Savage Lands

by Clare Clark

  On the third day a savage offered his back to the commandant, who, to the boy’s astonishment, bowed his head and climbed upon the red man’s shoulders. Another savage held his feet, and in this manner they progressed to a stake sunk in the centre of their village, while the other savages made noisy music with drums and calabashes filled with pebbles. When they reached the stake, the commandant was set down upon a deerskin, his back towards the chief. The chief placed his hands upon the commandant’s shoulders and rocked him as though he were a fractious infant that would not sleep. Each warrior of the tribe then approached the stake and struck it hard with a wooden club that the men called a casse-tête, calling out in their own tongue.

  At last they were finished. The boy rubbed his eyes with his fists and tried not to yawn. It was so very hot. His eyes stung and his head felt dull, heavy and swollen. He had a sudden memory of his mother on a hot day, snoring on a stool outside their house, her head tipped backwards, a dish of thick green beans set between her thighs. Stealing up on her, Jean had placed one of the bean pods in her open mouth and run away. They had watched from behind the tavern wall as she spluttered and woke, spitting the bean from her mouth and upsetting the dish in her lap. He remembered still how foolish she had looked, scrabbling in the dust for the beans, and the anger that had scoured the base of his throat. He had ducked behind the wall so that she would not see him, but Jean had stood there with his hands upon his hips, openly laughing at her. His mother had said nothing. She had not struck him nor had she informed Jean’s father of his son’s offence. The people of La Rochelle had considered his mother a weak and silly woman.

  The boy set his chin on his knees, staring at the ground. A little way off a black insect about the length of his finger rested in the dust. With its long folded legs, the insect resembled in shape the grasshoppers he had caught in France, though it was much larger. The boy wriggled forward on his bottom, trying to get a closer look. The creature’s head was long with wide-set eyes and a pronounced jaw like the head of a horse. The boy wondered if it stung, then if it was injured. It seemed so still. On its back four small wings gleamed vivid purple. The insect twitched, shivering on its grass-stem legs. The boy flinched. Then it was gone.

  Squatted in a half-circle on their haunches, the savages watched in silence as the commandant had two of his men unload the presents they had brought and set them out upon the skins. The boy watched too. The presents were for the most part commonplace items: knives, axes, small mirrors, copper rings, combs, kettles, glass beads, even hats and stockings. The stockings were red.

  Without rising from their haunches, the savages shuffled closer to the array of gifts, reaching out to touch with one finger the teeth of a tortoiseshell comb, the silvered handle of a mirror. The commandant placed a string of beads in the chief’s lap. The chief held it up to the sky, blinking as the glass flashed darts of green light. The boy thought of his sister, then. There was a dress that she had had once that she had always said would look fine with a string of green beads. He could not remember the dress or whether it too had been green.

  Marguerite had been the kindest of his sisters. She would be married by now and living with the butcher on the rue d’Armagnac. Only the baby Jeanne would be left at home. The boy thought of his mother, nudging the cradle with one foot as she bent over her darning. She had cried sometimes from the bruises, the tears little shards of ice in the rough wool. He blinked, shaking his head clear as the chief laid down the green necklace and stood to inspect the remainder of the presents. Several of them he picked up and examined more closely. The largest kettle had a dent in its belly.

  One of the savages, bolder than the rest, suddenly took up a hat and placed it upon his head. Then he stood. Apart from the hat he was quite naked, his coppery skin glossy and almost hairless. The commandant nodded gravely and clapped his hands and, when the savage tipped the hat over his eyes and stamped his feet by way of dancing, some of the men clapped too.

  The boy bit his lip. The hat was unexceptional, even plain, its modest brim trimmed only with dull silver braid. There were hundreds of such hats pressed onto bent heads in the crowded streets and wharves of La Rochelle, which, together with black coat and downcast eyes, made up the livery of the careful and the conservative. A hat of that kind was as ordinary as bread, inviting not the faintest attention or curiosity. And yet, set jauntily atop the savage’s oiled black hair, as the Indian leaped and spun, jabbering in his frenzied tongue, it made no sense at all.

  When the dance was finished, the savages rolled their gifts up in the deerskins and carried them away. The chief waited, still seated, his hands set lightly upon his thighs. The commandant said something to him in his language. The chief inclined his head and his eyes narrowed. Raising his hand to his men, the commandant nodded.

  This time four of them were required to bring the two wooden crates that had sat so low in the pirogue as it inched its way upriver. The commandant had the men set the crates before the chief. There were smears of red on the carpenter’s breeches; in the damp air the iron fastenings that secured the chests had already rusted. The commandant clicked open the first crate. The chief watched intently, without blinking.

  Slowly, the men lifted a large bundle of sailcloth from the crate and set it on the ground. It was tied all around with twine, like a corpse. The knots were obstinate, and it took a moment or two for the carpenter to fumble them loose. Stripping the twine away, he knelt and unrolled the bundle. Inside were four French muskets, their barrels oiled and glossy. The chief’s face twitched, his lips peeling from his brown teeth like a fox scenting a chicken coop. From the second chest the men took another bundle and spread it out, revealing a considerable supply of lead and powder.

  The commandant placed his hands together as though in prayer and bowed to the chief. Then he gestured at the guns. The chief nodded. The commandant gestured to one of the men, whose name was Doré. If he had a trade, the boy did not know it, but Doré had come to Louisiana from New France with the commandant and he was well accustomed to the unnatural ways of the savages. Cracking his knuckles, the Canadian pulled an apostle from his belt before hoisting a musket and upending it.

  The squatting savages shuffled closer, their eyes round with fascination and fear. Beneath their chins their brown knees gleamed like polished wood. Deftly Doré measured out the black powder and poured it from the apostle into the muzzle of the barrel, before ramming the lead down with an authoritative grimace. When he rotated the cock, the savages’ heads tilted to precisely the same angle, and they blinked rapidly as he tap-tapped the fine priming powder into the flash pan and slid the lid closed. Then he turned the cock and raised the musket to his shoulder, closing one eye.

  The crack of the gun caused several of the savages to cry out in terror. The white men laughed out loud, urging Doré to reload. Even the commandant smiled and shrugged and held his hands out, palms flat, towards the chief. As for the boy, he was filled with a sudden surge of exhilaration. His heart pounded and he hooted wide-mouthed as he watched the savages blinking uncertainly, peering at the instrument that had emitted so violent an explosion.

  Grinning, Doré held out the gun, inviting inspection. Shakily the savages stretched their necks, jabbing their heads like chickens as they darted looks at the gun. None dared to touch it. Doré let the musket drop. The savages watched, motionless, as once again he loaded the weapon, primed it and lifted it to his shoulder. Then he fired. For a moment the echo of the shot hung in the humid air. Then it was gone, drowned out by the violent screams of the birds.

  That evening, the commandant summoned the boy and quietly informed him that preparations were being made for departure early the next morning. Their business with the Houma was complete. In addition to a good supply of ground maize and vegetables, the chief had given the commandant a number of fowls and four of the savages of the village to serve as guides as far as the next settlement, some twenty leagues north. They would leave at daybreak.

  All, th
at was, except the boy.

  It was, the commandant said, a matter of diplomacy. Strong alliances with the savages were essential if the French were to hold their position. The colony boasted fewer than one hundred soldiers, many of whom were weakened by sickness, and, with war in Europe, there was little hope of more, at least for the present. Meanwhile the English, already well established in the lands to the east, were determined to extend their territories. Given the threat of English dominance in Europe as well as the New World, the French had hoped for assistance against them from the Spanish forts at Pensacola and at Veracruz, but the former was weak and the latter at too great a distance, and Spain had proved an erratic ally.

  The commandant’s voice was low and steady. He did not speak to the boy as the other men did, as though he was slow or a girl. With so acute a shortage of men and no military stations to buttress the wedge of French occupation between the strongholds of St Lawrence in Acadia and the handful of small forts in the south, the commandant explained, the French position was perilously ill-defended. Their only hope of securing the newborn colony against the English threat lay in the forging of strong alliances with the many savage nations situated along the length of the St Louis River. Through the bestowal of gifts and favours, the French might secure the allegiance of these savage tribes and, when required, induce them to war against their enemies. Such a stratagem had served the French well in the north. Now it must be depended upon to secure the vast empire of Louisiana for France until it grew strong enough to support itself.

  ‘All counted, and in a nation that extends perhaps one thousand leagues, we number fewer than two hundred souls. Only half are soldiers. If we are to claim Louisiana for our King, each Frenchman must do the work of one hundred. You included.’

  The commandant leaned forward, pressing his hands between his knees. Beneath his unbuttoned shirt the snakes writhed and licked at his chest. The boy tried to hold his gaze, but his face burned hot and he feared that the trembling in his mouth would betray him. He gazed at the ground as, in the same steady voice, the commandant confided that the course of such diplomacy was not without difficulty. The savages were brutish and unreliable, some nations particularly so. Only a year before, three Canadians had been massacred while they slept by Alibamon savages with English muskets and lances.

  Now, despite swift retaliation, it was rumoured that the English were once more stirring up dissent among the Alibamons, urging them to raids against the French. More ominously, the Chickasaw, one of the most powerful nations in Louisiana, had declared their allegiance to the English. It was essential that the tribes who had promised to support the French might be depended upon.

  Over the years, the commandant explained, he had made many caresses to the Ouma nation, for their situation close to the confluence of the St Louis and Red rivers gave them a strategic importance. Some years previously the commandant had helped them to resolve a dispute over territory with their neighbours, the Bayagoulas, and in return he had always been favourably received. Now he required certain proof that they might be depended upon. It was for this reason – and at this the commandant cleared his throat and set his hand reassuringly upon the boy’s shoulder – that the boy would not accompany the exploratory party as it continued northward. He would remain here in the village with the Ouma. He would live with the savages.

  The boy heard the commandant as though still aboard ship, the words gusting and echoing in his ears. He was to master not only the trade language of Mobilian but also the savages’ local tongue so that he might act as interpreter for the French who should pass this way. In addition he was to familiarise himself with the habits and associations of the tribe, their affiliations and their enmities, and report to the garrison accordingly. His presence in the village would permit him to keep a close watch on the tribe’s plans and engagements, their dealings with neighbouring nations and, in particular, any skirmishes or preparations for war.

  ‘You shall be my eyes and my ears, young man. The next best thing to me remaining here myself. Can you do that?’

  The feather cloaks of the Ouma had eyes. When they danced and the cloaks leaped upon their shoulders, the eyes seemed to roll and wink, sometimes in jest but more often in warning. The eyes of the dancers rolled too, showing the whites. The boy’s throat burned but he ducked his head all the same.

  ‘Good man. We shall not be assured of Louisiana until we hold the hearts of her savages in our hands. How big are your hands?’

  The commandant nodded at the boy, a smile pressed into the corner of his mouth. The boy hesitated and then extended his hands, palms up. The commandant cuffed him lightly on the shoulder and stood up.

  ‘Big enough, surely,’ he observed wryly, looking down at the boy. ‘After all, how large can the heart of a savage be?’

  The boy said nothing. His face was stiff as an old sail. The commandant dismissed him, but before the boy had taken three paces he heard his name. He turned back, his heart fierce in his chest. He kept his gaze upon the commandant’s boots.

  ‘You may live among them, mon fils,’ the commandant said. ‘But you must never forget that you are not one of them. It is simpler to make a savage of a Frenchman than a Frenchman of a savage.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he whispered.

  The commandant sighed.

  ‘The women of this nation know nothing of restraint. It is their belief that when the time comes that a woman must depart this life and must traverse the narrow and difficult bridge to the Grand Village of the hereafter, only those who have – who have indulged their lewd natures will cross easily.’ He drew in his breath sharply. ‘Master the savages’ tongue but remember always that you are a Frenchman. Serve your King with honour. When it is time, we shall return for you.’

  The leave-taking ceremony was concluded, the preparations almost complete. The chief had repaired to the temple to exhort the savage gods to look favourably upon the expedition and grant it safe passage. A procession of savages accompanied the white men down the hill to the river, stamping their feet and beating drums. It was still early, but the day was already oppressively warm. By the bayou the close-set copse of trees offered no respite but, like a huddle of perspiring men, gave out its own sour-smelling heat.

  The boy waited by the copse, half hidden by a brake of cane, watching as the men loaded the last of their supplies. Their faces were scarlet and shiny with sweat and they slapped in vain at the veils of biting insects that hung about their necks. In the muddy shallows the pirogues rocked gently. They were heavily laden, the savages’ deerskins mounded in the bow; inside the crates the chickens squawked, scratching and banging their wings against the wooden sides. The boxes of lead and powder were set with care upon a folded pad of sailcloth so that they might remain dry.

  It was time for the party to depart. The commandant called the boy’s name. He did not answer. Instead he watched as an alligator cruised the far side of the river, only its nostrils and its hooded eyes visible above the yellow crust of the water. One of the men had told the boy that to snare human prey, alligators had been known to call out to passers-by in the voice of a child.

  The boy did not know whether to believe this or not. On his first day at the garrison at Mobile, he had seen the dog belonging to the commissary bitten by a rattlesnake. The beast did not even live a quarter of an hour, but swelled up so much that it was unable to move and died with a ghastly choking, as if it had swallowed its own tongue. Astounded by the speed of its demise, the boy had regarded its passing less with sympathy than a kind of grisly enthralment, but now, as the men uncoiled the ropes securing the pirogues and with a great deal of shouting and splashing pushed out into the wide stream, he felt a sharp pang of grief for the poor dead creature and his nose prickled. He rubbed it roughly with the back of his hand.

  Raising his gun the commandant saluted the village with two volleys of musketry.

  Upstream against the current, the pirogues made slow progress. It was several minutes before they reached the
bend in the creek and passed out of sight. Behind the boy, high on the hill, dark smoke rose from behind the palisades and smudged the blank sheet of the sky. Calling out to one another in their garbled tongue, the last of the natives turned away from the river and began to climb the path back to the village.

  The boy leaned against a thick staff of cane, his fingers seeking out the swollen ridges of its joints. He felt hollow, as though the soft parts of him had been carried away upstream, bundled up with the deerskins and the squawking fowls. On the other side of the creek, the alligator rose again, paused and sank out of sight. The stream smoothed and steadied and continued on its way.

  They were gone.

  He was all alone, cast adrift among the savages. He spoke not a word of their language. He knew none of their names or whether indeed they possessed any. He knew nothing of where he was, except that the French garrison was eight days’ travel away, through forests and swamps swarming with every kind of terror. He had not the faintest notion when he might see one of his countrymen again.

  As he stepped out from the cane brake, the boy trod in a hillock of soft earth and a swarm of red ants spread like a rash across his boots and up over his bare ankles, setting his skin on fire. There were ants inside his boots. As he tugged them off, the boy once again felt the prickle of tears behind his eyes. The missioners claimed that there were savages who strangled their babies before they might be baptised and burned their bodies on the fires in their temples to appease their idols.

  His skin burned, but the boy thought of the alligator and dared not rinse his feet in the river. Instead he pulled up a handful of grass and scrubbed at his feet and ankles, pressing down hard to crush the ants that clung on. The sap in the grass stung his inflamed skin and streaked it green. He rubbed earth on the sorest patches. Then wearily, his too-small boots in his hand, he set off barefoot up the path towards the village.