Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  Henri began to follow the older man, then stopped and swung back. “M-madame Laffont, y-you will go with us?”

  “Yes, I will go.”

  Pierre stood aside as the others tramped out, then retreated also, his blond lashes tactfully veiling his expression as he closed the door. Elise and Reynaud were left alone in a quiet broken only by the crackle and hiss of the fire. Elise slid from the bed and went to the wardrobe, where she took out her old habit. Flinging it onto the bed, she began to search for her own petticoat and shift.

  Reynaud watched her. Torn by the need to explain and an equal need to have her understand his motives without explanation, he allowed himself to be distracted by the pearly sheen of the morning light on the flesh of her hip and thigh, the long slender line of her back as it joined her narrow waist. He could still feel her softness imprinted on his flesh, taste her essence in his mouth. What he would not give to be able to reach out and hold her, to force her to stay. Reason was not nearly so certain a way to keep her with him.

  “Elise, listen to me.”

  She glanced at him, seeing in that brief moment the broad width of his chest with its dark and mysterious lines of tattooing highlighted with burnished copper, the sculptured columns of his legs in his doeskin breeches outlined by the orange yellow glow of the firelight behind him. She looked away again, her face shuttered as she pulled down the shift she had drawn over her head and stepped into her petticoat.

  The shrill rasp of a scream cut through the cold air. Elise started before she realized that it was Madame Doucet. Had the older woman seen yet another Indian? That was the only thing that seemed to cause her such horror.

  Then came a pounding on the door. It was Pierre’s voice that called. “Reynaud, you had better come out here!”

  They gathered on the loggia, Elise still tugging at the habit she had donned so hastily. Behind them in the salon could be heard the sobs of Madame Doucet and the soft murmurs of Madeleine. No one took any notice of them. This time the alarm was real. The house was encircled by Natchez warriors: tall, massive men, their faces painted with white and yellow ochre and with leather-and-fur capes swinging from their shoulders. They carried muskets and bows and arrows, but held them at their sides, all in the same stiff position.

  Coming straight toward the steps, marching in single file, were ten more warriors, each wearing the crown of swan feathers that marked the men of the Sun class. The man in the lead carried a calumet, holding the great pipe of peace, some four and a half feet long, out at arm’s length. A chill morning breeze caught the white eagle feathers with black tips, which hung in a spread fan between the long stem and the bowl, and the brilliance of the rising sun shone on the green iridescence of the duck-neck plumage with which the stem was decorated.

  Elise, standing beside Reynaud, heard him give rapid and detailed instructions in an undertone to Pierre concerning the gifts that must be presented on this occasion and the feast of welcome that must be held. The next moment, the procession stopped and the calumet was solemnly presented. With deliberation, Reynaud detached himself from the others and moved down the flight of steps to accept the pipe. There was an exchange of compliments in the swift-moving Natchez tongue.

  The Indians, though they were the finest warriors of the Natchez, were not a war party but members of a ceremonial procession, a delegation. They were here, it appeared, to make a request of Reynaud. It also appeared that his answer would have to please them or the delegation might well become a war party.

  “It occurs to me,” St. Amant said softly, his tone dryly reflective, “that it must have been in truth a Tensas warrior following us across the woodlands, no figment of Madame Doucet’s overwrought imagination.”

  Pascal cursed, but quietly enough not to be heard by their Indian guests. It was an instant longer before Elise remembered. The Indian Madame Doucet had seen that first time, soon after they had crossed the Mississippi, had been identified as being of the Tensas tribe, allies of the Natchez. It would seem that there had never been a time in their travels when they had not been under surveillance. What did it mean? Had Reynaud betrayed them? Had he let them think he was helping them escape, knowing all the time that they were being followed? Or had they been kept in view not because of their importance as possible hostages, but because of the prominence of the half-breed? There was no way of knowing.

  “Suppose,” Elise said in quiet tones, “the Natchez have come to ask for us?”

  “Don’t think of it,” St. Amant said. “Just don’t think of it.”

  It proved to be excellent advice in the hours that followed.

  Plans for departure were postponed by common consent. There was no guarantee that they would be allowed to leave, and even if they were, to go might be considered an act of cowardice, one that would arouse the contempt and the hunting instincts of the Natchez. It might also be looked upon as an insult, which could have the same results. No one cared to run a footrace with the Indians all the way to Fort Saint Jean Baptiste.

  Reynaud’s servants were thrown into a frenzy of preparation for the feast. As they ran here and there, with a harried Madeleine directing them while consulting a closely written list of food and drink, it seemed churlish not to offer to help. Elise was soon up to her elbows in flour as she oversaw the making of fifty loaves of bread in the outdoor oven. At the same time, as she moved in and out of the kitchen, she kept an eye on the young girl who was basting the whole pig roasting on a spit in the fireplace and the boy who was stirring the huge black pot of deer stew and the even bigger one of sagamite. It was good to stay busy. When she slowed, her thoughts closed in upon her. They were not comfortable ones.

  Finally the gargantuan meal was ready. It was served on enormous wooden platters that were set in a circle on the ground around a leaping fire. The eldest of the delegation gave a long speech that was listened to with respect. When he sat down, a signal was given and the eating began. Each man served himself with his knife, placing his selection in a small wooden or clay bowl, sometimes dipping the gravy and beans and corn of the sagamite into it with a horn spoon. For a beverage there was strong tafia, made from fermented molasses flavored with spices. Before many minutes had passed, the voices of the Indians grew noisy and their laughter came with greater frequency.

  Elise watched from a window, carefully holding a shutter open a crack to see out. Only the women were excluded from the festivities; even Henri had been persuaded that it was best to behave in a civilized manner, rather like ambassadors sitting down with enemies to discuss terms. It had gone against the grain with the young boy. So great was his dislike and distrust of the prospect that he could scarcely speak for stuttering. Pascal had shown a tendency to glare and St. Amant had been so stiff that Elise feared he was more likely to cause offense than to aid their cause. Now as she watched she saw that all three were eating with every sign of enjoyment, tilting their glasses back as avidly as the rest.

  Near the others, Pierre seemed perfectly at ease, joining in the laughter at the jokes, replying with quips that were much appreciated from the guffaws that greeted them. His blond hair gleamed in the light of the fire and he had discarded his coat, waistcoat, and shirt for a leather cape. It was not to be wondered at, naturally. He had been raised with these men and there must be many of their number who had been personal friends. Under the truce of the calumet, they could be so again.

  Her gaze sought and found Reynaud. He had gone further in his dress than Pierre, changing to breechclout and cape and drawing his hair back into a knot crowned with swan feathers. He spoke with swift gestures to the oldest of the Natchez, leaning forward with his forearm on his knee as he sat with his forgotten food bowl in his hand. How foreign he looked, how savage once more. She tried to think of lying in his arms, of feeling that barbarically handsome mouth on hers, but she could not.

  Or could she? They had come together the night before in a passion that had been wild, unrestrained. How many times? She could not recall. And yet she had re
sponded each time with more elemental desire, had become as savage in her need as she could ever accuse him of being. Half-tamed barbarian that he was, he had not failed her. Could any other man have done the same?

  She was free; she knew that. Because of his perseverance, the tender relentlessness of his pursuit, she was no longer trapped by her fear of men. They were male creatures like any other; some good, some bad, able to hurt her only if she let them. She did not think she would cringe inside at the touch of one again. She could even sense in a dim way that at some time in the future she might even let another come close enough to love her. Whether she could bring herself to love him in return was still a matter of some doubt. It was not a question of physical repugnance, however, so much as lack of trust.

  She had trusted Reynaud, coming to it slowly, against all odds. He had betrayed her. And it hurt.

  Night fell and still the feasting went on. Elise ate with Madame Doucet and Madeleine, picking over the food without appetite. She played the harpsichord while Madeleine sat placidly sewing as if there was nothing out of the ordinary in having such an entertainment in her front yard. Now and then Reynaud’s cousin got up and went out to the kitchen to see that the food was replenished, but for the most part her job was done.

  Madame Doucet tried to embroider a handkerchief, bungled it, pulled it out a half-dozen times, and finally threw the piece — needles, silks, and all — into a corner. She paced, wringing her hands and, talking, talking of what might happen here, of what had happened at Fort Rosalie, going over and over the death of her husband, the taking of her daughter and grandson. After a time, Elise came to the point where she had to clench her teeth to keep from screaming at the woman. There was no point in it, of course. Madame Doucet could not help this crisis of the nerves any more than the others and she had, after all, been right about the Indians. One had to give her that. If only she would not go on about it so.

  It was nearly midnight when Pierre came to them. His face was grave, though his eyes were bright and there was a smear of grease beside his mouth. He spoke to them all, but it was Elise’s gaze he sought and held. “Reynaud sent me to you.”

  Ignoring the tightening of the muscles of her stomach, Elise nodded.

  “What is it?” Madame Doucet asked, her voice breathless. “What are they going to do with us?”

  “You need have no fear, madame. They have come only for Reynaud.”

  Madeleine sat forward. “What do you mean?”

  “There was a skirmish with a French scouting party. The war chief of the Natchez was killed.”

  “What of the French?” Madame Doucet cried in tones shrill with her annoyance that the death of an Indian should be presented to her.

  “Dead, unfortunately. It appears the man who led them was criminally stupid and so failed to take the most obvious precautions against attack.”

  “But what has this to do with Reynaud?” Elise asked, her own tone impatient.

  “Those who have come, this embassy that is outside, are asking that he return to the Grand Village of the Natchez with them to become the next war chief. He is the son of Tattooed Arm, the brother of the Great Sun. It is fitting.”

  “He has agreed?”

  “He feels it would be wrong to refuse. There is need of someone with a cool head now, someone who can talk to the French, make reparations of some kind, reestablish peace. That’s if the French will allow it, of course.”

  “You think they might not?”

  “Governor Perier may feel that only revenge in kind will wipe out the dishonor and make it possible for French colonists to feel safe venturing into the wilderness again.”

  “In that case, what can Reynaud do?”

  “If Perier will not listen to the wrongs of the Natchez, if he ignores all appeals for peace, then Reynaud can lead them in such a way that it will make an Indian war too costly to pursue. He hopes that the economics of it will force a compromise.”

  “But why?” Madame Doucet wailed.

  “You must remember that these are his friends, the Natchez gathered outside, the people of his mother. He cannot stand by and watch the hand of France raised against them, not when it was the policies of the present government that brought about the uprising in the first place.”

  “Would he lead them in yet another massacre of the French, perhaps in New Orleans itself?” Elise inquired heatedly.

  A shadow passed over the Frenchman’s face. “It is sometimes difficult to say what he will do, but I think not. One thing is certain: If he is with the Natchez, the women and children now prisoners will be better treated. That must count for something.”

  It occurred to Elise that the French would not be forgiving of a renegade half-breed who led the Natchez against them should the Indians be defeated. What would they do to him if he was captured? What would they not do?

  “Yes, oh, yes,” Madame Doucet was crying in excited anxiety, “let him go then. Let him go at once.”

  “He will leave at dawn or as soon thereafter as men who have feasted all night can travel.” He gave them a comprehensive glance, his manner stiff. “You, Mesdames Laffont and Doucet, with the gentlemen of your party, will be going in quite another direction. Reynaud prefers that you leave before the Natchez set out so that he can see you safely on your way. You are to make yourselves ready.”

  He bowed and turned to leave them. Madame Doucet jumped to her feet. “Wait! I don’t want — I must, I will go with dear Reynaud!”

  Pierre stared at her. “Such a thing is not possible.”

  “Don’t use that word to me! I will go.”

  Madeleine jumped to her feet as the older woman began to beat her fists together. “Don’t upset yourself now, madame. To join your loved ones will not help them.”

  Reynaud’s cousin had seen the point of Madame Doucet’s sudden obsession a fraction sooner than Elise, but now she added her own weight to the argument. “It is a long and arduous journey, if you remember, with no way of knowing what will happen at the end. You would not like being a slave yourself.”

  “I would not mind, if I could be with my daughter and grandson!” Madame Doucet’s face crumpled and she began to weep.

  “You don’t know what you are saying. It would not do, truly. Reynaud will do all he can to help them. You must put your faith in him.”

  Strange words. Elise could not help recognizing that fact even as she said them, but neither could she deny their force.

  “I want to go. I will go. He will let me, you’ll see.”

  Was the woman losing her reason? It did not seem impossible. Shallow, pleasure-loving, with few resources within herself and so an exaggerated dependence on her husband, daughter, and grandchild, Madame Doucet had been cut loose from everything familiar. She had come to rely on Reynaud as he guided them through the wild reaches of this land and also here at his home. How would she react when he refused to indulge her in this new desire of hers?

  Elise tried tact, pleading, cajoling, anger, and dire warnings, all to no purpose. Madeleine added her own stringent advice and soothing murmurs. Pierre, after a few moments, cravenly retreated. In the end, Madame Doucet settled the matter by wrenching herself from their grasp and running to the front door. She flung it open, flying down the steps as if she were a girl again.

  “Reynaud will let me go with him, I know he will. I’ll show you. I’ll show you!”

  Elise went after her, expecting some kind of explosion when the woman found herself among the Natchez warriors, the men whom she had last seen carrying off what was left of her family. It was a tribute to the strength of the idea that had her in its grip that she hardly seemed to notice them. She ran straight to Reynaud and grasped his arm, pulling at it.

  The feast was winding down; the men had eaten their fill. It mattered little now that a woman approached. Elise saw their mild curiosity, their averted faces that allowed Reynaud the privacy to speak to this woman if he so wished. Reynaud himself seemed concerned, but not overly so. He was talking
to Madame Doucet with firmness, questioning her.

  Elise could do no more. She swung away, going back up the stairs. She was weary from the upsets of the day and the effort to prepare the feast. She had nothing to do to get ready to leave. She would not take the dresses that had been altered for her; let Madeleine launder and reconstruct them or not as Reynaud instructed; it was his decision. She only wanted to take off her habit and fall into bed. It would be as well if she could get a little rest before the long trek tomorrow.

  She lay in the dark with her hands behind her head, watching the flickering fire shadows on the walls. The noise of the feast would not let her sleep. The Indians had begun to harangue each other for some incomprehensible reason, making long speeches with shouts that had the sound of victory or congratulations. They chanted now and then and often broke into laughter. It was not extremely loud, but it was constant. It was also unnerving since she did not know what the outcome would be.

  She thought of Reynaud out there, enjoying the feast and understanding that babble. He was a part of it. He was the same man who, the night before, had held her and whispered soft words of love that had sounded so right in her own language. The same man that she had lain against and stroked with her fingertips: his shoulders, arms, chest, waist, and thighs, every part of him. Incredible.

  Where would he sleep tonight? Would he roll up in his cloak with the rest of his savage friends, sleeping where he dropped? Would he find a pallet in the room with Pierre, resting for the few short hours there would be before daylight? Or might he not expect to share her bed? If it was the last, he was going to be disappointed. She would have nothing more to do with him.

  Still, he had been a wondrous lover. Never had she dreamed that she could feel so intensely, that it was possible for there to be such magic in the meshing of two bodies. A sweet and heavy thrill moved over her just at the thought of it. For that part of her incarceration here, she bore him no malice. It was only that his own desires had always been paramount and the means he had used to achieve them could not be justified.