She became still in sheer surprise. “You can’t mean it.”
“I do, I assure you.”
“I’ve given you no reason to suppose that I would agree!”
“Not until now,” he answered simply.
“I thought you were Reynaud!” It was uncanny, listening to him, seeing him lying there in the gloom. They were so very alike. His words were only slightly slurred, though she thought he was drunker than he seemed.
“Did you?”
“You must believe that I did!”
“I am sorry. Then you won’t consider becoming my wife?”
“Your third wife?” she inquired dryly. “One more subject to be garroted if you should die? I must decline the honor!”
He pursed his lips. “But if I were not the Great Sun?”
“You would still be Reynaud’s brother.”
“And your devoted admirer. You are fair to look upon, Elise.”
“And you are a husband twice over and a father.”
“What difference does that make? I would not neglect you, as does my brother, no matter how many wives I might have.”
She flushed scarlet, though with angry mortification and embarrassment that he had noticed the lack of intimacy between her and Reynaud, had watched and perhaps listened for it. She would not discuss it, however. “Let me go, if you please.”
“No, do you really wish it? This is so pleasant and I could make you happy, for an hour or two.”
Elise was suddenly aware of the press of her hip against him and the softness of her breasts resting against his chest. She wrenched herself back from him, trying once more to stand.
“Don’t fight me. I won’t hurt you, I promise. I only await your invitation to take you.”
“You’ll wait a long time,” she said through her teeth. “Let go, or Great Sun or no, I will not be responsible for the consequences.”
“You must love my brother very much.”
Once more she was still, staring at him as her mind suspended thought. It could not be true. Abruptly she shook her head. “I certainly don’t love you!”
He released her on a sigh and, as she sprang to her feet, clasped his hands on his chest and closed his eyes. She could not tell if he had lost consciousness or was only protecting his male pride by pretending, giving her a chance to escape. She did not wait to see, but swung around and left him there.
Elise told no one of the misunderstanding with the Great Sun. Who was there to tell? And what could she say? Little Quail would doubtless think her stupid for not falling in with the desires of one who was nearly a deity in her view. If Reynaud knew it might cause trouble between his brother and himself — or else he might discover some peculiar custom that would compel him to step aside for his ruler. Since nothing had happened, or was likely to happen, between herself and the Great Sun, speaking of it seemed a greater risk than keeping silent.
The fortifications progressed with amazing speed. Reynaud drove the warriors as if to make up for the time he had been ill, but he drove himself as well. He left the house every morning before first light and did not return until well after dark. His every meal was taken standing, in common with the other warriors. Elise seldom saw Reynaud during the daylight hours unless she joined the women who carried the food and drink out to them. She was awake some nights when he came to the sleeping bench, but though he was now very near complete recovery, he still did not touch her other than to draw her close for their mutual comfort on the narrow bench.
She told herself that he was exhausted by his labors so soon after his illness, that he had other and more pressing things on his mind than continuing her interrupted education in the delights of physical love. But she was not convinced.
Her concern might have been fostered by the comments regarding his lack of interest made by his brother, the Great Sun, but that was only a part of it. The truth was that having been pushed into his bed once more, compelled to sleep at in side, she was haunted by a mounting need to discover if the sensations she remembered feeling had been real or some trick of the night and the moment. That was disturbing enough, but worse still was the regret that touched her now and then for the way in which she and Reynaud Chavalier had met and the wish that they could have known each other at another time, in some other place.
It was raining again, a cold and steady downpour, on a morning some weeks after work on the palisades had begun when Elise set out to take a hot herb drink and packet of food to Reynaud. She picked her way across the plaza and past the temple mound, holding an umbrella made of the tail feathers of wild turkeys over her head and wishing she had greased the leather of her moccasins better as waterproofing. The slope that led to the first fort had been churned into mud as the logs for one of the palisades were dragged into place. With the gray sky and the rising wall of the fort, which cut off the light, it was very dark inside. The gradually closing circle of logs was somehow forbidding, a constant reminder of the reckoning that must come. The French were gathering an army, or so said the whispers that seemed to come to the village on the winter wind. They were only waiting for spring to attack, for the good weather that would allow them to move their batteries of cannon and loads of heavy ammunition, along with the men who would destroy the Natchez, up the river.
She stopped near to where the work on the palisade wall was going forth and stood watching. Two deep trenches some three feet apart had been dug all around the perimeter of the site. Great peeled logs from eight to ten inches in diameter were being brought in and placed upright in both trenches, then the area around the logs was packed with earth to hold them in place. The dirt dug from the trenches was being used to fill the space between the two log walls, forming a thick single wall designed to repel the heaviest cannon fire. It was hard, back-breaking work, felling the logs and dragging them to the fort, some with the stolen oxen of the French, some mainly by human strength. The raising of the logs and plumbing them in the trenches, holding them upright long enough to pack them in place, required many hands and complete cooperation. It was the work of men, but many of the Common women and older children had been pressed into service gathering the earth in baskets, carrying it to fill in between the walls, and treading it to pack it down. The last job was one familiar to all since it was the method used to build the mounds that were a part of their culture.
At regular intervals in the wall, small, semicircular bastions had been built just large enough for a pair of men to stand and fire down at attackers. Two of the bastions were being reinforced and made larger for use as gun platforms with the cannons taken from Fort Rosalie. Around the top of the wall was the scaffolding of the walkway where more defenders would stand. When finished, it would be an impressive accomplishment considering the tools and materials the Indians had to work with.
Though many of the tribes had a long history of building palisades for defense in their wars against each other, they were seldom as large or as massively built as those going up at St. Catherine Creek. Much of the credit for the architecture, planning, and organization belonged to Reynaud. Searching for him with her eyes, Elise saw him standing on a section of scaffolding, pointing at a rough plan in his hand as he explained what he wanted done. Keeping a wary eye out for swinging logs and slung baskets of dirt, she made her way toward him.
He was wet, soaked from the rain, his hair plastered to his head, though he scarcely seemed to notice it. He thanked her with a warm smile for the things she had brought. As she stood waiting while he ate and drank in order to take away the utensils, she nodded toward the wall. “It’s progressing well.”
“Yes. The Natchez have always been good at working.”
“Will it be finished in time?”
He looked about him with narrowed eyes. “We must hope so.”
“Do you think there will be room enough for everyone?” she asked. Though the Grand Village, home of the Great Sun, was foremost among the Natchez, there were scattered along St. Catherine Creek between it and the river five oth
er villages, small clusters of huts that held families all related in some manner. The combined numbers from the villages added up to the two thousand Indians reported as the population of the Natchez.
“There must be enough.”
“You are not expecting a long siege, I think.”
With so many inside the two forts, the supplies of food would not last long even if they were supplemented. The work of adding to them was certainly going on, she realized, for she had seen many hunting parties going out lately and much activity around the smoke fires. The women were also busy making new pottery jars and weaving food baskets to carry the supplies from the storehouse. As for water, a group of warriors were digging a well inside each log enclosure.
“We can last longer than the French, if it comes to that. They will have to bring every morsel they eat with them, except for what they get by hunting; and once the cannonade begins that will be little enough.”
Reynaud stepped away from her to call out a suggestion to a group of warriors setting yet another post. As he straightened, rainwater ran from his hair, trickling down his back. He reached up, bending his arm to slip his hand under his cape and rubbing his back as he turned.
“What is it?” Elise asked.
“What? Oh, my back? The few scabs right in the middle itch damnably, that’s all.”
“Can I help?”
He looked at her, the old warmth kindling, rising in his dark eyes along with an odd quirk of humor that might have been the recollection of a private joke. “Would you?”
“If I could.” She returned his gaze without evasion, though she could feel the heat of a faint flush on her cheekbones.
It was a moment before he spoke, then he said, “I just may let you later.”
The question of exactly what he had meant plagued her as she moved through the still-falling rain back toward the mound of the Great Sun. Were his words as straightforward as they seemed or had there been some meaning she had failed to catch? They had spoken in Natchez as had become their habit of late. She was fairly fluent now, but there were still many times when she felt that she had failed to catch the nuance of a phrase, the complete meaning of a quick jest.
“Elise! Madame Laffont!”
The call came from behind her. She turned quickly, alarmed by the grief and fear in the tone. It was one of the young French-women. She was running to catch up with her, her face contorted with tears. As she jolted to a stop in front of her, Elise caught the woman’s hands, holding them tightly.
“What is it? Tell me!”
“It’s poor Madame Doucet. Her daughter, may le bon Dieu rest her soul, passed from this life during the night. Now Madame Doucet sits in the hut holding her, refusing to let any touch her. She is mad in her grief, quite mad. She cries and speaks to her dead daughter and will let none come near to prepare the body for burial.”
“I understand,” Elise said.
It was not unexpected. The last time she had visited the hut where the two women stayed, the daughter had been nothing but skin and bones, refusing to eat, willing herself to die. She had been a frivolous young woman like her mother, given to gossiping about the latest fashions, adorning herself with silks and satins at the expense of her husband’s holdings. It was amazing what strength of purpose such women could show even if it was often misdirected.
“You must come and talk to Madame Doucet. She will listen to you, if to no one else.”
It was an appeal that could not be ignored. Elise, in her concern for the woman with whom she had shared so much, had no such intention. Calling to a small Indian girl about nine or ten, she sent the child with the food utensils to the Great Sun’s house while she herself turned away to go to Madame Doucet.
The hut was dark and noisome, little more than a hovel. The fire had been allowed to go out and there were no lamps hanging from the beams. The wooden bowls and pottery dishes of many meals were scattered here and there with the food congealed and moldy in most and the rest unscrubbed. There were no mats on the hard dirt floor and the rain had poured in at the smoke vent in the roof, puddling among the wet ashes and charred ends of wood and making the footing as slippery with mud as a pigsty.
Before she had taken a step inside, Elise turned and gave instructions for firewood and hot water for cleaning to be brought. She moved forward into the gloom, then found her way by the light falling through the open doorway.
“Madame Doucet? I have come to talk to you.”
“Ah, Elise, grieve with me, for I am losing her.”
The voice came from the farthest corner. As Elise’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw the older woman sitting on a bench with her back against the wall and her daughter clasped in her arms. Babbling, brushing back the dead woman’s hair, she begged Elise for advice on how to restore her daughter to health, asking her to look at how thin she was, how pale. It was a litany of fear and horror and unacknowledged mourning. The older woman was dressed in the rags to which she clung as being civilized clothing and her once gray-blond hair had turned white.
On her knees beside Marie Doucet, Elise reached out to touch the woman’s hand. “I fear, madame, that it is too late. She is gone.”
“No, no. She cannot be gone, not when I have found her again. Save her, Elise, save her.”
“I would if I could, but I have not the power. Come, let me take her and see that she is laid to rest.”
“No! They shan’t throw her to the animals. They do that, you know. They take them into the woods and leave them, the slaves, the Common people. There are no ceremonies, no companions for them, no great fires to lift their spirits to the sun.”
It was true, in its way. The burials were simple, a quiet place in the woods, a few favorite possessions placed with them in a shallow, unmarked grave. It was different for the upper class, who were placed first in coffins of bark above ground where their spirits were supplied with food and water until the flesh fell away from the bones. They were then buried in the earth floors of their houses, which were set on fire above them, with the exception of their rulers, the Great Suns, whose bones were kept in baskets in the temple. But, in truth, what difference did it make in the end?
“You agree then that she is no more,” Elise said quietly.
“Tell me how you would wish her to be buried and I will see to it.”
It was not quite as simple as that, but in the end it was agreed. Madame Doucet allowed her daughter to be taken away, not because she was convinced that it would be all right as much as because she was too exhausted to resist any longer.
It was the Frenchwomen who bathed the body and laid it out in the few pieces of what they called decent clothing left among them. They carried the body to the woods and dug the grave in the wet and muddy earth with digging sticks and clay scoops, then made a cross of limbs lashed together with leather strips.
Elise said a prayer as they knelt, speaking in the purest French, then they sang a quiet song that Madame Doucet had requested, one that she had sung in a nursery in France many years before. A few tears were shed, but not many. Most of them had cried so much that they no longer had any tears to spare.
There were tasks to be done, meals to be prepared, and children to be seen after. The women straggled back to the camp in silence, dispersing to the huts to which they had been assigned. Elise returned to Madame Doucet’s hut and set to work, sweeping, shaking out bedding, letting in air while a hearty meal cooked on the fire. She talked in normal tones all the while to the older woman, telling her of the burial that she had refused to attend, talking of the progress of the palisades, giving her the news that had been brought by visiting warriors — anything, everything. She bathed Madame Doucet and wrapped her in a clean blanket while she rinsed out her clothing and hung it out to dry. Then she placed food in her frail hands and stood over her while she ate. And through her mind as a constant refrain ran her pity for the plight of the French.
They had lost everything, these women: men; homes; livelihood; often children, esp
ecially boys grown to young manhood. They were forced to live in what they considered to be squalor, doing manual labor such as many had not done in years and had thought never to do again, serving as slaves to people they were certain were beneath them. Most of the women had not been molested due to the strict control and moral conduct of Natchez men and the fact that those same men considered the Frenchwomen unclean because they did not bathe every day. A few had excited the lascivious curiosity of their owners, however. It was impossible to say how many, for most would not admit to it, but the one or two who had done so lived in shame. Many of the women had received lacks and blows, though not to excess, usually because of their hauteur and refusal to work. They had learned to live with the fact that they could be beaten at will, but there were many who had been so injured in their self-esteem that they would never recover.
They called the Natchez cruel beasts, these women, and constantly recounted the scenes of horror that lived in their dreams: the shooting down of their men; the slashing of their throats with knives and crushing of their skulls with hatchets; the slaughter of pets and farm animals; the burning of houses that contained family treasures brought with such care and pride from France. Elise could not but agree and yet she was torn.
Little Quail was a Natchez and that wild blood ran in Reynaud’s veins. She had watched Small Owl and the Great Sun and his wives and their aunts and uncles, had heard them laugh and seen their affection for one another, and she knew they were not monsters. She had passed the temple and seen the guardians of the flame standing watch two by two throughout the march of the days, and she saw their steadfastness of purpose. She had talked to the women, and she knew that they exclaimed in horror at the way the French sometimes slapped and beat their children; the way the French, instead of tormenting their enemies, used the scourge, the branding iron, the rack, the stake, and the burning fagots on their own people.
Who was right? Were the customs of either defensible? Or was the only thing that mattered the might of the arms and the will of the soldiers that both would bring to the meeting that must come?
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