Helene, with the baby in a wood frame on her back, looked at Elise and lifted her shoulders in a gesture of impatience. “We are pawns, are we not? You who carry the messages, we who wait and wonder how long we are to be slaves.”
“If we were men,” said the first woman who had spat, “we could say to the devil with them all. We could pick up arms and fight our way out.”
“If we were men,” someone echoed.
“If we were men,” said another, “we would be dead.”
Still, they turned almost as one to stare at the entranceway. It stood open, though closely guarded. Through it could be seen the French officers and the single rank of Choctaws, waiting to receive them. Out there were their countrymen, come to rescue them, men who spoke their language, had the same memories and tastes, habits and illusions. All that separated them was a little space, a few yards of ground. The only things that stood between them and freedom were a dozen warriors armed with muskets.
The warriors were guarding against the French coming in, not the women going out. Would they shoot at them, seek to kill unarmed women and children? They had killed many such during the massacre, but that had been while they were in the grip of blood frenzy. Now the captives were considered a part of the Natchez and as such to be protected. Or were they?
“They said we could go,” Helene whispered. “They said we could if the French agreed to leave them alone. The French agreed. Why are they keeping us?”
“It’s cruel, the waiting,” another said.
It was cruel, indeed, bartering with human lives, with the helpless who had never harmed either side. What had women and children to do with war? It was, as Tattooed Arm said, a thing of men. They made the rules and set the penalties; they killed and met death in return. Why should these agreements they made between them be binding upon those who had no say in the proceedings, those who created life but seldom ever took it?
“So close to being free, so close.”
“If there was someone to go first, I would follow.”
“And I. I also. And I.” The voices were quiet but determined.
Helene turned, her pale blue eyes shining. “Elise could do it. Who else better?”
Elise heard their voices as from a great distance. Would this be a betrayal? Would it? Like these women, she had been brought here against her will. Like them, she had lived with a master, done his bidding. But, oh, it was different, so different. Still, had Reynaud not said that the Natchez must let the captives go? Hadn’t he said that even in the event that the French did not keep their word, the village would be better off without them? Where then was the betrayal?
It would be in leaving him.
The pain ran deep and straight, lodging in her heart. How could she leave him? How could she?
There was a gasp from among the women. They turned to stare. Elise swung around to see what had disturbed them. Strutting toward them was an Indian woman. So close was she that she must have heard what they had said. On her broad face was a sneer and in her eyes was the sharp gleam of triumph. It was Red Deer, the mother of Path Bear.
“So, French slaves, you wish to leave us? No more than we wish to have you gone. I am sent to tell you, woman of the new Tattooed Serpent, that you are to go once more to the French soldiers. You are to take these miserable excuses for females and their puling offspring with you, and you are to say to the lieutenant of the king that the Natchez will not deal with them more this day. We will send a pipe of peace in the morning and then this matter will be settled.”
“You were sent? Why you? Why did Reynaud not come to tell me?”
“He did not wish to give himself the pain of seeing you. When you take the women and the message, you are not to come back.”
“Not to — But I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you? It is what he wishes.”
Around her the Frenchwomen were laughing, crying, shouting with joy. Hands reached out to Elise, hugging, patting, urging her toward the gate. She could not think, could hardly breathe for the weight that had settled upon her. Reynaud was sending her away. Did he really want her to go? Was he tired of her despite his words earlier in the day? Or had some news come, some message or rumor that made him think it was too dangerous for her to stay, that it would be better for her to go?
She made a valiant effort to gather her wits. “Is — is everyone here? Does everyone have everything?”
A dry laugh ran over the group at that. Someone ran to bring back the few who had wandered away, to gather children who were playing not far off. There were a few women who were ill, but they were brought out from the huts where they lay, helped along by friends. Among them was Madame Doucet, though she looked bewildered, even terrified, and kept asking over and over where they were going.
Finally Helene called out, “We are all here. Let us go before they change their minds again.”
With her eyes dazed, but her head high, Elise began to walk toward the gate. It seemed so far away now, so very far. Her knees were weak with a tendency to tremble. She clasped her hands together at her waist. Her cloak swung around her and her skirt brushed with a regular rhythm against the calves of her legs. The women behind her shuffled along. They talked among themselves, but their voices were subdued. The closer they came to the open gateway, the quieter they became.
The warriors on guard saw them coming. They stood straighter, holding their weapons ready. Scowling, one spoke to a younger man and the other loped off in the direction of the council in the center of the village. Elise hesitated. Had the guards not been informed that they were leaving? Why were they blocking the way? Perhaps it was sham, a mock show put on for the sake of the French and the Choctaws who waited? At the last moment, the guards would step aside and let them pass. She walked on.
The distance to the gate was narrowing. Twenty feet, fifteen. The guards were bringing their muskets up. Their faces were set, steady. At least two of them had their sights trained on her breast. She thought of Red Deer, of her triumph. Was it possible that the woman had lied? Was her hatred so strong that she would arrange the death of a dozen or more women for the sake of seeing Elise among them?
There was a flash of movement on her right. It was Reynaud, brought by the younger warrior, coming on the run. He stopped as he saw her, saw what was happening. His face hardened, setting like a death mask. Elise, watching, knew finally what she should have guessed all along, might have if there had been time. He had never sent a message, had never authorized the release of the captives, had never wanted her to leave him and not return. She met his blank gaze across the stretch of dirt that separated them and knew the things she had been told were lies. But she knew also that he thought she was leaving of her own free will, going to join her countrymen. She saw the moment when he accepted the knowledge, saw his hand clench, saw the blood leave his face.
Still, the women crowded behind her, forcing her to walk on, forcing her nearer and nearer the aimed muskets. She scarcely noticed. She felt as if her heart would burst with the pain inside her, as if molten tears were forcing themselves up into the back of her nose, searing her throat, taking her breath away. He thought she had betrayed him and the love they had shared. He must think it had been a farce, her response to him, that she had pretended in order to take him off guard. He could not know how she had burned to his touch, how she had come to long for his kisses, for she had never told him. Now she never would.
“Let them go.”
The warriors lowered their muskets and stepped aside. Elise and the captives of the Natchez walked in single file out of the fort of the Natchez and into the yellow blaze of the setting sun. Elise, her eyes filled with tears, saw its brightness, but not its glory.
17
THE FRENCH WOMEN and children were welcomed by the army with shouts and embraces and even a few tears. Many of the volunteers were brothers, uncles, cousins or more distant relations. Tales of the massacre had to be told, the terrible stories of how and where men had died and also th
e few women who had fallen with them. The days of the imprisonment were recounted with the hands of the women often going to their shorn hair, the most visible symbol of their captivity and enslavement to those they called savages. Children were petted and hugged, given treats of hard candy or allowed to play with pipes and uncharged muskets.
The reunion of St. Amant and Helene, the hesitant way they approached each other and then the crushing force as they met and clung together, brought the salty moisture to Elise’s eyes before she turned away. It was at that moment that she saw the king’s lieutenant, Loubois, coming to greet her.
He had heard of how she had led the women to safety. She was a heroine and he would not fail to spread her fame in New Orleans. He honored her for her bravery and revered her for the way she had held up under the adverse conditions in which she had been forced to live. She need not fear that those who had oppressed her would go unpunished.
“What do you mean?” she asked, frowning. “The terms of the agreement call for the French to leave the Natchez in peace on the release of the women and children.”
“A bagatelle, this agreement,” he said with an airy wave of his hand. “How can we be held to terms extracted by threats? We would have promised anything in order to prevent these savages from burning their French captives.”
“You gave your word. It is a question of honor.”
“What do the Natchez, who fell on the people of Fort Rosalie and slaughtered them like swine, know of honor? Besides, it is the explicit order of Governor Perier that these savages know the full weight of the anger of Louis of France. They must be punished so severely that they will never commit such an atrocity again.”
“But you can’t do that! It isn’t right!” Elise was oblivious of the heads turning in her direction.
The expedition commander reached out to touch her shoulder. “You are overwrought and no wonder. Don’t trouble your head over matters beyond your understanding, Madame Laffont. Leave it to the military men whose business it is to pursue these matters.”
The man bowed and walked away. Elise, staring after him, knew that the council of elders had been right to be so distrustful. She would not have believed it if she had not heard it herself, but the French had no intention of honoring the terms of the truce. There could be no doubt that they would attack again; the only question was when. It was some consolation that Reynaud could be depended upon to be ready.
Still, the French and their Indian allies had withdrawn as far as the river, where their supply ship was anchored. A series of lean-to shelters had been thrown up in orderly rows on the bluff near where Fort Rosalie had stood and on the surrounding hillsides. Built of saplings and cane thatching, they gave some protection from the weather. A number of them were assigned to the women and children, and blankets and clothing, soap and cooking utensils were issued. The shelters they had been given, however, built with the labor of the Choctaws, were near the camp of the Indians. Armed warriors patrolled the area, standing guard. As the day advanced, it became obvious that they considered the Frenchwomen in some sense their hostages. They brought game and corn to them, but when the women tried to leave the area to fetch water and firewood, they were either prevented from leaving or else had to suffer an escort on their errands.
The virtual imprisonment came as no surprise to Elise. After Reynaud’s warnings, she had expected no less. Still, she saw with some surprise that the women accepted the restriction of their movements with good grace. At least the Choctaws could be considered friendly, they thought, and they had every faith that the king’s lieutenant would secure their release, seeing to it that they were soon on their way to New Orleans.
For herself, Elise trusted the Choctaws so little that she resented every indication of confinement. The Choctaws were neither as tall nor as clean as the Natchez. Their clothing consisted of a queer combination of discarded or traded French finery and animal skins. Their camp was scattered with broken tools and pottery, French as well as Indian, and with the bones of past meals. The warrior who dogged her footsteps as she moved here and there had a pockmarked face and skin that was a dingy gray color due to the habit, one he had in common with the rest of his tribe, of standing in the smoke of the campfire to warm himself. She treated him with scant courtesy, exploding into sharp words in the Chickasaw lingua franca every time he tried to bar her way. It did not help to realize that a major part of her irritation was caused by worry: worry about the status of the women; worry about the Natchez still in the fort and the imminent French renewal of the attack upon them; worry about the look she had seen in Reynaud’s eyes as she had left the Indian fort that the French were calling Fort de Valeur, Fort of Valor.
She stayed close to the other women, translating so that they could express their needs, trying to settle the inevitable disputes that arose over who would share the shelters, finding places for the more than three dozen children who appeared to be orphans. Several hours had passed before she realized that she had not seen Madame Doucet placed in a shelter. She began to look for her and, when she could not find her, searched out the young girl she remembered who had been helping the older woman.
“Oh, Elise,” the girl cried, “I am so sorry, but what could I do? It was at the gate when the Indians were about to fire on us. Madame jerked away from us and turned and ran back into the fort. We were afraid to cry out; we tried to call to you, but you did not hear, and then we were too frightened to call again for fear of causing the warriors to shoot us all. We did not dare run after her, for we might have been caught and prevented from leaving. Don’t blame us, please! We could not help it, truly we could not!”
“No, of course not,” Elise said, her tone dull. It was she who should have heard, who should have gone after Madame Doucet. She might have if she had not been so concerned with her own problems. But, no, she had been in such fear of what her half-breed lover would think of her that she had abandoned a helpless woman, one who had depended on her. The guilt of it twisted inside her like a sickness. What more she could have done, she did not know, but she could have at least tried.
What would become of Madame Doucet now? Would the French, when they learned she was still in the possession of the Natchez, demand that she be released? If the Natchez refused, would the army attempt to rescue her at the risk of more lives or would they leave her for her fate, preferring to secure those so nearly in their hands?
She was able to gain few satisfactory answers. The Choctaw warrior who guarded her would not permit her to go to the French, and when she sent a message, it was a young sergeant who came to her to discover what she wanted. He was all concern and went away at once to tell those in command of the loss of Madame Doucet. The hours passed without word, however, and there had still been none when darkness fell.
Elise shared a shelter with Helene and her baby and four of the orphans. The two women prepared an evening meal of roast duck and sagamite. Before the last bite was eaten, the children were asleep and Helene was yawning. It was natural after the excitement of the day and in the first sense of safety they had been able to feel in months. As soon as the food bowls were cleaned and the food covered, they lay down without bothering to undress and rolled up in their blankets.
Elise could not sleep. She lay staring into the dying flames of the fire. Outside, the camp grew quiet except for an occasional burst of laughter from the direction of the French bivouac. Again and again, she wrenched her mind from the memory of her last sight of Reynaud. It hurt so much to remember that she concentrated instead on the pain of having left Madame Doucet behind.
The bond she had felt with the older woman was hard to explain. Madame Doucet had been a foolish woman, frivolous, vain, with few inner resources. Still, there had been no malice in her. She might have been petty, but was never mean. More, Marie Doucet had loved sincerely and with all her heart. Her home and family had meant everything to her and without them she had lost her reason to live. Perhaps it was the last that endeared her to Elise? She, too, had lo
st everything and though something tough and stubborn inside her would not let her give up, she had known the fear of being alone, at the mercy of the world. Or maybe it was even simpler than that, maybe it was just that they had been through so much together.
She was haunted by a vision of the older woman, left alone with the Natchez, unable to work, half mad with grief. Who would take care of her? Would she die of starvation shut away in her hut? Would the Natchez turn her out into the woods to fend for herself? Or would they, in that same cruel kindness that they were known sometimes to practice toward injured humans, in the same way the French used it toward injured animals, kill Madame Doucet to put her out of her misery?
It did not bear thinking of. It seemed that nothing did. The night wind whistled in around the loose mat of cane that leaned against the opening of their shelter as a door. The cane leaves that covered it rustled as if whispering to themselves. Elise pulled her blanket higher, covering her head. Closing her eyes tightly, she tried to sleep.
The sound of the wind woke her. From a distant soft whine, it became something immediate, brushing her face and stirring her hair where she had thrown back the blanket in her sleep. For an instant, she thought the flimsy door had blown down as she opened her eyes and saw a rectangle of deep gray in the darkness. Then her scalp prickled and goose flesh ran along her arms. There was someone in the shelter, a looming presence above her. She turned her head a fraction and saw the shadow of a man between her and the door.
She rolled, flinging herself away. In that same instant he moved. Hard hands caught her, one clamping over her mouth, the other gripping her shoulder. She struck out at him, reaching to claw at his wrist near her face. She heard a soft imprecation, then his weight descended upon her, stilling her movement. The planes and ridges of the body were familiar as was the faint male scent. She drew in her breath and was aware abruptly of the wild and shuddering beat of her heart.
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