Even without the plague of insect and reptile life, the task of paddling the pirogue was not an easy one. The constant bending, dipping, and pulling put a strain on the back and arm muscles that could quickly become a burning torture. The ease with which René Lemonnier fell into the way of it came close to being an annoyance to Cyrene. He not only found the particular rhythm that was the only remedy against the strain, but he soon learned the words to all the chants and songs that the Bretons used to hold the pace and temper the monotony. To make matters worse, his voice, a rich baritone, rang without a sign of breathlessness and with no concession whatever to the stiffness and pain she was sure he must feel in his injured back and side.
He was only putting a good face on it, she told herself at first; he would soon begin to flag. When he did not, she became convinced that it was because of her own efforts, the third paddle that lessened the work that must be done by the other two to remain ahead of the other boat. The only other possibility was that his wounds had not been as serious by far as they had appeared and he had pretended, though it made no sense for it to be so.
If such a thought occurred to Jean and Pierre, they gave no sign of it. They only watched René for the first few leagues to be certain he would not overturn the pirogue, then left him alone.
For René, the paddling was a chance to work some of the deeper soreness out of his back. The movements, once he had settled into them, were soothing in their repetition. They gave him the freedom to let his mind roam, to work on some deeper level on the problems that might lie ahead.
That was, of course, when his attention wasn’t drawn to the woman in front of him. The smooth grace of her movements was engrossing, as was the way her skirts hugged her waist and lay across the outstretched leg she used to brace herself. The line of her back held such symmetry, and in her slender arms was such strength, that it was fascinating to watch the glide of her movements. She wore a scarf tied over her head against the chill, but the thick, shining rope of her braid hung down from under it, glinting in the light, curling with childlike softness at the end.
She had been his. It was odd how much pleasure the memory gave him. He had thought himself beyond such sentimentality concerning a woman. None of the scores of others he had flirted with and bedded had ever remained in his thoughts the way this one did. It was the novelty of it, he assured himself. No other female had ever made it so plain that she had no use for him beyond his services for a night. He was miffed, if the truth was known, but also intrigued.
Still, it wasn’t her rejection he remembered. It was the feel of her against him, the sweet firmness of her lips as she responded to him, quickly learning the nuances of a kiss, the sweet clasp of her arms about him, the heated velvet depths of her.
The reason might be because she had been a virgin. It had been no surprise; she had set it before him plainly enough, but that was another thing that was new to him. The women to whom he had chosen to direct his attentions in the past had been lascivious widows, bored wives of perennially straying husbands, trollops in the guise of noble ladies, or else opera dancers who expected to have their bills paid by their patrons. It was not his practice to seduce innocents, not only because it would have added little to the building of his reputation but because it went against his nature. He might have to play the game, but he preferred to keep it fair.
That had not been possible with Cyrene. He regretted it, but could not help it. Nor was he certain that his regret was more than surface deep. By all the saints, he liked knowing that he alone had made love to her. It made her special to him, linked her to him in some nebulous way he did not understand. How long it would last, he had no way of knowing, but for now it gave him a perilous pleasure. She was his excuse, but she might also prove a danger, indeed. Perhaps even his greatest one.
To ease his back, he switched sides of the pirogue with his paddle. The blade slung droplets of water in an arch as he swung around. The water splattered the back of Cyrene’s neck. She gasped at the cold wetness and slewed around in her seat to glare at him.
“Sorry,” he murmured, though he could not prevent the grin that curved his mouth.
“I’ll bet you are,” she snapped, then turned forward once more. She absolved him of splashing her purposefully, but he need not have looked so impenitent about it or so pleased with himself.
They stopped for the noon meal on a grassy chêniere, a flattened ridge made of sand and ancient sea shells and dotted with the oak trees that gave it its name, one of many scattered throughout the marshland. Their morning’s exercise had made their appetites sharp; there was high praise for the sagamite cakes Cyrene passed out, the mixture of corn-meal, fat, chopped pork, and beans that was shaped into flat cakes and baked in a skillet. They washed them down with water, but for stimulation during the afternoon ahead, they built a small fire of fallen oak limbs and boiled a pot of coffee.
They lounged here and there, most of them sitting with their backs against an oak tree or a log as relief from the long hours in the pirogue without back support. Cyrene had brought a blanket from the pirogue, and she lay back on it with her knees flexed and her hands behind her head, staring up at the pale winter sky.
She felt odd, unsettled in her mind. The few days before their departure had been disturbing. René had left them the morning after what she thought of as the night of the storm. She had not known what to expect of the Bretons. She had thought there might be further recriminations or perhaps a few jokes, a little crude banter. Instead, there had been nothing. It was almost as if they were content with the arrangement. It left her to wonder if they weren’t just a little relieved to be free of the care of her. It was not a comfortable idea.
And yet it wasn’t normal, their silence. They were gregarious men, given to talk and laughter and endless teasing. Thinking back, she realized they had been too quiet for some time, since the night René had come. She could recall nothing he had said or done to account for it, and yet it was so. Was there something about the man that held them subdued?
She turned her head, allowing her gaze to rest on René. He had remained at his own lodgings for the short time before they left, though he had visited once or twice in the evening to discuss some detail about the procuring of his share of the indigo or outfitting himself for the expedition. He had made no move toward intimacy with her, though he had been pleasant enough, according her a bow and a smile. Once or twice she had caught him watching her, but no more. It was just as well; she had been ready with a blistering rejection if he had made any such attempt. She might yet have an opportunity to use it.
She had to admit that he looked different. A large part of it was his clothes; she had become used to seeing him either nearly naked or in the elegant attire of a gentleman. He was dressed now with commendable plainness in a coat of gray cloth with horn buttons and a pair of black wool breeches worn with plain stockings and shoes. His tricorne was well made but without ornamentation. Only his linen was fine, though it carried not a vestige of lace. Beside him rested a flintlock musket of the latest manufacture.
But the difference was more than the clothes or even the weapon. He seemed bigger beside the Breton men, with more latent strength held inside him. His face had lost its drawn look, filling out under the cheekbones, and his skin had regained its healthy color. His eyes held the penetration of intelligence, and the firmness around his mouth hinted at unsuspected reserves of strength. His hair, though short, had been drawn back in a small, neat queue tied with a black ribbon, as innocent of wig or powder as that of the Bretons themselves. He looked, in fact, like a determined gentleman planter out to survey his concession, one who would not hesitate to turn his hand to a task if it came along. And he did not look patient.
René felt Cyrene’s gaze upon him and turned his head to meet it. He would give much to know what was passing through her mind behind the brooding darkness of her eyes. He would, indeed.
They were lounging about, sipping their coffee and talking among themselves
when Pierre suddenly raised his head and made a swift gesture for silence.
The older Breton slowly stood and walked from under the shelter of the cluster of oaks where they rested. He turned first this way and then that way, scanning with narrowed eyes the snaking waterway over which they had just come and the stretch of marsh that lay around them. He sniffed the wind.
The others stood also, looking this way and that, shifting to stare in every direction. It may have been no more than the communication of Pierre’s alertness, but it seemed to Cyrene that there was a strained feeling in the air and it was unnaturally quiet. From the trees back the way they had just come, there was the sudden rise of a flock of blackbirds, twittering in alarm. Something was not right.
Jean downed the last of his coffee in a quick swallow and turned the empty wooden cup upside down to empty the grounds. He went to stand at his brother’s side. “We go, yes?”
“Yes,” Pierre said with decision. “We go.”
It was the work of no more than a moment to gather up the water keg and cups, the coffee kettle, and the leather pouch that held the sagamite cakes. They piled them in the pirogues and shoved off.
Before they could pick up their paddles, another boat came sweeping from among the trees. It looked huge; it was a dugout filled with an army of Indian warriors. It was no friendly party. Their faces were painted and they held their muskets ready and their bows with arrows notched. A shout rose at the sight of the pirogues. Musket fire boomed out, thundering over the water.
The shot rattled around them, making geysers in the water. One ball thudded into the side of the pirogue, and Cyrene heard another whistle between René and herself. The dugout, manned by some nine or ten renegade Choctaw, was obscured for an instant by a roiling cloud of gray powder smoke; then, like fiends breaking from hell, the Indians tore through it and bore down upon them.
“Paddle, for the love of the Holy Mother! Dig deep!”
They bent to the task, sending the smaller, more lightweight pirogues surging over the water. It was possible they could outdistance their attackers, or at least put enough space between them so that the Indians might give up the chase as not worth the effort.
The Indians showed no sign of flagging. Their faces contorted with blood lust made fiercer by their paint, they bent their labors to the chase. Among them those with muskets could be seen reloading.
The pirogue Cyrene was in skimmed over the water, leaping forward with each concerted stroke of the paddles. There was no wasted movement, no wasted energy, just gut-wrenching effort. They were able to keep their distance but could not draw away. There was a small shift in the feel of the boat. She looked back and saw that René had put down his paddle and picked up his musket. He aimed, fired.
The concussion flung the pirogue forward, wildly rocking. Through the smoke, Cyrene saw a warrior throw up his arms and crash back among his fellows as if struck by a giant hand. She did not hesitate but leaned forward to snatch Pierre’s musket and hand it back to René. Pierre grunted approval, taking all of the paddling upon himself, his shirt tightening over his brawny shoulders as he bent into it.
René took the musket from her and instantly passed her his own, at the same time stripping off his powder horn and bullet pouch and pitching them to her. She put down her paddle and began at once to reload for him. She heard him fire again, but there was no time to look. Her movements swift and sure, she primed the pan, poured powder, and rammed in patch and ball. They exchanged muskets. She began to reload once more. René fired again.
Cyrene spared a glance as they exchanged muskets yet again. The Indians were gaining. There was one less renegade than there had been before, however, and another had a red streak of blood down his arm.
Reload. Fire. Reload. An arrow hit the side of the pirogue with a solid thunk. Cyrene could hear Gaston cursing and knew he had been hit. The sharp cries of the Indians were louder, closer. She looked up to hand the loaded musket to René. The dugout was so near her breath caught in her throat. She was staring into the eyes of a warrior with his teeth bared and his bow drawn with an arrow pointing straight at her. There was no time to aim. She pointed the musket at him, pulled the hammer back to full cock, and squeezed the trigger.
The warrior’s eyes widened. His arrow was released as he began to topple backward. It flew high, arching, falling, falling. Cyrene watched helplessly as it curved over her head, wobbling in its descent, striking toward Pierre, slicing into his back. He let out his breath with a soft oath, but the rhythm of his paddling did not falter.
Fear and sickness made a hard knot in her stomach, but there was no time to acknowledge it, much less give in to it. Blindly, she turned from Pierre and began to reload the weapon in her hands. She reached to hand it to René. For an instant their eyes met, and in his she saw a hard flash of something that might have been admiration but could equally have been derision for her lack of sensibility.
The renegade Choctaw were closing in. They meant to strike between the two pirogues, engaging both, which was odd; their surest chance of booty was to concentrate on one. It might be a tactical error, but it could also mean they intended that no one should escape.
They reckoned without the Bretons’ skill as boatmen. As the dugout drew even, Pierre in one pirogue and Gaston in the other dropped their paddles and grappled with the attackers, but Jean rose up with an axe and began to smash the prow of the Indian dugout near the waterline. The fighting took on a frenzied edge. A warrior slashed at René with a knife. René smashed his musket butt into the painted face, knocking the Indian over the side, then turned to face another one with a hand axe. That man was not after him. He was making toward Cyrene with the fanatical gleam of vengeance in his eyes.
Cyrene fended him off with the musket she had been reloading, stabbing at him with the ramrod that protruded from the end. He dodged aside. She drew back. The warrior rose up, preparing to leap across the few inches that divided the gliding span of boats. She scrambled to her knees, the better to face him.
“Fire, Cyrene, fire!” René yelled.
There was no other choice, though she knew it was wrong the moment she felt the musket explode with the shot. The ramrod flew like a spear, impaling the warrior, but the recoil from firing that heavy projectile threw her backward. The pirogue rolled. She flung the musket from her as she fought for balance. She could not gain it. She struck the water with a solid splash. It closed over her, taking her down. The sounds of the struggle, the yells and grunts and thuds, receded as the boats moved away with the current and their own impetus.
The shock of being catapulted into the ice-cold water held Cyrene immobile for drifting, slow-moving seconds, but then she felt the imperative need for air. She kicked out, shooting toward the surface. She broke free in time to see the three boats heading around a bend. They were apart, and the pirogues were in the lead once more.
Then beside her was a roiling splash in the water. She was caught by hard hands, dragged against a strong, lean body. Water dashed across her face. It caught in her nose, almost strangling her.
Her knife was in its sheath at her waist. She closed her hand around the hilt and dragged it free, then raised it to strike. The man lunged aside at the last moment. Her wrist was caught, twisted; the knife left her grasp. She lashed out with her fist and felt it land on solid flesh and bone, a square hit. They both went under. Pulled down, her legs entangled with those of the man who held her, and hampered by her skirts, she could not find the air she needed. When she came up again, she was coughing, blinded by the water.
“It’s all right. I have you.” The voice was rough with concern and all too familiar. René. He must have been thrown from the pirogue with her.
“Let me go, damn you!” She pushed at him, kicking.
“I’m trying to help you. Be still before we both drown.”
“I don’t need your help,” she gasped in frustrated rage and mounting panic as she felt herself sinking once more. She thrust back from his hold, almos
t pushing him under in her frantic need to be free of him. “I can—”
She never finished the words. The blow came out of nowhere. She felt the pain of it on the point of her chin, then there was nothing but floating gray darkness.
6
“YOU CAN SWIM. That’s what you wanted to say.”
Cyrene stared up at René as he hovered above her. His gray eyes were bleak yet narrowed with concern, and a lock of his hair, shining black with wet, dangled across his forehead. His words, ringing in her ears, had the sound of an accusation. Cyrene’s jaw ached and her very bones felt limp. She was lying on the ground under the cover of a thicket of evergreen myrtle shrubs well back from the bayou. Her clothes were sodden and water oozed from her hair. She was cold but not freezing as she might have been. The reason was the close hold of René’s arms around her and the weight of his wet coat that lay over them both.
She tried, abruptly, to sit up, but fell back with a gasp as sickness rushed in upon her. She closed her eyes tight. “You bastard,” she said through gritted teeth. “You hit me.”
“You were trying to kill me, and damned near succeeded.”
“Why not? You were drowning me.”
“I was trying to save you.” His voice was grim.
“Thank you very much. I was perfectly capable of doing it myself.”
“I realize that, now. Only a woman in a thousand knows how to swim, and you have to be that one.”
She would have liked to berate him further, but she didn’t feel like it. Besides, it would be best to keep their voices down until they knew where the Choctaw renegades were. After a moment, she said more quietly, “I really thought you were one of the Indians.”
Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 Page 52
