The Pelican Bride

by Beth White

  9

  On Monday afternoon Tristan met Marc-Antoine in officers’ quarters, which was adjacent to headquarters and on the opposite end of the building from Bienville’s quarters. Except for a handful of men dispatched to Massacre Island to assist in transferring the remainder of supplies from the Profond, the entire battalion was on the drill ground participating in daily parade exercises. Marc-Antoine found a pitcher of ale and a couple of tankards, then joined Tristan at one of the plain cypress tables stuffed into a corner, where one could find an unobstructed view of the door as well as a bit of privacy.

  Tristan sipped his drink as his brother loosened the collar button of his uniform coat and sat back against the wall with a weary sigh. Marc-Antoine had arisen at dawn to attend Bienville’s conclave with an envoy from the Spanish governor in Pensacola. It seemed the Spanish, who had over the past ten years developed into allies against the British, were once again in rather a financial pickle and in need of basic foodstuffs such as flour, corn, and salt. Marc-Antoine’s task had been to negotiate a fair price.

  Marc-Antoine took a deep drink from his own tankard, then set it down with a bang. “We might have been able to come to terms two hours ago, except La Salle sent his cockroach to make sure nobody made any profit.”

  Tristan raised his brows. “Cockroach?”

  “Dufresne.” Marc-Antoine made a face. “I swear the man is everywhere he’s unwanted, which is . . . everywhere.”

  Tristan grinned. “You’ve a way with words, my brother. No wonder the Indians call you Bright Tongue.”

  “It’s true.” Marc-Antoine laughed. “I told you I’m tired. I’m looking forward to leaving the settlement. Six weeks without Bienville’s contradictory orders! You should have heard him lighting into Father Henri yesterday afternoon.”

  “What about?”

  “Mainly his diatribe about our men sleeping with their Indian servant women.”

  “Well . . . at one time Bienville was concerned about that too. Isn’t that why he sent for the Pélican girls?”

  “Yes, but there still aren’t enough white women to go around. Father Henri’s solution is for the men to marry their concubines, to make them wives in the sight of the Holy Church.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?” Tristan had married Sholani before taking her virginity, though she probably hadn’t cared a sou whether the black robe said words over them or not. It had mattered to him.

  Marc-Antoine’s expression softened. “Nothing, as far as I’m concerned. But you and I both understood when we joined this expedition that the King is after establishing a French Catholic state here. Most Indian women won’t truly convert, even to gain a white husband. Besides, Bienville is a pragmatist. These Canadians that we’re talking about aren’t like you, Tristan. If they’re forced to marry one Indian woman or leave, they’ll hightail it for the woods. Father Henri is all about morality, but Bienville wants to keep his men happy so they’ll stay.”

  There was something inside him that rebelled at both viewpoints, though Tristan couldn’t explain it to his brother. He and Marc-Antoine had been raised in a God-fearing home by parents who loved and respected one another, who demonstrated a partnership rare for the times in which they lived. He understood that marriage was a holy bond with a higher purpose than release for a man’s lust. But it hadn’t been just morality either, not for him and Sholani. They had been a family, despite the cultural differences that sometimes made them shout with laughter, sometimes reduced them to inarticulate frustration. He had wanted to hold his child with a fierceness that still on occasion caught him off guard.

  He suspected his brother would either laugh and call him crazy—or, worse, look at him with pity. Marc-Antoine hadn’t known their father like he had; after all, the boy had been only fourteen when they’d left home. He’d missed the quiet discussions about God and women and courage and patriotism Tristan shared with Antoine Lanier as they copied and colored maps commissioned by the wealthy peers of the province.

  Marc-Antoine was the one to be pitied after all.

  Tristan nodded. “There’s no arguing with Bienville once he sets his mind, and the priest isn’t going to change it by preaching at him.” He paused. “Still, can Bienville make Father Henri stop encouraging the men to marry their mistresses?”

  “I suppose not. But the commander will have more influence than any priest. He controls their wages and privileges, after all.”

  “And the priest controls eternal destiny.”

  Marc-Antoine shrugged. “Only for the superstitious ones.”

  “You think our faith is a superstition?” Maybe Tristan didn’t know his brother after all.

  Marc-Antoine chuckled. “I mainly don’t see how making love to a woman who’s perfectly willing is grounds to go to hell.”

  Tristan knew many men who shared Marc-Antoine’s skepticism, but few were so bold as to express it out loud. “Damnation aside, Marc, there’s the issue of procreation. You do agree that a man’s children are his responsibility?”

  “I suppose.” Marc-Antoine looked away. “As far as I know, I have no children.” Then he squinted at Tristan. “Have you not had a woman since . . .”

  Tristan felt his face grow warm. “I dream of Sholani still. I can’t—I don’t want to—I’m too busy for it anyway.” That sounded utterly stupid. He regretted opening the argument with his brother, who could always twist his words.

  To his relief, Marc-Antoine overlooked the opportunity to twit him further. “Well, whatever has been keeping you so busy is going to have to wait. Bienville is ready to pull the trigger on this mission to the Koroa and Alabama, and I need you with me.”

  “Why? Your language skills are better than mine, and you’re the one who lived with the Alabama.”

  “True, and true.” Marc-Antoine smiled. “But the Koroa traditionally hate the Alabama. Getting them to agree to an alliance will take both of us. We can use the fact that your wife was native . . . and you know how the Indians love to have their portraits drawn.” He paused, leaned over the table. “Tristan, you know how critical this mission is. We’ve almost waited too late. I hear rumblings that the British have gotten bolder. They’ve even sent Huguenot missionaries into a village or two, thinking nobody would catch on because they’re French-speaking.”

  “Marc—”

  “No, listen. I’ve seen your maps of the northern end of the river. You know the territory where we want to go, better than any other man in Bienville’s company. With hurricane season closing in, we can’t afford to lose time wandering around. We’ve lost so many good men this year . . . Tonti, Levasseur, Le Sueur . . . and the boys Pontchartrain sent to replace them are barely old enough to shave!” Marc-Antoine’s expression was grim. “The Spanish are foundering too. If we don’t turn this thing around, Fat Louis is going to abandon us altogether, and we’ll be speaking English instead of French!”

  They stared at one another for a long moment. Tristan knew that his brother spoke only the truth. He himself might be comfortably coexisting with both the Indians and the French settlement, but if Louis’s colonial experiment failed and the English took control of the territory, his own plantation would be absorbed as well. And if there was one nation Tristan despised more than his own motherland, it was the British pigs who had bought his wife like an animal, raped her, and killed both her and his unborn baby.

  He thought of his land—the soft earth turned up in spring, the smell of pine in his cabin, the abundance of fish in the icy creeks that spilled along the edges of the dense forest. His ox, his milk cow, and the chickens that provided food year round.

  Then, before he could stop it, his all-too-vivid imagination conjured an image of the Pélican’s arrival, of that first young woman suspended in midair on a canvas sling, clinging to the rope in innocent assurance that all would be well in this new world. Her courage, her core of faith and strength had spoken to him in a language he hadn’t known existed. And then to find those qualities housed in a packa
ge of physical beauty, intelligence, and humor . . . he might deny it to his brother, but he had been lost from the beginning.

  Yesterday, when he’d arrived at the fort and asked after her, Marc-Antoine sealed his fate. Mademoiselle Gaillain was, miraculously, still unattached.

  Castigating himself for a coward and a fool, he had gone out of his way to avoid her. What did he know about courting a gently bred young Frenchwoman? He hadn’t even seen his own mother for seven years. It would take time to convince her that he was not a complete savage, that she might throw in her lot with him and expect a life at least as good as with any of the other Canadians in the settlement.

  Now . . . now, Marc-Antoine asked him to embark on a journey that might take months, with no guarantee of returning alive. But if he didn’t go, the colony would be in jeopardy of falling anyway . . . and around in circles he went again.

  He laid his hands flat upon the table and stared at the scars across the knuckles.

  “So.” Marc-Antoine leaned forward, expression coaxing. “Are you coming with us?”

  Despite her best intentions, during the past twenty-four hours, Geneviève had had little opportunity to ignore Tristan Lanier, as he seemed determined to avoid her first. She saw him disappear into the tavern in company with his brother, just as she was coming out of the dry goods store with Ysabeau.

  “Geneviève! You are not attending!”

  “I’m sorry, Ysabeau. What did you say?” Geneviève dragged her gaze from the open tavern door, from which issued a distinct roar of masculine frivolity, and fixed it belatedly upon Ysabeau’s pouting face.

  “I asked you,” Ysabeau sighed, “if you think I should wear the yellow dress at my wedding, or would the rose go better with my complexion?”

  “Wedding?” Geneviève, whose thoughts had been rather more occupied with the dark brown eyes of a certain lonely young planter, reminded herself not to be so selfish. “Are you really going through with this hasty match with Denis Lafleur? Father Mathieu said—”

  “Father Mathieu is an unromantic old raven! Just because Denis enjoys a game of cards every now and then, there was no cause to spoil my happiness by preaching me a private sermon.”

  “Ysabeau.” Geneviève tried not to look as raven-like as the priest, though she couldn’t help feeling troubled. “Only yesterday you were crying over Monsieur Levasseur all during Barbe’s wedding. I just think you should be more careful—”

  “Oh!” Ysabeau stamped her foot. “You are just jealous!” She whirled and dashed back into the store.

  “Ysabeau, wait!” Geneviève started to follow, then shook her head. Papa used to say that the most effective school for fools was experience. Ysabeau was beyond listening anyway.

  She glanced at the tavern. She had meant to ask Monsieur Burelle if he still had an interest in selling her bread.

  But perhaps she should wait until the morning, when the tavern would be quieter, less busy with customers. She picked up her skirts and resolutely turned toward the L’Anglois home. If Monsieur Lanier wanted to see her, he could easily find her.

  Tristan had secured one of the small second-floor rooms above the tavern, but he was beginning to wish he had opted instead for guest quarters in the guardhouse. Marc-Antoine had returned to duty, leaving him to mull over the decision whether to join the impending expedition. By eight o’clock that evening, Burelle’s establishment was rollicking with off-duty soldiers in need of a drink, unmarried artisans with a few sous to gamble away, and officers who wanted to trade a few bawdy jokes and songs before either turning for home and spouse or retiring to quarters for the night. It was, for a man who had grown accustomed to absolute stillness and silence, a form of exquisite torture.

  Resigning himself to a sleepless night, he accepted a tankard from Burelle’s wife, left a coin on the bar, and made his way toward a rowdy group of men gathered around a faro table in a back corner, most of whom he knew. He had served with Boutin and Fautisse early in the beginnings of the settlement, as they built the fort and stockade. Another he recognized as Lafleur, a junior officer on Marc-Antoine’s staff, and a fourth as brickmaker Jean Alexandre. Tristan picked up the names of the other two men as he leaned against the wall watching the game. Valentin Barraud, still dressed in his uniform and insignia of surgeon-major, received several risqué—and undoubtedly jealous—comments regarding his recent marriage, from a clearly inebriated young soldier named Connard.

  The game proceeded, the bets getting wilder and losses deeper, until both Lafleur and Connard were out of chips and resorted to writing IOUs against future wages. Connard’s narrow, clean-shaven face had become steadily pinker with heat and embarrassment, his brown hair wet and spiked from running his hand through it, until he looked like a baby possum that had fallen into a barrel of ale.

  Lafleur looked with grim disbelief at the card given him by Alexandre, the dealer and banker, and muttered a curse under his breath.

  Alexandre shrugged. “You’re done, Lafleur. You’ve already lost three months’ wages.”

  “Which I won’t see for another year,” Lafleur retorted. “What difference does one more month make?” He drew a scrap of paper from his coat pocket.

  “No more paper bets,” Alexandre said firmly. “If you’re out of money, you can bet dry goods. Or ammunition. Or your wife.” He sent a sneering glance down at Barraud, who lay under the table snoring.

  “I don’t have a wife,” Lafleur said with an evil grin, “but I just got engaged today. Mademoiselle Bonnet should buy a substantial pile of chips, say two hundred livres. If I win, I get her back and you cancel my debts. If not—” He shrugged. “You keep her.”

  When Alexandre’s eyes lit, Tristan knew he had to intervene. “Gentlemen, this is a bad idea.”

  Connard glared at Tristan. “Who are you to dictate our game?” He slammed a fist onto the table. “If I beat the bank, you forgive all my debt and I get the Bonnet girl.” The whole settlement knew Connard had asked nearly every one of the unattached girls to marry him, with no takers. “If I lose, my brand-new hunting rifle is yours. It’s worth at least a hundred livres.”

  Alexandre nodded. “Fine, but this is the last game.” He looked at Boutin. “Are you in?”

  Boutin looked alarmed. “I got a wife already.”

  “Fautisse?”

  Fautisse gave a short, hard laugh. “I wouldn’t mind taking on the lovely Mademoiselle Bonnet.” He shoved his entire pile of chips onto the queen. “But what if she refuses to honor the bet?”

  Lafleur smirked. “Since when does a woman have any say in a man’s business transactions?”

  “I’ve been married for a month,” Boutin said, “and already I know the answer to that question.”

  Hoots of laughter accompanied the soft whir of cards as Alexandre shuffled the deck and palmed it for the deal. After each player placed his chips on the layout, Alexandre turned over the top card and laid it face-up on the table to his right, then laid another to the left. The dealer’s card on the right was a trey of hearts, matching Fautisse’s bet. The punter’s card on the left was also a trey.

  Alexandre grimaced. “One for the other,” he muttered as he realized the bank had neither gained nor lost.

  The advantage shifted from player to player, until the last three remaining cards in the dealer’s deck came up. Lafleur, confident in his luck, made a paroli final play, turning up a corner of his card to show that he intended to bet both his winnings and stake. In response, Connard doubled his money.

  Fautisse dropped out in disgust. “I’m done.”

  Alexandre turned the last card and stared at the layout in disbelief. “Connard, you cheated.”

  Bankrupt, Lafleur jumped to his feet, overturning his chair.

  “The only way to cheat in this game is to be the dealer,” Connard chortled. “Pay me out, Alexandre.”

  Alexandre sat sullen for a moment. Tristan knew that the dealer, who staked the game and had the advantage of any split coup, generally went ho
me with a hundred livres or two. It had to be galling to pay out such a large amount to smarmy young Connard. Finally Alexandre pinched his lips together and scraped in the chips, stacking them by denomination. He glanced up at Tristan. “Count with me, Lanier. I don’t want any question of accuracy.”

  Tristan nodded. At the end, the bank was four hundred livres short. This was going to get ugly.

  “Four hundred livres is the value of your gun, Connard, plus—” Alexandre glanced at Lafleur—“the value of Lafleur’s affianced. You two work this out to your own satisfaction. I’m going home.” He tucked the deck of cards into his coat pocket, then began stacking the clay chips into their metal case.

  Lafleur’s eyes were blue slits of rage. “Connard, I don’t know how you did that, but Ysabeau Bonnet won’t settle for an ugly, perpetually broke, rotten tomato like you.”

  “It takes more than a pretty face to satisfy a lady.” Connard, clearly unhappy to be looking up at the tall sergeant, swayed to his feet. “It won’t take her long to realize her good fortune in escaping a man who sires at least a dozen half-Indian papooses a month.”

  “Says the man who smells so bad the squaws won’t even stay in the same room with him.” Lafleur laughed. “First thing tomorrow morning I’ll propose to Edmé Oüanet. Almost as pretty as Ysabeau, and she can read and write.”

  Fautisse lurched to his feet, fists bunched, knocking Tristan hard against the wall. “I’ve been courting her, Lafleur! Keep your hands off!”

  “Then may the best man win!” Lafleur swept a mocking bow.

  Before he could rise, Fautisse swung and hit him under the chin. Lafleur shook his head, recovered, and made a return swing.

  Shouts of “Fight! Fight!” went up all over the tavern. Tristan found himself in a maelstrom of fists, elbows, knees, and broken chairs. As he tried to extricate himself, ducking and protecting his face and midsection, from the corner of his eye he saw Alexandre shove his faro supplies into a canvas knapsack, drop to hands and knees, and crawl along the wall toward the door. Not the method Tristan would have chosen, but perhaps the safest course for a man who wanted to avoid a night in the brig. Bienville had small tolerance for fighting amongst the ranks.