Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  “Calm yourself, I beg you.” Elise patted her shoulder, tears rising to her own eyes for the woman’s grief and for the terrible picture she painted with her incoherent words that somehow became mixed with a deep and private desolation Elise did not care to examine. She drew a deep breath, saying, “Think of your daughter.”

  “Yes.” Madame Doucet drew back. “I must be strong. My poor daughter, to lose her child and in such a way. I fear for her. She isn’t strong and she has been working so hard, so hard. I must help her. She needs me. But, oh, Elise, my poor little grandson. He was alive, had survived that terrible massacre, and they killed him. They killed him! Murderers, oh, they are cruel murderers.”

  It seemed at that moment that Madame Doucet was right. What had either of them to do with such people? Why should she care for their approval or feel guilt at their anger? What did it matter that tomorrow one of them would be whipped for her sake? If Reynaud had not held her against her will, there would be no need. She was French. She belonged with her people. She turned to Little Quail.

  “Is there any reason why I should not visit with Madame Doucet’s daughter and perhaps some of the others?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Then I will thank you for your kindness this morning and bid you good day.”

  Despite her defiance, the visit was not a success. Madame Doucet’s daughter was ill with grief and an infection in her head wound that she had refused to have treated by the Indians. She was hardly aware of where she was, much less of who had come to see her. Filthy, rail-thin from lack of nourishment, she lay on a bench in a small hut set off by itself among the Stinkards. Off and on through the afternoon, some of the other Frenchwomen came to visit and to speak to Elise. There was an odd constraint about them, however, as if they did not trust her. They knew she had been with Reynaud, knew something of the circumstances. Still, their resentment that she was wandering around the Indian village free and unencumbered, that she was dressed as an Indian and ensconced among the Suns, that her shining hair hung down her back while theirs had been shorn to indicate their slavery, was an obvious and solid thing. They seemed to think that she had betrayed them in some way, and though they did not want to antagonize her for fear that she might be able to harm them or else in the hope that she could help them if she chose, they saw no reason to treat her as one of them, the slaves of the Natchez.

  It seemed that like Reynaud she, too, had no people.

  12

  THE VILLAGE WAS awake and stirring early. The buzz of voices, mingling with the barking of dogs, the dry rattling of shaken gourds, and the tooting of cane whistles, echoed around the hut where Elise lay staring with wide and burning eyes into the smoke-darkened dome of the ceiling. She had slept little.

  After a time, she got up. Wrapping her cloak around her, she kindled a fire, then stood shivering beside it for some time before she got dressed. She wondered what Reynaud was doing, how he was feeling. Did he dread the coming ordeal as much as she did? Or was he resigned to it, even, perhaps, looking forward to the test of his powers, uplifted by his fast and temple vigil?

  She would not watch; she could not bear to watch. There was no reason why she should. She was not a savage, used to such sights; why shouldn’t she be upset at the thought of seeing a man whipped? She would stay quietly in the hut until it was over. Perhaps she should spend the time preparing to care for the injuries Reynaud would receive; it was possible that she owed him that service for her part in this terrible ordeal. She had learned a great deal about the Indian ways with herbs from Little Quail in the time the woman had spent with her and there were many of the necessary herbs close to hand, hanging from the ceiling beams.

  It was easy enough to make a resolution; the trick was in keeping it. When the rise of the voices from the direction of the plaza indicated that the gauntlet was ready and that Reynaud had appeared outside the temple, she could not remain inside the hut. It seemed cowardly to stay there in hiding.

  The sun was brilliant as she stepped out of the artificial darkness of the hut. It shone with feeble warmth on the crowd gathered around the plaza, catching the sheen of a patch of beading on leather here, the gleam of the sharp edge of a hatchet or knife there. Children darted, dogs leaped and barked, women sat talking, men stood about with their capes flapping as they made quick gestures in conversation. They paid scant attention to the men drawn up in a double line in the center of the plaza, each with a stripped cane pole some four feet long in his hand. Warriors all, these men who stood waiting; they were the stoutest and strongest of the tribe.

  Turning away quickly, Elise saw that most of the Suns had chosen to watch the impending event from the slopes of the mound of the Great Sun. The height gave them a much better view than being at ground level. There were even a few elderly people who had been carried from the huts to a place on the mound to watch. Carefully tended, these respected ones sat waiting for the excitement to begin. Elise moved around to the front side of the mound and climbed a few feet up the slope to be able to see above the crowd.

  There was a small commotion from the large house of the Great Sun above her. Turning her head, Elise saw Reynaud’s brother emerge from his dwelling and seat himself on a chair that had been brought out for him. An ornate piece of furniture, heavily carved and gilded with a seat of silk upholstery, it would not have looked out of place at Versailles. The Great Sun settled into his chair and adjusted his cloak and breechclout of woven swansdown which were dyed the deep sable-black color only he was allowed to wear. Turning to the man at his side, who might have been a temple caretaker of some kind, he spoke a few words, then lifted his feathered scepter in a signal that the trial, for that was what it was in effect, could begin.

  Drums boomed, a rolling, measured sound coming from the huge, baked earthenware pots with leather stretched over their mouths and filled with water to give them different tones. The Indians gathered around the plaza grew quiet.

  From the great temple on its mound directly in front of where Elise stood, Reynaud emerged. His breechclout was of white leather and his cape of spun and woven swansdown. The swan feathers of his small crown lifted gently in the rise of the morning breeze. The sun glinted with blue light on his hair and slid along the planes of his chest with a gleam of red bronze. His face was calm and his bearing upright. Step by slow step, in time with the slow cadence of the drums, he descended the long ramp leading from the mound to the plaza.

  At the foot of the mound, he stopped. The drums began a soft roll. Women came forward to take Reynaud’s cape. They led him to the head of the double line of warriors. He stood for a long moment. Elise thought that he drew a deep breath, allowing his glance to move over the crowd. It came to rest on the place where she stood for a long moment, though his face was without expression. His gaze moved on, lifting to find his brother on his gilded chair. He lifted one arm in a brief salute, then nodded his readiness.

  The drums fell silent. Cane whistles shrilled in a single dissonant note, then stopped abruptly. Reynaud took a deep breath, then stepped forward. The first cane was raised. Whining, keening, it fell.

  The running of the gauntlet was not unusual in the armies of Europe. Had the custom been brought to the new world by the expeditions of the Spanish and French over the last two hundred years or had it been noted and exported to Europe along with the exotic plants of America? There were differences in the way it was carried out, or so Elise thought, from what she had heard. In most European armies, the man who was to be punished was led at a slow march by a soldier carrying a musket with bayonet affixed. The man could not run forward to avoid the blows without impaling himself and so could only writhe in agony under the slow and repeated blows. There was no soldier, no bayonet, to ensure fortitude here with the Natchez. She expected to see Reynaud run and twist, dodging the flailing canes. He did not.

  With set face and slow strides, he moved down the gauntlet, flinching slightly in a muscular reaction under the most severe cuts, expelling his
breath in a hollow sound that was not quite a grunt at others. The red of stripes appeared on his back, crisscrossed. As other blows landed in the same place, the skin broke and blood began to trickle. Still he walked on, sometimes wavering a little from the force of the blows, but without breaking stride.

  The heavy, meaty whacks of the striking canes sent a shiver along Elise’s nerves. She wanted to cover her ears, to run, to hide, but some greater compulsion held her where she stood. She was shivering, her palms sweating though the tips of her fingers were icy, as cold as her lips were as she raised her hands to them to hold back the cry of protest that rose inside her. She could not interfere, she must not interfere; and yet the need to do so was so great it was like a bursting pain inside her. She wanted to look away, but could not.

  Then she saw Path Bear near the end of the gauntlet. He held his cane ready, a gloating look on his square face in contrast to the stern and implacable expressions of the others. Elise’s eyes widened as she saw the stout cane in his hand. It was one of those she had seen him with the day before, one he had trailed through the viscera of the deer. It was well known that such excrement could cause corruption in open injuries, even poisoning of the blood that could lead to death. A terrible suspicion rose inside her. If she had only known the purpose of the canes! Now it was too late, for at that moment the cane Path Bear held descended, wielded with every ounce of his hard strength. In the same motion, the warrior jabbed, twisting it into the worst of the mass of oozing stripes that marked Reynaud’s back. Reynaud faltered, wincing, but did not stop. Another blow. Another. A final one.

  It was over.

  A great shout of acclamation went up from the crowd. They surged forward, gathering around Reynaud, praising and congratulating, though none touched him. Above Elise, the Great Sun came to his feet and gestured. Reynaud turned toward his brother, moving slowly to the mound and its sloping incline where the Great Sun stood waiting. At the foot of it, he swayed, then caught himself. His face was pale, Elise saw, as if only now the pain of what he had endured was making itself felt. His face grim, he straightened his shoulders and lifted his foot to take the first step upward.

  Placing one foot before the other, he climbed, coming nearer and nearer to where Elise stood. She let her hands fall to her sides, unwilling to let him see that she had been concerned for him, that she wanted to help him. Unconsciously she stood taller, lifting her chin. As he came even, his dark gaze searched for and found her. She forced her stiff lips into a smile, holding his gaze without evasion, without a flicker of the sympathy she felt on her face.

  Then he was past, reaching to take the hand of his brother held out to him. The Great Sun drew him to stand beside him in front of the thronelike chair he had occupied. In a voice deep and stentorian, the Great Sun spoke.

  “My people,” he said, his words rolling away to echo among the trees, “I present to you your new chief of war, known among you as Hawk-of-the-Night. From this day he shall be called by the name home proudly by those of his calling who have gone before. I bid you to accept this man, henceforth known as Tattooed Serpent, for his courage and honor. I command you to follow always where, he leads, for in his hands lies the fate of the Natchez. With him we shall find victory or death!”

  The cries and shouts rose, a throbbing joyous noise. Giving orders for a day of rest, games, and feasting, their leader turned back toward his house taking Reynaud with him.

  Immediately there was a surge of women up the incline, many of them carrying small pots of herbs and unguent. Seeing Little Quail among them, Elise swung away, leaping down from the mound and running into Reynaud’s hut. Coming out a moment later, she held a small clay pot that contained her own concoction of herbs and bear grease for the remedy of cuts and bruises.

  She felt a little foolish joining the other women who crowded around the door of the Great Sun’s house, but that did not make her less determined. What had happened was not really her fault; she knew that. That did not keep her from feeling guilty or from wishing to expiate that guilt in some way. It was reason enough for aiding Reynaud, the only reason.

  They made way for her, the Common women who were outside along with a few Noble women. Inside the doorway, she paused. The house of the Great Sun, though larger and with the storeroom to one side, was not so very different from Reynaud’s. Built of the same logs and mud plaster, it had the same sleeping benches around the walls with the same baskets and pots stored beneath them, the same herbs and antlers hanging from the ceiling. It boasted a table that, like the gilt chair, was probably a gift from the French, as was a blue velvet coat that hung on a peg. Otherwise, the main difference was that it had two fires and two sets of cooking utensils, one arrangement for each of the Great Sun’s two wives. The smells of smoke and roasting meat filled the air along with the aroma of baking corn cakes. There were a number of women working busily around the edges of the fire, but more of them were clustered around the sleeping bench at the rear of the room where Reynaud could just be glimpsed in the center of them.

  Elise approached rather diffidently. She touched one woman on the shoulder, indicating with a word or two and a smile that she wished to come closer to the injured man. The woman shrugged her off, turning her back. Elise tried again, thinking that she had been misunderstood. This time she showed the woman her pot of medicine. The woman, perhaps a Sun, said something that sounded more than a little rude and once more swung away. Elise saw Little Quail standing to one side. She called to her, but the woman, seeing what Elise wanted at a glance, only shook her head. Elise stood frowning, wondering if Reynaud would beckon her forward if he saw her or if he would prefer to be tended by these other women. Certainly she heard no protests from him.

  Might it not be just as well if she went away, leaving him to be cared for by others of his kind? But, no, the women did not know what Path Bear had done. They might not be thorough enough, might even press the tainted matter into the wounds if they used a washing motion. She could not leave it as it was.

  Once more she tapped the Sun woman on the shoulder. The woman turned around with her hands on her hips and, seeing Elise, gave her a shove. Incensed at the deliberate rudeness, Elise shoved back. The woman reached for the long braid of Elise’s hair and suddenly Elise remembered the night when she had arrived, remembered being hauled into Reynaud’s hut by her hair. The face of this woman seemed familiar, connected with the humiliation of that moment. Elise slapped her hand aside with such force that the print of her fingers was left on the woman’s arm. Another Sun woman turned and then another. The first one began to screech.

  In a body the women attacked, pulling and clawing at Elise. They tugged her this way and that, wrenching at her cape, pulling it off over her head along with the shorter squaw that covered her breasts. Her pot of medicine fell to the floor with the heavy thud of breaking pottery. Elise kicked out and had the fierce satisfaction of seeing one of the women fly backward to sprawl on the beaten floor. She heard Little Quail calling her name, thought the woman had run toward her trying to come to her side. She could not see.

  Elise caught the wrist of the first woman as she once more grasped her hair and, twisting it, shoved her into two others who were clawing at her arms. More women ringed her. Hands reached, grabbing and hustling her toward the door. She felt the knot of her skirt loosen, felt the square cloth give way to be trampled underfoot. Setting her feet, she jerked against those who held her, flinging those clinging to her right arm away long enough to double her fist and smash it into the faces of the two who held her left wrist. As one of the women howled, bringing her hand up to her bloodied nose, gladness burgeoned inside Elise. It was short-lived though, as they descended on her once more.

  A roared command, repeated above the hubbub, penetrated to the mass of brawling women. Instantly Elise was released, falling to her knees on the floor. The Indian women backed away, leaving her alone, naked in the center of their circle with her breasts heaving from her struggles and her hair in disarray aroun
d her flushed face.

  The man sitting on the bench, the one she had taken for Reynaud, was the Great Sun. His eyes were wide as they moved over her and he drew in his breath in a gasp of startled pleasure.

  Reynaud lay on the bench on his stomach while his mother washed the blood from his back and cleansed the stripes and the gouge that Path Bear had opened with a piece of soft leather dipped in hot water in which herbs had been steeped. He uttered a soft oath as he saw Elise. He tried to get to his feet, but his brother reached out to touch his arm, waving him back into place. Rising, the Indian monarch paced majestically to where Elise knelt.

  The Great Sun reached down, offering his hand. Elise, now profoundly aware of her state of undress, hesitated. There seemed no possibility of refusal, however, any more than there would have been if the man before her had been Louis of France. She put her fingers into his hand and rose to her feet with as much grace as she could summon. The chief of the Natchez allowed his gaze to wander down her slender form, resting here and there in an appreciation that seemed half carnal, half bemused. There was a trace of regret in his voice as he said, “You, I take it, are Elise, the woman of my brother.”

  “I am Elise, yes, your majesty. “

  He gave a nod, then, still holding her hand, turned to the Indian women. A hard edge entered his voice as he spoke, castigating them for fighting like children who had not learned their manners and telling them, when they would have protested, that Elise was a guest, one dear to their new war chief, one who must be honored in all things. He felt shame for their behavior; therefore he dismissed them from his house and did not wish to see their faces until he had sent them a direct invitation.

  When they had gone, he turned and executed a passable bow. “In what way, Madame Elise, may those of my house serve you?”