worse, in their way than the men of the French community at Fort Rosalie. Because she was a widow of property and not unattractive, there had been a number of bachelors, especially among the officers at the fort who had to subsist on their meager pay that was often slow in coming, who had thought she would do well to listen to their suits. She needed a husband to protect her, they had said, to do the heavy work, to warm her bed. She was foolish to think she could live alone. It was not a woman’s way; it was not done. They had kissed her hands and brought her flowers and swaggered in and out of her house. Their friends had called and so had every matron they could interest in their cause. The suitors had given her no peace. The more distant and cooler she became, the more they persisted. She became a challenge to their manhood, one they swore to answer, wagering among themselves as to who would win her. When she had finally barred her door against them, refusing admittance to any unmarried man, they had called her a cold-hearted bitch, a widow of ice who froze men with a look. They had sworn that she would be sorry, that she would fail miserably to earn her own food and would dry up into a bitter hag eking out a living in a hovel with only a cat for company.
She had shown them. She had lived alone and prospered, and she would continue to do just that. She did not need a husband. She had no use for a man of any kind. If there was hoarfrost on her heart, then what did it matter? It hurt less, she had discovered, to care little.
Into the turmoil of her thoughts came a sudden vision of Reynaud Chavalier. He had not approved of her either, she was sure. She winced as she thought of her stupid gaffe, implying that he was a Stinkard. It bothered her; that error had robbed her of sleep during the night as she tossed and turned so that her straw-stuffed mattress set up a constant rustling. She did not usually make such mistakes. It would have been better if she had acknowledged it in some way, though the idea of apologizing to such a haughty barbarian set her teeth on edge.
What would he make of the Indian’s offer of game in exchange for firearms? She would give much to know. The fact that she had no use for his kind of overbearing masculine self-assurance did not prevent her from recognizing that his opinion would be valuable. After the night before, however, it was doubtful that he would be inclined to give it, either to her or to any of the French around Fort Rosalie.
He had not been so much like the Natchez, after all, now that she had seen the Indian warriors once more. He had been as tall, towering nearly a head over Chepart, but his hair had been finer in texture, with a polished sheen, rather than the coarse black of his mother’s people. His head had been well formed, without the flatness at the back caused by being bound to a cradle board in infancy, and his features had been more refined, with fewer harsh angles, doubtless the results of his French blood.
And yet for some reason he had appeared more dangerous. Was it the hard intelligence that shone from his gray eyes? Or was it perhaps his lack of any emotion about the message he had come to deliver except for disgust that it was not being heeded? Surely it would have been natural for him to express some concern for the lives of the women and children who would die if his warning was genuine, and yet there had been little more than anger that Chepart was not taking his responsibility toward them as seriously as Chavalier thought he should. Certainly he had not seemed to waste any time thinking of what the fate of women like herself might be if an attack came. Not that she needed his concern, not at all.
With a violent effort, she wrenched her thoughts away from Reynaud Chavalier. A pox on the man! That she was wasting her time thinking of him was a sign of how much the Indian warriors had disturbed her. She would do far better to turn her thoughts to how she was going to cajole Chepart into giving the order fo
r his prisoners to build her barn. That would be much more to the purpose.
The dry leaves of a post oak rattled overhead as she passed beneath an overhanging limb. The thudding hoofbeats of her mare on the damp track seemed loud. Elise looked around at the bright morning, allowing her gaze to rise to where a turkey buzzard circled lazily against the intense blue of the sky. It was indeed a turkey buzzard and not a hawk, and yet she was aware abruptly of the singing quiet in which there was no sound of other birds. The breeze died away. The woods that lined the sides of the road seemed to crowd the track, closing in. She felt a prickle at the back of her neck.
The cracking boom of a shot rang out, echoing through the woods. Elise reined in, staring toward where the sound had come from just ahead of her while the mare danced and sidled with nervousness. It could be anything: a man out hunting, someone shooting at a fox or weasel sneaking around their chickens, a signal to bring a man in from the fields for some emergency. Ahead of her was the Doucet place, Monsieur Doucet, a woodcarver by trade who had been employed in France making woodcuts for the printing of books before he signed up as a colonist for Louisiana, had been known to let off a few shots of a morning to perfect his aim.
Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 Page 2