I burst into tears without warning. I groan, but with pleasure, not distress.
I’m thirteen years old, I’m a man, I hope to marry Marie-Élisabeth… and I’m crying like a baby as I eat my very first piece of cake.
16
DON’T BLASPHEME
The slap of the water against the wood of L’Aimable, the crack of rigging snapping, the whistling as a piece of rope gives way. This mournful melody reminds us of its grim fate. And the wind is relentless along this coastline. The wreck will not stay still. It moves all the time. Not a lot, but all the time. The wind and the waves jostle it. Moving about on it and handling heavy crates quickly becomes a risky undertaking. Soldiers, passengers, and sailors are exhausted. At the end of the day, the drudgery comes to an end.
“We can’t bring everything ashore with so few boats,” Lucien Talon announces, dropping down onto the grass beside his wife. A rowboat has been destroyed, scuppered not by the Indians, according to Mr. Joutel, but by our own men.
“Many also say the shipwreck was no accident,” adds Isabelle Talon.
I don’t like to hear talk of the disagreements that make the adults seem like immature children in my eyes. So I leave my mom, the Talons, and the passengers around the fire to go over to Marie-Élisabeth.
As is her habit, my friend is sitting on a rock off to the side. She’s sorting corn grains salvaged from the wreck, putting aside those that look rotten. Or at least that’s what she was doing before the darkness forced her to stop. Now she’s staring up at the thin crescent moon that is following the sun up and over the hills to the west.
“Would you like some water?” I ask, just for something to say, as I sit down beside her.
“No.”
She doesn’t look at me. I look at her little nose, on a face that’s been redrawn by the fires off in the distance. She’s sitting slightly lower than I am, but our eyes are at the same height.
“Have I done something to upset you, Marie- Élisabeth?”
“No.”
Her voice is cold, neutral. Not especially aggressive, but there’s no encouragement for me to continue either. I persevere.
“You’re not like you used to be, Marie-Élisabeth.”
She doesn’t reply, doesn’t even move.
“Not just with me, with everyone,” I continue. “You—”
“You’re just like my parents. Do you think I should be jumping for joy, too?” she interrupts, turning to face me. “Do you think I should be thanking God every day for being alive? Despite our situation?”
“Don’t blaspheme.”
“I’m not blaspheming. But I have the right not to like the life we’re leading. I have the right not to like the state we find ourselves in, the people we’re with…”
“You don’t like being with me anymore?”
She looks at me for a moment, sighs, and stares off into the distance.
“I don’t mean you,” she whispers at last, more gently.
“You mean the others? The sailors? The soldiers? Hiens?”
I can see the muscles in her jaw stiffen.
“Don’t say a word about that monster!” she hisses, spit bubbling between her lips.
“I’ll never betray our secret.”
I can see her jawbone relaxing now. The tendons in her neck loosen, her shoulders sink… She’s calming down. For a few wordless seconds, we watch the pale glow of the sky as a flock of pelicans, stuffed full and heavy, looks for a quiet inlet in which to spend the night.
Once again, it’s me who breaks the silence.
“Will you marry me, Marie-Élisabeth? The day I ask your dad for your hand, would you like to get married?”
“We’re still too young, Stache.”
“I’m thirteen. You’ll be eleven soon enough. We’re not kids anymore. And we’re the best friends in the world.”
She shrugs, indifferent to the question—or trying hard to look like it.
“Will you marry me, Marie-Élisabeth?”
Her expression is a strange mix of apprehension and curiosity. Maybe she’s also wondering if she could marry someone who’s smaller than she is.
“What do married people do, Stache? What does a husband make his wife do?”
“I don’t understand.”
“The other night, I was lying near my mom and dad. They thought I was asleep. I saw them in the moonlight, him on top of her. I saw them moving. I know what they were doing.”
She looks at me. The fires all around have turned the blues of her eyes a shade of brick red.
“Daddy was breathing heavily, Mom was moaning,” she says.
“I don’t understand.”
“What my mom was going through didn’t seem much different to my attack.”
I don’t say a thing. I don’t know what adults get up to between themselves. My mom has never spoken to me about that kind of thing. Maybe if Dad were still alive, he would have… but, well.
Sometimes with my friends back in La Rochelle, we would tell each other dirty stuff. They said that to make babies… Anyway, it was stupid… There’s no way.
At the same time, sometimes funny stuff happens to me. Down below, I mean. Especially when I see the pretty Native girls. Especially if they’re naked. Maybe Mr. Talon can explain it to me.
The more I think about it, the more I’m sure I’d be too shy to ask about anything like that. I’ll listen out to what the sailors are saying instead. They’re always talking about it. I always rushed away because I think—or at least I thought until now—it was a sin. Maybe if I listen to find out more, try to understand. Just listening can’t be forbidden by God.
Tell you what, I’ll ask the Recollects. They’ll be able to tell me what I need to know. Which longings come from the Devil, for instance, and the things we need for… for married life.
“Stache?”
I give a little start, because my thoughts had wandered from Marie-Élisabeth. I realize she’s still staring at me with her brick red eyes.
“If you become my husband, Stache, will you make me do what that German freebooter makes me do?”
17
THE CROCODILE
We continue unloading materials from L’Aimable onto the shore, where we will either transfer as much of it as possible into the hold of Le Joly or build a fort. If we do build a fort, we’ll wait until the scouts confirm that we’re in the Mississippi Delta.
“Look out! A crocodile!” a sailor shouts from the rowboat.
I don’t see a thing, but he’s pointing in my direction.
I’m carrying a big box that’s full of knives of all sizes. Well, they’re mostly on the small side since Mr. De La Salle brought them along to trade with the Natives. Two steps behind me—and down below since we’re walking back up the bank that leads down to the river—Mr. Talon and Jean L’Archevêque are struggling with a heavy trunk and two young volunteers are herding eight pigs ahead of them.
“Crocodile!” a woman repeats, fifty feet away on the shore.
I still can’t make out a thing when suddenly the two young boys with the pigs run off in different directions. Lucien Talon and L’Archevêque drop what they’re carrying and race to the top of the slope. They run past me and to my right, clambering up a ladder formed by the rocks. An enormous spray of water spurts up from the weeds in the water just opposite me. A dark mass rears up amidst the pigs.
Just as I recognize the crocodile’s silhouette, its enormous mouth belches out water like an overturned barrel. I’ve barely had time to step back when deafening squeals join the crashing sound of water. Two pigs—both at the same time—are imprisoned by a double row of teeth that gleam like spears.
The huge monster moves off, taking his prey with him. One of them puts up such a fight that, before the predator has disappeared back to the depths of the river, the pig tumbl
es back out onto the sand. But it’s spurting blood from a long gash running down from its shoulder to the leg. It squeals louder than ever, thrashing to get away from the water.
I race over to pick it up.
“Leave it! Let it be!”
Lucien Talon can’t see the crocodile moving off with the other pig, but I can. I can see it in the distance, carrying off its kill in its mouth. It eventually slips into the murky water, disappearing behind the mud stirred up by the attack.
“Leave the pig!” Marie-Élisabeth’s father shouts as he draws closer.
“There’s no danger, Mr. Talon!” I say, bending down over the poor animal that’s covering the beach with its blood.
I grab it by the foot and drag it through the grass at the foot of the slope.
“Confound it, Eustache! Don’t risk your life over a pig!” he rebukes me as he draws level.
“The crocodile’s over there,” I gasp, pointing at where I last saw it. “I wasn’t in any danger.”
“And that’s one more animal for supper,” L’Archevêque chimes in, grabbing another foot to help me haul the pig up beyond the bank. “We’ll have to salvage all the blood it’s losing, though. Hey! You over there! Yes, you. Bring us that pail, would you? And be quick about it!”
“Very well, what’s done is done,” says Lucien Talon. “We may as well bleed him completely now.”
A ship’s boy approaches with a metal container filled with nails. L’Archevêque empties it out and gives it a quick rinse in the water.
“I have it,” he says, holding the animal up by its hind feet.
The poor animal squeals even more as it struggles, thrashing against the bucket with its head and knocking it over. The ship’s boy sets the container back up, while Marie-Élisabeth’s dad grabs one of the pig’s ears and limbs to restrict its movements.
“Cut its throat!” he shouts to me.
“Huh? Me?”
“You’re a man now, aren’t you? Go on, go ahead. Kill the pig.”
“B… But…”
“Let’s not take all day!” grumbles L’Archevêque. “This damned pig is bleeding all over me. Slit its throat and we can fill the blasted pail!”
“With what?”
“How many knives do you have in that box you were carrying? Put one of them to good use, tarnation!”
The bad language—and Lucien Talon’s slightly mocking expression—have their effect. I lean down over the little trunk I’d left on the ground and grab one of the longer cleavers. As I walk toward the pig—still trying to slip away from the four hands holding it back—I know I can’t hesitate. I know that if I wait too long, the animal will get away from the men, but I’ll be the laughing stock. Not them.
As the animal squeals in pain, I grab the far ear to get a better look at its throat. I thrust the knife out in front of me. The flesh opens and more blood spurts out. The pig lets out a cry not unlike the Talons’ baby when his mother doesn’t feed him quickly enough. The ship’s boy rushes to put the bucket back under the red stream to waste as little blood as possible. The splashes of blood from the gash along its side gradually dry up as the animal is emptied from its throat.
The animal convulses again, goes calm, then stops moving altogether. Curious onlookers have gathered in the meantime. Moranget is one of them, always afraid that others will get more to eat than he does.
“We could have looked after the pig and kept it for days, weeks even,” he grumbles to Jean L’Archevêque.
“That’s right,” L’Archevêque laughs, without paying much attention to Mr. De La Salle’s nephew. “If you’re so into butchery, dive into the river and get back the pig that crocodile just stole from us.”
People try not to laugh, Moranget swears, insults are murmured, and then Lucien Talon puts his hand on my shoulder to guide me away. I’m still holding the blood-covered knife.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“How do I…? Why?”
“I could see you’d never killed an animal in your life. Did you feel anything?”
“No, of course not,” I reply without thinking. “I don’t feel a thing.”
I start to clean the blade with a scrap of cloth from a nearby bundle.
“That’s good. I know tougher men than you who have felt remorse.”
“The animal was going to die anyway. I put it out of its misery.”
“True.”
“And it was only a pig.”
18
THE END OF L’AIMABLE
The following day, on February 21, 1685, the waves pick up and L’Aimable, squealing like a stuck pig, is finished off. There was still a lot to be carried off it—flour, wine, brandy, dried meat and vegetables, cloth, and musket powder—but all is lost to an indifferent sea.
“Can it be that a few jealous men or—worse!—enemies of the kingdom are sabotaging our efforts?”
No one pays me any attention when Mr. De La Salle asks the question of his closest advisers. It’s not that I’m too small—come on!—just that I’m quiet and easily forgotten.
“I strongly suspect Captain Beaujeu,” replies one.
“He has been jealous of your authority from the very beginning,” adds another. “And he takes umbrage at your privileges.”
“Many of Captain Beaujeu’s supporters will take it to be an insult, indeed a provocation, that we are even suspecting him,” remarks the ever-diplomatic Henri Joutel. “We have already become two rival factions. We will succumb to infighting unless we are careful. And that will be of no benefit to the colony.”
“It was the Savages, not our own men, who sabotaged L’Aimable!”
The rumour quickly spreads across our makeshift camp as soon as furious soldiers arrive from the other side of the river.
“We saw that damned tattooed lot with Normandy blankets and bundles of cloth we didn’t have time to bring ashore,” shouts a man from Gascony with his thick local accent.
“I even saw them paddling out in two canoes, picking up anything they could find floating on the waves. That’s our property bobbing around out there, as well they know.”
I’m beginning to wonder if people aren’t making too much of the incident on purpose. Might one of us, having seen the rival factions forming, have decided to invent a common enemy?
“Why not use the situation to get our hands on canoes, corn, and other foodstuffs?” suggests a Recollect. “Since the Indians have already carried off some of our belongings, why not ask for what we need in return? They’ll be glad to get off lightly in order to stay on our good side.”
De La Salle puts a hand to his chin, raising a questioning eyebrow aimed at Joutel.
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Joutel replies. “It will create a bond between our men without turning the Indians against us.”
“Very well. Would you like to take charge of the mission, Henri? You—”
“Uncle,” Moranget cuts in. “I would like to be your ambassador and ask the Indians for the equivalent of what we consider to be fair for our loss.”
“I require flawless diplomacy, Crevel. I fear your fiery character might not be entirely suitable.”
“You can trust me, Uncle. I know how to be conciliatory.”
“Not too conciliatory either,” objects an officer. “Otherwise the Savages will think they can take what they want without having to negotiate or ask us first.”
“In that case,” Moranget replies, “I can be conciliatory… and firm.”
“And flawless,” repeats De La Salle.
“Of course.”
* * *
Moranget, armed with the fine arquebus he always lavishes with attention, sets off in the direction of the Native village with a few men.
It is the morning of March 5, 1685. This is the date Mr. Joutel pronounced as he took notes in the book
that follows him everywhere. Mom and I hear him as we move off to a quiet corner to pray. This is the time when, every time we get a chance, we kneel down to honour the memory of my brother and my father. For a few weeks now, this routine has become less of a chore for two reasons. First, I enjoy sharing my apprehensions and melancholy with Armand. And second, Mom has stopped bursting into tears at the end of the prayer. She is growing used to their absence. Proof that all sorrows end up diluted in the concerns of everyday life.
After a quarter of an hour, when we return to the centre of the camp, I spot an iguana warming itself in the sun. It’s sitting on a rock, hidden in the tall grass.
“I just need a big stone,” I say, taking my slingshot from my pocket and scanning the ground around me. “Right there!”
“Leave the poor animal alone, Eustache. Lizard meat is disgusting.”
“But I know two sailors who’ll give me a good price, Mom,” I reply, creeping up on the reptile, which is becoming more nervous by the second.
“If that’s what you want,” she says, walking away.
I wait for her to move off, which helps calm the iguana. I begin to spin my slingshot, hoping the animal will stay still for just another seco—
“Drat!”
Just as I’m about to launch my stone, a rustling in the bushes beside us scares the animal off once and for all. Someone is walking past. The reptile dives down off its rock and I lose sight of it. I groan with disgust and let my weapon fall to my side. I turn to see the silhouette that couldn’t have appeared at a worse time and to my surprise I recognize the girl I love.
“Hey! Marie-Élisabeth!”
She gives a start as she sees me. Her mind was clearly somewhere else. I pretend to laugh and try to tease her a little.
“And what are you doing there? You just made me miss out on the finest iguana you’ve ever seen! I’m sure I’d have gotten four or five deniers for it.”
Instead of returning my smile or saying hello, she turns and walks away as fast as she can.
“Mar… Marie-Élisabeth! I was only joking. Marie…”
Hunting for the Mississippi Page 6
