by Beth White
But she was a common-born wench. And she was not as stupid as Geneviève feared and Julien assumed she was. Fully aware now of the depth of selfishness to which she had descended—traipsing along like a child in a garden, giddy with release from the fear of dying in a fire or rape and execution at the hands of the dragoons—she found herself awake, sober of mind, determined to right the wrongs she had committed.
How? What could she do? It was almost too late. The men in that room were set to take over the arms and ammunition of the fort, usurp the commander’s authority, and hunt down and attack the Indians of the upper river villages.
What could one frightened and shamed young girl accomplish, especially one who had tied her own reputation to the biggest liar and villain on two continents?
Geneviève supposed the time must be somewhere past two o’clock—though it was hard to tell, as the night sky was as hard and black as the bottom of a cauldron. She and Nika had left the fort through the outer door of the headquarters building, crossing the gallery and descending its steps without a light and then slip-sliding down the muddy glacis and over the flooded moat. On this side of the stockade, water stood knee deep in some places, the darkness terrifying beyond description. Geneviève shuddered, still feeling the panic of standing on her cot, waiting in the water for Tristan to come for her and Ysabeau.
She prayed that Ysabeau hadn’t gotten herself trapped in another dangerous place. No one seemed to know where she’d gone after she left the guardhouse. The commander had sent Foussé to look for her, but he hadn’t as yet returned.
Her sister was her main worry now. Aimée’s last known location had been outside the L’Anglois home, but Raindrop seemed to think she would be heading for the small riverside warehouse. Geneviève and Nika had almost split up to look for her but decided to stay together for safety. Neither carried a weapon—at least Geneviève did not. Nika likely had a knife somewhere about her person.
“So Dufresne was behind the attack on our men?” Geneviève whispered, following Nika, who was feeling her way along the stockade toward the gate. “Why? What would he accomplish with such a crime?”
“Probably to provoke retaliation against the Koasati.” Nika stopped and crouched, pulling Geneviève down with her. “Shh! I think I hear someone coming!”
Geneviève listened, heard nothing, then whispered, “But Raindrop said Mitannu was supposed to attack Tristan Lanier. That Dufresne wouldn’t pay him because he shot Marc-Antoine instead.”
“What?” Nika’s grip on her arm tightened, her whisper intense. “That doesn’t make sense. She is mistaken!”
Geneviève shook her head. “It doesn’t make much sense either way.”
Nika was silent so long Geneviève thought she might not answer. At last the Indian woman drew a breath. “There is an explanation, if Marc-Antoine was Mitannu’s target. I knew your husband’s brother many years ago. We were both very young and—became lovers. I did not tell Mitannu this for fear of what he would do.”
Geneviève tried to hide her shock as several events and chance remarks came together. She had noticed the European cast to the twins’ eyes, their light hair. “Are you saying your boys . . .”
Nika’s silence told the truth.
“If Dufresne knew this, he wouldn’t be above using Mitannu’s jealousy for his own ends. . . . Perhaps he thought your lover had been Tristan instead of Marc-Antoine. Their features are similar.”
“Yes. I am grieved that so many died and were wounded because of my foolish choices.”
Geneviève touched Nika’s arm. “You aren’t to blame for your husband’s wickedness.”
“I tell myself this. But my heart does not believe it.” Nika sighed. “Wait, I hear that noise again.”
Then Geneviève heard it, a muffled scream. “That’s my sister!” She tried to lunge to her feet, but Nika restrained her.
“Wait!” Nika repeated. “We will not help her by rushing in. Follow my lead.” She crawled toward the gate, which seemed to be abandoned by the usual sentry.
Geneviève followed on hands and knees. Two women alone. They should have waited. She should have insisted that Tristan listen to her. Almost she stood up to run back into the fort. But Aimée was in trouble, and there was no Jean Cavalier or Father Mathieu to rescue them.
Crouching, Nika slipped through the gate, Geneviève behind her, and then they were outside the fort, standing on the shallow strip of land between stockade and bluff. Nothingness lay beyond the sudden dropoff, blackness so dense that Geneviève felt, bizarrely, she could have stood on it. Panicked, she backed against the stockade. To her left loomed the vague outline of the Le Moyne warehouse, where she had once or twice purchased supplies for Burelle’s kitchen.
“Quiet,” Nika whispered, “and follow me. Our advantage is surprise.”
Geneviève could hear noise of a struggle somewhere beyond the warehouse, noises that sent curdled excitement through her veins. It was the same sort of rush that had given her the courage to pick up a hunting rifle and follow uniformed brutes dragging her father to his execution.
Nika edged along the stockade, and Geneviève lost her grip when she tripped over a fallen pike from the stockade. She bent to move it, then picked it up. It was sharp at the top, splintered and uncomfortable to carry, but not as heavy as she had expected. A weapon.
“Stay close,” Nika whispered, then darted across the space between the stockade and the warehouse, Geneviève behind her with the pike.
She prayed they were far enough from the edge of the bluff so as not to slip over.
Nika jerked to a halt with a grunt, and Geneviève slammed into her. “What is it?”
Nika was looking down, both hands over her mouth. A moment later she let out a shaky breath. “It’s Mitannu.”
Geneviève peered around her. The outline of a muscular body lay sprawled against the warehouse wall. She gripped Nika’s shoulder, felt her shivers. They stood that way for a frozen moment before Nika jerked into motion.
Geneviève’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to see that the wriggling form toward which Nika had been moving was actually two men, locked together in violent struggle. Judging by the grunts and muffled curses, one of them was trying to subdue the other, who was gagged but not bound.
Confused, she touched Nika’s elbow and hissed in her ear, “I thought I heard Aimée. Where is she?”
Nika laughed softly. “That’s her. She just kicked Dufresne.”
But Dufresne wasn’t so easily vanquished. He snarled curses at Aimée as he grabbed her by the hair and slung her toward the edge of the bluff.
In her terror, Geneviève ran toward him with the pike aimed like a battering ram. “Nika!” she shrieked. “Get Aimée and pull her back!” At the last moment she whirled the pike overhead. The soft rotten wood thunked against the side of Dufresne’s head. He dropped. Geneviève jumped over his inert body, wobbling as the softened ground gave way beneath her feet.
24
Nika barely gave the prostrate Du-Fren a glance as she jumped over him to grab Jon-a-Vev’s hand and haul her back from the edge of the bluff. Collapsing, the two of them sat hugging each other and shaking, while Ah-meh pulled off her gag, gathered herself, and crawled over to join them.
Ah-Meh sat up and looked over her shoulder at the still form of the French officer. “Is he dead?”
“I hope so.” Unable to produce the least concern for such a liar and murderer, Nika wiped her tear-wet face.
Jon-a-Vev got up and walked over to him. She stooped down and laid two fingers against the pulse point under his jaw. “He’s alive.” Her voice was flat, but revulsion laced the words. “We have to go for help.” She stood up and looked at her sister. “Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you?”
“Just my pride. And he pulled out some of my hair. But I’m alive. Thank you, Ginette. And thank you . . .” Ah-Meh looked at Nika, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t know your name.”
“I am Nika. Jon-a-Vev, we have
to tie him up, or he will sneak away like the cur that he is. I will watch him while you go back to the warehouse for rope. Little Sister can go back to tell Mah-Kah-Twah and Tree-Stah what we have done.”
Jon-a-Vev nodded. “That is a good plan. Come, Ah-Meh, we need to hurry.”
Yes, they needed to hurry. She was suddenly desperate to hold Chazeh and Tonaw tight in her arms.
She watched the two Frenchwomen disappear into the darkness beyond the warehouse. With the unconscious Du-Fren sprawled nearby, and Jon-a-Vev’s pike across her lap in case he stirred before they returned, Nika had little to do but stare across the river, where a bank of clouds had split to reveal a corner of the crescent moon.
Mah-Kah-Twah had left her without a glance, to hold conference with his brother and the commander. Of course she was a strong woman, who had survived for many years without a man to care for her. She did not really need him.
From his earliest memory Tristan had understood that his destiny lay outside established boundaries. If his father had been a more forgiving man, perhaps he might have been reluctant to leap into that destiny. But choices, once acted upon, could rarely be undone.
With Bienville waiting for his answer, he sat looking at the scars across the backs of his hands. Symbols of independence, of sacrifice, of manhood, they reminded him to think before acting.
Almost a year ago to the day, he had made the choice to leave Fort Louis and service to his King. Now Bienville was giving him the chance to come back.
Come back? Leave his plantation? Condemn Geneviève to live in His Majesty’s Catholic colony, where she could never openly practice her faith? Yoke himself once more to the vicissitudes of Bienville’s decisions?
If he refused, there would be no more offers of grace. He would once more cut himself off from his brother, who needed him perhaps more than ever.
He clenched his hands, widening the scars to silvery bands. He was not the first man to suffer for the decision to stand alone. Yet not alone, for there was a beautiful woman ready to go with him. And the God who had brought her to him.
He looked up at Bienville. “I’ll pray about this decision and give you my answer in two days’ time.”
“Pray?” If he’d said he would consult the Koasati medicine man, Bienville could not have looked more stunned and offended. “What difference will that make?”
Marc-Antoine, looking like a man come back from death, pushed himself to his feet. “It couldn’t hurt. Commander, Dufresne is our real snake in the grass. He must be found and court-martialed before he makes more mischief. And with the storm blown over, I believe we would all make better decisions with a few hours sleep. Time enough to assess the flood damage when daylight comes.”
After a moment or two, Bienville rose as well. He stared down at Tristan. “All right, then, but you’d be a fool to turn down my offer, Lanier.” He cocked his head and walked over to the open window. “What am I hearing? It’s coming from the chapel.”
Tristan listened. A faint roar of men’s voices grew louder by the moment. “Sounds like a mob—”
But Bienville was already bolting to the door.
Marc-Antoine followed more slowly. After grabbing his musket and powder horn, Tristan caught his brother’s elbow to support him down the gallery steps.
Marc-Antoine shook his head. “Go. I’ll catch up.”
Tristan loaded his gun, gave his brother a brief nod, and took off. A faint lightening of the sky over the river indicated that dawn was not far off. At least he hoped it was dawn, and not a fire.
The chapel was wide open, throwing the men inside into relief. Bienville reached the gallery and pounded up the steps just as a milling crowd of some twenty or thirty poured through the open door. Some carried torches, some muskets, and a few wielded swords and clubs. None were in uniform, so at least this wasn’t a mutiny, as Tristan had halfway feared.
Then his heart stopped as the crowd parted and three women—Geneviève, Nika, and Aimée, bound at the wrist—were dragged forward and shoved to their knees in front of Bienville.
“What is the meaning of this?” Bienville roared, even as Tristan passed him to get to Geneviève.
Nicolas de La Salle seemed to be at the head of the mob. His musket fixed on Tristan. “Stop right there, Lanier, or I’ll blow your head off.”
Ignoring him, Tristan reached Geneviève and scooped her into his arms. She sagged against him, shaking.
Bienville leveled his own musket. “La Salle, release these women before I have you court-martialed. Have you all gone mad?”
Looking uncertain, La Salle jerked his head toward Father Henri, who stepped forward to speak for the group. Behind him were gunsmith Théo Boyer, shipbuilder André Ardouin, and brickmaker Jean Alexandre—all Frenchmen who had emigrated a year or more before the Pélican’s arrival and all allies of La Salle. All three carried raised bayonets.
The priest was of course unarmed, but he puffed out his chest and shook a plump finger at the commander. “I was sent by Minister Pontchartrain himself and the bishop. I defy you to threaten me, Bienville. We caught these women in the act of assaulting one of your officers—after they had sabotaged the powder magazine, leaving it open to flood.”
“That’s over seven-hundred man-hours of labor lost,” Boyer said belligerently. “It’s unforgiveable.”
Geneviève wrenched away from Tristan to face her accuser. “None of us had anything to do with it!” She looked at Bienville, an agony of distress in every line of her face. “You cannot believe this, Commander.”
Bienville stared at her, doubt hooking his brows together. “I . . . must have the entire story.”
“We don’t have time for that. We are about to be overrun by the Indians you love so much, Bienville.” La Salle pushed the mouth of his gun against the back of Nika’s bent head.
She whirled, releasing a spew of Kaskaskian at La Salle. Just as suddenly she switched to French. “There are no Indians coming to attack you—unless you go off to provoke them like the little boys you are! You brave Frenchmen, to allow yourselves to be overcome by three women! Oh—you are so stupid that you do not recognize the snake in your own garden.”
La Salle hit her with the barrel of the gun, cutting her temple open as she fell unconscious.
Tristan lunged sideways to grab the gun barrel, wresting it from La Salle and throwing him to the ground. “Coward,” he panted, standing over him. He glared at the men behind the priest, most of whom had backed away in confusion. “You are no Frenchmen, and you are certainly no Canadians, to attack three defenseless women. Where is your proof of any wrongdoing? Where is this officer who was attacked?”
Father Henri’s mouth opened and closed, his chins wobbling. “He was right behind us. Who brought Dufresne?”
“Dufresne?” Bienville barked. “Where is he? I was just about to arrest him.”
“My sister felled him with a rotten pike from the stockade.” Aimée Gaillain struggled to her feet, flinging her long golden hair back with a toss of her head. “I hope he is dead, but I’m afraid he is not. He is your traitor, Commander!”
For the first time, Tristan realized Aimée was dressed in men’s clothing. She looked like a beautiful actress in some bizarre theatrical play. She also looked more like a woman than the spoiled child he had last seen pouting in Geneviève’s kitchen.
But before he could respond, Marc-Antoine pushed past the clearly flummoxed Bienville and fell to his knees beside Nika. Gathering her up with his one good arm, he looked around at the shuffling crowd of inhabitants. “La Salle,” he said betwixt his teeth, “you have just assaulted the woman who kept me alive—after your so-admired Dufresne arranged to have me and the rest of our party murdered by her husband and his band of renegades—and then, by herself, dragged me all the way home on a litter.”
La Salle shook his head, raising his shaking hands. “I did not—I did not know, I swear! I only know that this woman—” he gave Geneviève a venomous glare—“was caught in corres
pondence with the enemy, and she somehow escaped from the guardhouse—”
“You left her there to drown, you fool!” Tristan reached down and hauled the clerk to his feet, shaking him like a rat. “Even if she were guilty—and she is not!—no one deserves to die that way. I hope Bienville will lock you up in her place and see how you like it!” Realizing he was losing control, Tristan released La Salle, who staggered backward into his henchmen, and took Geneviève’s hands. He untied her wrists and bent to kiss them one at a time.
He lifted her in his arms and turned to carry her into the chapel, her body a precious weight against his heart. Behind him he heard the roar of voices in dissent, but he cared little how Bienville settled the contretemps or even what happened to Dufresne. His decision had been made. He was not staying in Fort Louis and, legitimate or not, he was not going to France as the Comte de Hayot.
He and his bride were going home.
“And you are sure there are no Indians coming to attack us?”
Aimée, seated in one of Bienville’s office armchairs, shook her head. “I told you, he was trying to create conflict where there was none, to discredit Bienville and to make himself more valuable to the British.” She allowed her eyes to close and her head to fall back against the wall. When were they going to release her to her bed? Her entire body ached, her scalp was unbearably tender, and she felt like bursting into tears. For some reason, now that she had endured real struggle, she was determined to cover her emotion.
Geneviève was brave. Nika was brave. And Aimée was no longer a child. Therefore she must no longer behave like one.
But, oh, she was tired.
“Mademoiselle,” Commander Bienville persisted, “you say Aide-Major Dufresne had planned to leave the settlement with you sometime during the night, but he changed his mind. Why do you suppose he did that?”
Aimée forced her eyes open again to focus on the commander’s face. How had she once thought him handsome? His nose was hawkish, there were severe lines radiating from his black eyes, and a streak of gray grew from the center part of his hair and striped down the left side. Why, he was quite an old man.
