Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  The governor rubbed his chin with a rasping sound and the look in his eyes was harassed. “I don’t know.”

  “It isn’t as if he were a true Natchez. He is the legitimate son of the late Comte de Combourg, you know — though he renounced the title in favor of his half-brother — so he must be allowed to have some feeling for his father’s people.”

  “Can this be true?”

  “The marriage of his father and the Natchez woman Tattooed Arm is recorded at the church; I saw it myself. It would be wrong to embarrass the young man calling himself the count, his half-brother, of course, and I would not attempt to do so; still, it cannot be denied.”

  “I see.”

  “It is my understanding that the ties between him and the family in France, both of affection and gratitude, are enduring if not close. The possibility exists, therefore, that the present count could take an interest in the welfare of his half-brother. Should it happen that Reynaud Chavalier had died in the meantime in St. Domingo, it could, perhaps, give rise to embarrassing inquiries at court. This is especially true if the colony should revert, as is rumored, to the crown. It might be better, don’t you think, if this man were still in Louisiana should that happen?”

  Perier stared at her and his gaze was no longer as pleasant. “You are a most persuasive woman, Madame Laffont.”

  “Why, thank you, Governor Perier,” she said and smiled, knowing she had won.

  The governor’s aide went with her to the long brick-and-plaster building that housed the prisoner. He carried with him an order signed by Perier with a slashing scrawl. This he presented to the captain of the guard. The captain read it, raised his eyebrows, then shouted out a name. A turnkey came to see what was wanted, then, with a pair of guards in tow, stomped away to bring the prisoner. Elise stared at the wall opposite her, ignoring the curious stares of the men and their idle conversation, willing herself to remain in control of her features and her voice.

  There came the measured clank of chains. A guard appeared, his musket held at the ready. Behind him, Reynaud ducked into the room through the low doorway. He came to a halt at the sight of Elise and the guard behind him blundered into him, then cursed and gave him a shove that made him stumble forward.

  Elise had to bite her lip to prevent herself from crying out to the guard not to touch him. At her side, the aide nodded at the captain. The officer unrolled the governor’s order and, in a droning voice, read it to the end. Rolling it up, he handed it to Elise.

  She took it in her hand as if it were precious. Swallowing hard, she lifted her chin. “I assume everything is in order?”

  “Yes, Madam Laffont.”

  “I will take the prisoner.”

  “As you wish. The two men here will remain with you until you have the man under lock and key.”

  “Very well. I am ready.” She turned to Reynaud. Keeping all expression from her face with an extreme effort, she said, “You understand you are now my slave?”

  “I understand.”

  His voice was rough, with a husky note as if he had not used it in some time. The look in his gray eyes as they met her brown gaze was suspended, yet tinged with wry admiration.

  “You will follow me at three paces.” Elise swung around toward the captain and the governor’s aide. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  She swept from the prison without a backward glance, though she knew from the clanking of the chains and the tramping of feet that Reynaud and the guards were behind her. The hour was nearly noon, due to the time it had taken to write the necessary orders and affix the proper seals, and she saw with relief that there were few people on the streets. A cold wind was blowing from Lake Pontchartrain and she drew her mantle around her. She did not increase her pace, however, because Reynaud’s chains made it difficult for him to take a normal stride.

  She wondered what he thought, what he made of what had taken place. Would he be glad or sorry to be parted from the Great Sun and the others? Would he be ready to do as she had promised and forget the war with the French? Or would he make a liar of her and take himself off to join the remnants of the tribe? She did not know, but she would find out soon enough.

  At the house, St. Amant stood waiting in the salon with his back to the fireplace while Helene sat on a small settee. As Elise entered, the Frenchman started forward, his mouth opened as if he would ask what had occurred. Then, as she stepped aside, he saw Reynaud behind her. He moved past her with no more than a brief glance of congratulation and put out his hand to clasp Reynaud’s shoulder.

  “Welcome to my home,” St. Amant said quietly, then turned to the guards. “You may remove the chains.”

  The guards looked at each other, then the older of the two ducked his head in a bow. “As you please, m’sieu, but are you sure it’s wise?”

  “Quite sure.” When the men did not move, St. Amant added, “You may unlock these shackles or I will strike them from him the instant you are gone. It’s all one to me, but I thought you might prefer to take them with you.”

  “Yes, m’sieu,” the guard said. Moving forward with care, he unlocked the wrist and ankle bands and stepped back quickly with the chains in his hands.

  Elise watched Reynaud rub one wrist, which was rusty from the iron band and dark with the stains of old, dried blood. Her voice cold, she said to the guards, “You may go.”

  When they had taken themselves out the door with a final backward glance, Helene rose and paced forward. She stopped at St. Amant’s side. “I add my welcome to that of my husband,” she said to Reynaud. “Our home is at your disposal, as once you made me at home in yours. Now, which do you desire most, something strong to drink, hot food, or a hot bath?”

  Reynaud smiled, a slow curving of his well-molded lips. “All three, if it pleases you.”

  Helene nodded as St. Amant moved to pour a glass of rum and put it in Reynaud’s hand. “A bath shall be brought to you in Elise’s chamber and afterward something to eat. We beg that you rest and will not expect to see you until tomorrow, if then.”

  When the door of the bedchamber had closed behind the maid bringing the last pot of hot water, silence descended. The fire that crackled in the hearth seemed noisy, intrusive. Beyond the window, the sky had darkened still more and a light rain was falling. So cool had it grown that steam rose from the water that sat ready in the round, wooden tub.

  Elise realized that she still wore her mantle. Turning from Reynaud, she put back the hood and unfastened the clasp. She fumbled a little, nearly dropping the garment of heavy velvet as she drew it from her shoulders. It was not surprising that she was a trifle overwrought after her interview with the governor, she told herself, but knew all the while that that was not the cause. Moving to put the mantle away in the crude armoire built of native cypress that sat in one corner, she turned to face Reynaud with her hands clasped at her waist.

  He stood watching her as if he had never seen her before or else could not believe that she was really there. She met his gray eyes for a long moment, and when she looked away again, there was a trembling inside her, though whether from fear or anticipation or some more elemental emotion she could not tell.

  She made an abrupt gesture toward the tub. Her voice strained, she said, “It isn’t St. Catherine Creek, but it’s the best that we could do.”

  “It will be fine.”

  Without removing his gaze from her, he slipped off his cloak, striped away his leggings and moccasins, and discarded his breechclout. With a smooth movement, he stepped into the tub and knelt in the water. He took up the soap and clean cloth, both left with a length of toweling on a nearby chair, and with quick, economical movements began to soap himself from head to foot.

  St. Amant had made Elise free of his wardrobe for Reynaud’s outfitting. The garments she had chosen lay across the foot of the bed. She turned her back, moving to straighten a perfectly flat sleeve.

  Reynaud, scrubbing at the iron stains on his wrists, spoke. “How did you do it?”

  She se
nt him a small smile over her shoulder. “By sacrificing your good repute, I fear.”

  “As if I had any,” he said with grim amusement, “but go on.”

  She turned back to lean against the bed, explaining as best she could. Though she tried to put the story in some logical order, it sounded disjointed and pointless even to her own ears. He seemed to have no difficulty in following it, however.

  “Masterly,” he said, his voice quiet, dulcet, when she had done. “So I am your slave, helpless to prevent your revenge?”

  She had never seen a man look less helpless, she thought, sending him a resentful glance from under her lashes. The firelight caught his wet body with a glistening red-gold sheen, emphasizing its power and strength and also, she realized, its angular, masculine beauty.

  She shied away from his question, however, asking instead, “Will you be content to forget the war of the Natchez? Can you?”

  His expression turned somber. “There was a man who died not so long ago among the Natchez. He had been a guardian of the temple, responsible for keeping the fire kindled by the sun, the sacred fire that had been kept burning for generations beyond number. On his deathbed, he confessed that he had let the fire go out one day years ago. Greatly afraid, for it was an offense for which the punishment was death, he brought profane fire from his wife’s cook fire to rekindle the blaze. When the Natchez heard this story, they knew that this was the reason their lands had been taken from them, the reason they had been defeated by the French, the reason they were being punished. Because they had lost the sacred flame. It was for this reason that my brother, the Great Sun, surrendered to the French. The day of the Natchez is ended. And so why should I not be content? What else is there to fight for?”

  “You believe as your brother does?”

  “It makes no difference so long as I am not required to lead the tribe any longer.”

  He was too civilized to believe such legends, of course, and yet she could not be sure. There had always been depths to this man that she did not know, could not quite reach.

  “What of the others who are still at large?”

  “Some, feeling their lives forfeited, will try only to sell them dearly. Others will blend their blood with that of the Chickasaw, the Ouachita, perhaps even the Choctaw, and so will live.”

  “We heard that Path Bear escaped.”

  “Yes. He will be gathering men now to attack Fort Saint Jean Baptiste again, I expect; he talked of nothing else after our retreat from there. It will be a mistake to take on St. Denis for he fights not like a Frenchman, but like an Indian.”

  “We must warn St. Denis!”

  “I did that long ago.”

  “I never knew you had communicated with anyone at the fort,” she said slowly.

  “It seemed best that you not know.”

  He rinsed his hair, raking it back with his fingers, then rose in a sudden cataract of water and stepped out. Taking up the toweling, he began to dry himself with vigorous strokes.

  Watching him, Elise asked in dangerous tones, “Best for whom?”

  He paused, then, flinging the toweling aside, stalked toward her. “For you, because to hear from me could only keep open old wounds, because it was less difficult to stay away from you that way, as I knew I should. But now you have arranged it so that I am legally bound to you as your slave. Why?”

  “Is that what’s troubling you?” she demanded, resisting an impulse to step backward as he advanced. “Do you resent being bound as my servant?”

  He reached out to touch her face, a gentle brush of his warm fingers. “No, why should I? I have been your slave from the moment I faced you across the dining table of Commandant Chepart. You have held my love and my life in your hands since you first touched me under a winter sky. You are my wife and in you resides the sun that warms me, that heals me, that renews the spring of joy. I am yours.”

  “Reynaud,” she whispered, her throat aching.

  “But, again, why?”

  “You left me once; it seemed best to make certain you could not do it again.”

  “Only because—”

  She reached to place her hand on his mouth. “I know, but the parting was a small death. I love you, Reynaud, as I have loved you, unknowing, since I was given to you in marriage by the Great Sun.”

  “My meddlesome brother who thought he knew what was best for us.”

  “And did.”

  They were silent, thinking of the leader of the Natchez, St. Cosine, and the others who would be soon sailing for St. Domingo.

  Finally Elise said, “Your mother, perhaps we can find a way to take her from the king’s plantation after a time. She can come to us at the house on the Bayou Duc du Maine.”

  “You would accept her?”

  “Gladly, but do you think Madeleine—”

  “Yes, I think so. But by Natchez custom it is your house,” he reminded her, his voice deep.

  “Ours,” she corrected with a quick shake of her head. “But perhaps someday we may all be able to return to my — our land near St. Rosalie and the Grand Village to rebuild. We could divide our time between the two places.”

  “Ah, Elise, I love you beyond the telling. If I had not before, I would now.” His strong arms encircled her, drawing her closer against his naked, tattoo-marked chest and the heated length of his body. “And because it is so, and since we are together when it seemed we might never be so again, have you any orders for me, my mistress?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, holding his dark gray gaze, “love me, love me hard and long and always.”

  His gaze was warm with promise, his answer firm and resonant in his chest. “Elise, chérie, untsaya athlu. I live to obey.”

  Author’s Note

  TRACING AN INCIDENT that happened over two hundred and fifty years ago through various written accounts can be a fascinating experience; it can also be frustrating. The massacre of the French by the Natchez Indians at Fort Rosalie on November 28, 1729, and the subsequent events, has been mentioned by most major historians of the Louisiana scene. The problem is that few of them agree on the details. The number of colonists killed has been calculated at as high as five hundred and as low as two hundred and thirty-five. Estimates of the strength of the Natchez as a tribe vary from seven thousand to two thousand. One account states flatly that the Choctaws were the only other tribe contacted by the Natchez in the conspiracy, while another mentions massacres by Indian allies at other French forts during the months of the uprising. One historian speaks of only four Natchez warriors being burned at the stake by Perier in New Orleans, though several others include two women among those burned. One says that these unfortunates were captured by French soldiers; another claims it was done by Indian allies of the French, while yet another identifies the allies as the Tunicas. Of the Natchez captured and sold into slavery in St. Domingo, modern Haiti, one source says there were over four hundred, another only forty. Among the different authorities, the spelling of the name of commandant at Fort Rosalie is given as De Chopart, De Chopard, De Chepart, De Chepard, De Chepar, and D’Etcheparre. Some accounts are so obviously prejudiced in favor of the French that the tales of atrocities given must be discounted, especially when they are not mentioned elsewhere. Others are so pro-Indian/and-French that they, too, must be taken with a grain of salt.

  Another case in point is the attack by the Natchez on Fort Saint Jean Baptiste, the present site of Natchitoches, Louisiana. The time it occurred is set down variously as the winter of 1729, directly after the massacre at Fort Rosalie; the spring of 1730, after the defeat of the Natchez at their fort near the Grand Village; and in the fall of 1731 after the scattering of the remnants of the Natchez following the capture of the Great Sun. It seems possible that the fort may have faced Indian attack more than once, which would account for the apparent contradictions. The attack mounted in October 1731, which resulted in the defeat by St. Denis and his Natchitoches allies of the Natchez, and the death of the chief of the Flour Village who s
upposedly instigated the Fort Rosalie massacre, are best documented. However, the spring of 1730 was the time of the most daring raids by the Natchez against the French, with several parties of soldiers ambushed and killed. There is enough evidence of a war party sent against the fort at this time to give reason to place the characters of my story there for a few pivotal chapters of the book.

  I chose as my primary source of information for the writing of Fierce Eden the volume by M. Antoine Simon Le Page Du Pratz entitled The History of Louisiana. Du Pratz was a Dutchman who came to Louisiana in 1718. He lived for eight years at Fort Rosalie, working among the Natchez and eventually fighting them in the uprising of 1723. A year before the massacre of 1729, he left the Natchez country to take up a position as supervisor of the king’s plantations near New Orleans. His history, published originally in Paris in 1758 and later reprinted in English, contains the most detailed account of the life-style and customs of the Natchez, along with a wealth of material concerning the natural resources of early Louisiana. The events leading up to the massacre, and following it, are given with impartiality. This book is also the basis for much of the background information available at the museum of the Natchez Indians, the Grand Village of the Natchez, at Natchez, Mississippi.

  Other sources consulted include Alcee Fortier’s A History of Louisiana; Garnie W. McGinty’s A History of Louisiana; Francois X. Martin’s The History of Louisiana; Charlevoix’s Louisiana: Selections from the History and Journal, written by the Jesuit priest Pierre F. X. de Charlevoix; Louisiana, The Pelican State and Louisiana, A Narrative History, both by Edwin Adams Davis; Louisiana, A Pictorial History by Leonard V. Huber; The Natchez by Charles D. Van Tuyl, including a short English-Natchez dictionary; History of the Choctaw, Chickasaw & Natchez Indians by H. B. Cushman; The Grand Village of the Natchez Revisited, Archaeological Report No. 12, by Robert S. Neitzel; Lyle Saxon’s Fabulous New Orleans; Harnett Kane’s Queen New Orleans; Grace King’s New Orleans, The Place and the People; with brief excursions into many others.