by Beth White
Deerfoot snorted. “We will both go in the boat, otherwise you might never get there.”
He fell silent as Tristan led the ox into the spacious corral he had built to keep the animal from wandering too far. Deerfoot slid to the ground and helped Tristan feed the chickens and find some scraps for the pig. The animals would forage for themselves until he returned in a day or two.
As he gathered items he would need for the trip, answering Deerfoot’s lighthearted insults and closing down the cabin, he couldn’t help anticipating what he would say to a certain green-eyed Frenchwoman when he saw her. Married. She would be married and possibly even with child. Someone else’s child.
The dull ache of his heart was so familiar that he hardly noticed it was a different sort of pain, accompanied this time by a fizz of anticipation. He would at least see her and speak to her. He would congratulate her and offer to . . .
What? Draw her a map?
Rolling his eyes at his own ridiculous mental perambulations, he slid the bolt across his cabin door to keep out roaming wild animals and followed Deerfoot to the riverbank below the bluff. Maybe the Indian was right. Yes, a beautiful woman like Geneviève Gaillain would certainly be married by now, but perhaps one of the less attractive girls remained unclaimed. One who wouldn’t mind coming to keep house for a sour, lonely former mapmaker with a hole the size of Canada in his heart.
8
It seemed to Geneviève, seated between her sister and Raindrop halfway back in the fort’s tiny chapel, that every event of importance that occurred in the colony of Louisiane must be celebrated inside these rickety walls. If today’s events—a burial, a wedding, and a baptism—were a harbinger of days to come, the walls were like to explode before the year was out.
It was the first Sunday of September, and the newly wedded Madame and Surgeon-Major Barraud, who had been chosen to serve as godparents for the infant to be baptized, were seated in a place of honor up front, on the only real pew in the chapel.
Father Henri, recently appointed as official pastor of the as yet unbuilt parish church, threaded his way through the dense congregation with a dignity that would have graced the cathedral of Versailles. Judging by the yellow tinge of his skin and a slight tremor of his hands, he was not fully recovered from the fever that had taken Levasseur.
The infant’s parents, prosperous young locksmith Zacharie Canelle and his wife Céline, who had emigrated from Rochefort nearly a year ago, followed close on the priest’s heels, beaming with pride in their screaming progeny. As the first white native-born Louisianan, or créole, their son would hold an important place in history, and the baptismal record book waited upon the vestry table for the signatures of parents, godparents, priest, and commander.
Geneviève smiled as Raindrop reverently kissed her little cross-shaped piquet necklace, mimicking Father Henri’s dramatic salutation of the ebony crucifix upon his white surplice. Geneviève had tatted the ornament and given it to her in honor of her baptism last Sunday; as far as she knew, Raindrop had yet to take it off.
As Father Henri called the godparents forward to remove the baby’s blanket and hold him naked, squirming and wailing as if he were under torture, over the baptismal bowl, Geneviève looked for Father Mathieu. She found him standing near the wall to her left, his sober black robe in stark contrast to the white seminary garb of perpetually irritated Father Albert, the third pastor of the community. Now that Mathieu had come to fill the post of chaplain to the soldiers, and with Father Henri named pastor outside the fort, Father Albert suffered from lack of sheep to guard. She had heard gossip about his reluctance to return to his mission among the Tunica west of the river, which he had abandoned two years ago after coming upon a couple of fellow missioners left with their heads bashed in by hostile Indians.
Geneviève increasingly felt her heart tugged toward the native peoples whom she encountered as she went about the settlement. Their vulnerability to the blandishment of white traders, intimidation by the military forces, and even manipulation in spiritual matters for political advantage had made some quite understandably suspicious. She had been working with Raindrop to learn a few words of the Mobilian tongue. So far she had learned enough to send the little girl into fits of giggles, but she was determined to keep trying.
Other than that, her days had been filled with helping Father Mathieu and the two nuns tend the sick in the community—most of them yellow fever victims—and the evenings trotting from one social engagement to another with Madame. Remembering Commander Bienville’s blunt stricture, she felt obliged to entertain one awkward advance after the other from young Canadian soldiers and French artisan bachelors. She was not so naïve as to think one must be head-over-heels in love with one’s husband, but it seemed only reasonable to hope for a compatible life partner. Remembering her mother’s descent into grief and despair after her father’s murder, she was almost afraid of that kind of all-consuming love.
She studied Barbe Savarit, standing beside her miraculously sober new husband, looking proud and nervous and excited all at once. Did she expect to be happy, tied to a man who spent every waking moment at Burelle’s tavern, when he wasn’t pulling rotten teeth or treating fever victims with what amounted to sugar water? At least Barbe had a home of her own to go to at the end of this day. And hopefully soon she would have a child of her own to pour herself into.
A muffled sob drew her gaze to Ysabeau Bonnet, who sat a few feet away on a packing box, dabbing at her eyes with a sodden handkerchief. Aboard the Pélican, Ysabeau and Aimée had become bosom friends, which meant that Geneviève had also come to know her quite well. Ysabeau was only fifteen, younger even than Aimée, but she had managed to snag the well-connected bachelor Levasseur. This coup had given her quite a lofty status among the women of the colony.
Now he was dead, and poor Ysabeau was inconsolable. The wealthy Levasseur had neglected to include her in his last-minute will, which meant that she must start all over in her search for a husband, with nothing to show for her cleverness and coquetry. The richest and most influential men—with the exception of Bienville, who occupied a level of desirability to which only the truly delusional aspired—had either already married or died from accident or the fever, leaving the same list of eager but penniless and unproven young men from whom Geneviève would have to choose.
The charming Marc-Antoine Lanier remained elusive; even on the rare occasions when he attended social functions, he seemed focused on putting out political fires for Bienville. One could not seriously count him as a matrimonial prospect, when he was to embark any day now on a dangerous mission into Indian country. Julien Dufresne seemed on the point of offering for Aimée, but Geneviève could not rid herself of a sense that the man’s polished exterior overlaid some unpleasant secret. Maybe it was the chilly eyes that seemed vaguely familiar. She had more than once caught him watching her, as if he waited to catch her in a lie. She hoped Aimée hadn’t been so foolish as to confide their family history to him.
Her sister chose that moment to whisper in her ear, “Ysabeau is getting really annoying. She’s given herself the hiccups.”
Geneviève frowned and put a finger over her lips, but had to cover a smile when a loud “hic” came from a few yards away.
Fortunately the baby’s wail of indignation as the water ran into his ears covered Aimée’s giggle. The priest proclaimed the infant baptized in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, adjuring his parents and godparents to raise him in the Christian faith, setting an example of daily holy living.
Father Henri handed the baby back to his mother, nodding approval as she tucked him into his blanket and cuddled him close. “And we, gathered here today to witness this solemn rite, must not forget that we also are called to righteousness.” His gaze passed over the congregation like a sword. “There must be no more adulterous cohabitation, particularly between master and female servant. Scripture tells us it is better to marry than to burn. Therefore, any man who has had carnal knowledge of
a woman who is not his wife must either marry her or put her away and find a proper mate for her.”
There was a collective gasp throughout the crowded room as Father Henri paused. He avoided the gaze of Bienville, who had cleared his throat several times until the sound escalated to a threatening growl.
The commander rose to his considerable height, arms folded across his chest. “Father Henri, this message—well intentioned as it may be—would surely be better imparted in private first. I would see you in my office immediately.”
The priest’s florid face seemed like to explode from the blood that rushed to his cheeks and forehead. Clearly he did not appreciate being summoned like a private caught in dereliction of duty. “Children, I adjure you all to go in peace,” he said through pinched lips. “May you be blessed in accordance with your good deeds this day.” He crossed himself and all but ran to the door.
Bienville’s face was a thundercloud, but Geneviève lost sight of him as the crowd rushed to leave the chapel, separating her from Aimée and the L’Angloises as well. As she burst through the door, she found herself nose to chest with Marc-Antoine Lanier, who was trying to get in.
“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” he said, setting her away from him, hands to shoulders. “Have you seen the commander?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure where he is now. He wanted to speak to Father Henri.” She looked over her shoulder, but people swarmed past her as if she were a rock in a river.
Lanier smiled. “Then you’ll be the first to hear the good news. One of Bienville’s runners came just now with the news that the Profond has arrived at Massacre Island with supplies from Martinique. We’ll be sending supply boats down to meet her this afternoon.”
“That’s wonderful!” Geneviève looked up at him, endeavoring to jerk her mind from the tense scene she had just witnessed.
Lanier studied her face. “What’s the matter?”
She flushed. “Perhaps you should keep looking for the commander.”
“Why? Has something else gone wrong?”
“I’m not sure. The wedding and baptism masses went well, but then Father Henri added a few comments regarding . . .” She bit her lip. “Oh, dear, you really should talk to Commander Bienville. He seemed very angry.”
Lanier looked uneasy. “All right. I shall.” With a quick bow, he turned to go, but stopped with a snap of his fingers, looking over his shoulder. “I almost forgot. My brother has returned as well. He asked after you and was most discomfited to hear that the lovely Mademoiselle Gaillain remains unmarried and unbetrothed.”
Geneviève forced herself to meet his twinkling eyes. “I don’t know why that information should disturb anyone save me.”
“Perhaps he fears for his own safety.” Chuckling, he turned once more and jogged across the drill field toward the headquarters building, which housed Bienville’s quarters on one end and the officers’ barracks on the other.
Geneviève stared after him, nonplussed. Perhaps Tristan Lanier wanted to buy more bread. She shook her head. Unlikely, as he had already bought enough to feed the entire French marine.
She felt a tug on her sleeve and looked down to find Raindrop dancing about on bare feet, twirling in giddy circles. “Come, mademoiselle! Madame sent me to find you! I am to say there are boats coming from the Ile de Massacre! Perhaps we may buy stuffs to make you another dress which will make the handsome men want to marry you!” She grabbed Geneviève’s hand and pulled her willy-nilly toward the gate of the fort.
Laughing, Geneviève picked up her skirt and ran. She had no money for dress material, but a distraction from the fluttering of her stomach would be welcome. Tristan Lanier had no need to concern himself about her state of matrimony or his own precious bachelordom. She would tell him so. Better yet, she would ignore him.
Maybe.
There was a huge crowd heading toward the wharf to greet the first transport boat from Massacre Island, but Dufresne managed to get out in front of everybody. There were advantages to being on the commander’s staff.
As soon as the marine boys got the boat tied in and the gangway laid, Dufresne scrabbled down the twenty-foot bluff onto the sand and leaped onto the crowded deck. Captain Béranger, who had come up with the first load of cargo, hailed Dufresne with a shout. They had met on two previous occasions, as the Profond, a merchant frigate out of Martinique, plied back and forth with some regularity.
The bill of lading Béranger handed Dufresne listed lengths of choice Rouen cloth, broad Brittany linen, fine Bayeux thread, five hundred fifty pounds of steel, over three and a half tons of flat and square Biscay iron, and one cardboard crate of black Pontardement lace. The ladies were going to love the dressmaking supplies. Bienville would be pleased to have the steel. And there were also sundries that would enable Dufresne to pocket a little extra cash too.
Béranger had already turned to shout at a cadet about to drop a cask of fine wine, but he caught Julien’s arm as he started to swing onto the gangplank. “Ho, there, boy, not so fast! I’ve a packet of letters you might deliver to the commander. Let me fetch them from my cabin.”
Julien paused. “Ah. Very good, I’ll wait.”
The captain disappeared below decks as Julien stood whistling with his hands in his breeches pockets. He watched the activity onshore until Béranger came back carrying a battered leathern pouch fastened by a buckled strap. He handed it to Julien. “Make sure Bienville himself receives this. I think there’s a communication for you too.”
Julien nodded, but he waited until he had climbed the bluff, safely passed the crowd, and circled the fort alone before he unbuckled the pouch’s strap. He leaned back against one of the palisade stakes, grimacing as it gave behind him. It wouldn’t take much for an enemy to either burn down or breach the rotten red pine timbers. If the British ever found out how vulnerable was the French fort, they would be in serious trouble.
He extracted a handful of missives, most of them for Bienville, impressed with the seal of Minister of Marine Pontchartrain. One came directly from King Louis himself. Greatly tempted to open it and claim he’d found it that way, Julien in the end returned it to the bag. The Sun King had become a bloated, narcissistic windbag who let his counsel of ministers run the country. Doubtful he would have anything useful to say. Bienville would probably let him read the others, so there was little to be gained by courting reprimand.
But the last, as Béranger had indicated, was addressed in a spidery, agitated hand to Aide-Major Julien Dufresne. The seal was that of his noble father, Vital Hayot, Comte de Leméry. But as the comte had not written to him in the entire two years of his exile in Louisiane, and he knew his half brother Gilbert’s haphazard, back-tilted hand, the letter inside must be from his stepmother. He couldn’t imagine what would prompt the indolent comtess to put pen to paper. Curious and mildly irritated, Julien broke the letter’s seal. The comtess rarely had anything positive to say to him.
“My dear boy, your father has tragically died,” she wrote without preamble.
Tragically? How else, he wondered, did a person die? He examined his feelings for shock or dismay and found none. Still, this was big news. He kept reading.
Carefully, without touching the freshly cut end of the manchineel limb from which the dangerous sap still oozed, Nika stuck the plant cutting into a large gourd in her basket. “You must never let the sap touch your fingers, boys, or you will have terrible blisters.”
Tonaw, kneeling beside her, looked at her wide-eyed. “Mother, have you—”
“Yes.” She showed him a blotchy white scar between the first two fingers of her left hand. “It hurt so bad I cried for days.”
“I’m not a baby,” Tonaw said stoutly. “I don’t cry.”
“Yes, you’re becoming quite a big boy.” She smiled and ruffled his hair. “Still, don’t touch it. It’s poison—which is why your father uses it to coat the tips of his hunting arrows.”
“Father said he would take us with him next time,” Chazeh said with
shy pride. He stood behind Tonaw, leaning over his brother’s shoulder to watch Nika’s demonstration of the proper way to collect manchineel for poison. “We are both good shots now.”
“I’m better!” Tonaw, the competitive twin, gave Nika a grin. “Father says so.”
Nika sighed and rose, since the gourd and the basket were now full. “You will both be great hunters—if you learn patience and humility as well.” She hooked the basket over one arm, holding it against her hip, and laid a hand on each boy’s shoulder. “Come, let us take our plants home and treat the arrows we made this morning. They will need to dry overnight if you are to use them tomorrow.”
It was true, the boys were old enough to begin spending more time with Mitannu, learning to become men of courage and strength. There were things only a father could teach them. But everything in her rebelled at sending her sweet, playful little boys off to participate in the more gruesome activities of manhood—particularly in the company of her cruel, selfish mate. When it suited him, Mitannu could be reasonable. But she had also experienced his sudden fits of cold rage, which caused him to lash out at whoever happened to be standing the closest. Usually it was her—and her greatest fear was that one day Mitannu’s unpredictable temper would bring irreparable harm to one of the children.
As she and the boys returned to the village through the woods, she let them run ahead, arguing excitedly about whose shot had brought down the squirrel they’d eaten for supper last night. Walking at a more sedate pace, she absently kicked at fallen pine cones and oak leaves, wishing for the thousandth time that there were some way to remake the choices that had brought her to this pass.
If she were a woman of courage herself, she would do something to change her circumstances, she thought, shifting the heavy basket to her other hip. She looked down at the fragrant leafy limbs clustered around and inside the gourd. A brave woman, who loved her sons more than life, would find a way.
