Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (107 page)

The walk back to the flatboat, which had seemed so long only the day before when she went for needle and thread, took no time at all. There was a glow of light in the window of the gently rocking craft and Gaston to greet her as she crossed the gangplank.

The two of them talked for long hours, then packed a couple of bundles and put them beside the door. The rest of the night for Cyrene was spent lying in her hammock, lulled by the slow swing of the boat on its mooring ropes, resting but not sleeping.

Daylight found Gaston and Cyrene in their pirogue, slicing through the fog that lay on the back bayous as they made their way around the rear of New Orleans. They were not heading north into the wilderness but only into Lake Pontchartrain. Pierre and Jean had gone no farther than Little Foot’s village, which lay to the north of the lake. The reason for that was the Indian troubles, Gaston said, though he had given her a cheerful grin as he told the lie. She was the cause, Cyrene knew, and was comforted.

19

IT WAS GOOD to be doing something strenuous again. As the stiffness eased from her muscles so that they became pliant, moving freely to her command, the stiffness also left her mind.

She had a few regrets. She did not like the idea of allowing Madame Vaudreuil and Touchet to think that she had been frightened away. It was a small matter of pride, something that had always been a problem for her.

She wished that she had been able to say good-bye to Armand. She would not like him to think that she had forgotten him. He was a dear, and though his infatuation with her, if that was what his affection might best be called, would not last, she had no wish to cause him pain while it did.

And it had come to her in the night that she might have allowed René to speak more plainly about his supposed love for her. It would not have changed anything, but it might have made interesting hearing, a sop for her vanity that was undeniably injured by the way he had used her.

She thought of the way he had duped them all, pretending to be an outcast desperate to return to France and the good graces of his king. How easily they had all believed, perhaps because most of them felt the same.

How much else of what he had said was untrue? How much of the public image he had made for himself was a façade, a convenient screen for his real object?

A spy. Not against some enemy of his people but against his own kind, his own class; people who had taken him into their home, their lives. It could not be denied that the Vaudreuil regime was corrupt, but not, perhaps, more than any other. The governor was an impartial judge, a more than competent statesman with a special interest in the regulation of colonial governments since he had watched his own father govern New France. What did the rest amount to? Gossip and the machinations of a money-hungry wife?

But suppose there was truth in the rumors? Suppose René’s pose was not as successful as it seemed. There was little that occurred at Versailles that was not noticed, discussed in whispers, carried on the wind to Paris and beyond. Was it possible that the attempts on René’s life had something to do with his mission?

Cyrene’s paddle missed a beat. If that was true, then he was still in danger.

Or was he? The ship for France,
Le Parham,
was sailing this morning with the dispatches in answer to the charges against the Vaudreuils on board. René must have completed what he had come here to do. There would be no point in injuring him now.

Except revenge.

But why would he remain in Louisiane for that possibility to catch up with him? Why had René not taken passage on the ship returning to France? It made no sense that he would stay. Regardless of the contents of the dispatches, the governor would not thank him for abusing his hospitality and his friendship in the way that he had, and he would certainly have René shown to the door when it was discovered. If it had not already been discovered.

Unless René did not realize his danger.

He was not stupid. None could know better than he what he risked.

It followed, then, that he remained because it was what he desired. And there were two possible reasons for that. Either he had not yet completed his inquiries into the activities of the governor and his wife or else he had some other purpose for staying. Some purpose that involved counterfeit notes.

Louisiane was corrupt, but so was Versailles. A man who would be a spy could not be entirely untouched by what was so prevalent. Could he?

The sun came up and there was warmth in its rays. It struck through the fog, turning it luminous, giving it an iridescent shimmer before it burned it away. They came at last to the lake, a vast open expanse like an inland sea. The water sparkled and danced, the surface breaking into a silent explosion of diamond gleams. The air was fresh and clean, moist and life-giving in the lungs. The cries of birds echoed from the tree-lined shore. It was going to be a fine day.

Free. She was free. The pleasure of it flowed like wine in Cyrene’s veins, rising to her head to make her feel giddy with jubilation. Still, underneath were the dregs of a niggling despondency. That it was there was a great embarrassment to her. She would have thought she had more force of mind than to be morose over leaving a man of so little integrity. How could she miss him already? How could she mourn that she would never feel his touch or see his slow smile or sleep beside him again? She should not think of such things, should not want them, should not need them. But she did. Oh, she did.

They left the pirogue on the opposite side of the lake and followed the Indian trail to where the village of Little Foot lay. They saw nothing, heard nothing, but, in the way of the Indians, their presence was known. By the time they reached the village, Pierre and Jean were waiting for them.

It was a joyous reunion, with a great deal of hugging and backslapping and exclamations. Little Foot came forward and invited them all into her hut for food and drink, something that was welcome, indeed. They sat on the sleeping benches of the hut, talking, laughing, catching up on what had passed since they had last seen each other, while a small fire in the center sent smoke in a lazy, swirling column toward a hole in the ceiling.

Little Foot’s daughter, Quick Squirrel, was not in evidence. Cyrene asked after her and learned that the girl had left her mother’s hut for one of her own. The circumstances were not too clear, for at the same time Gaston and Jean began a loud altercation over gambling debts the younger man had managed to incur while on his own. The Indian woman fell silent as Gaston appealed to Cyrene for support of his claim that it had been necessary in order to gain entry into the right circle, which would allow him to keep an eye on her. His father made rude and hilarious comments about such logic. There was no heat in their argument, however. Gaston had watched over Cyrene and returned her to the older men, and they were satisfied with him.

It was later, over wooden cups of mulberry wine and a sweet cake made of nuts and honey, that they spoke of René. Cyrene told the Bretons exactly what had taken place; she was not in the habit of keeping things from them and saw no need for secrecy there in their circle. That she felt an obligation to protect René outside of it was due to a loyalty to her king and country not unlike his, nothing more. For the man himself she expressed only contempt.

“Come,
chère,
don’t be hasty,” Pierre said. ‘Things are not always what they seem.”

“You would defend him after what he has done?” she asked in astonishment.

“I would not condemn him unheard. Not that I am his judge. It is not our place to judge others; we are none of us so free from stain. Besides, it isn’t what people do that’s important, rather it’s the reason they do it.”

“Yes, like greed!”

“And loyalty.”

“Are you saying that because René has one admirable trait he must have good reason for the other things he has done?”

Pierre shook his head. “I’m saying give it time. Regret is a sad companion.”

But there was no time left. One of the lookouts posted on the trail leading from the lake to the village came running with an alarm. Two Frenchmen were approaching and with them were a squad of soldiers.

They could have taken to the woods. Cyrene urged it, pleaded for it with the conviction that if she had not been with them, the Bretons would have been gone in an instant. It was their concern that held them, and that made her position intolerable, for she was also their greatest danger. That the men and their military escort had some connection with her presence she did not doubt. Their arrival on her and Gaston’s heels was too apt. Moreover, she had felt somewhere inside, though she would not admit it, that her triumph over René had been too easy, that there was a price to be paid for her defiance.

Cyrene and the Bretons did not cower inside. They stood waiting before the door of Little Foot’s hut, which was beside that of her father’s Drowned Oak, chief of the village. The old warrior emerged also to stand with his trader’s wool blanket in a deep burgundy red around him and his back straight. One by one, the other Indians ceased what they were doing and came forward, drawn by the sense that something momentous was about to happen. They stood with silent patience as the sun sank in blue and gold splendor tinged with melancholy behind the trees and the smoke-tainted evening air grew cooler.

The column of soldiers appeared among the trees. They marched with precision into the clearing of the village, their faded uniforms miraculously neat, their brass buttons gleaming and muskets ready. With the two men at the head of the column in plumed hats and velvet coats with gold braid, and with their swords at their sides, the detail was the very embodiment of the pomp and grandeur of France.

The column approached Drowned Oak in rigid and exemplary compliance with the rules of protocol. Neither René nor Touchet, who marched in the lead, indicated by so much as a glance that they were aware of the presence of anyone else. When the proper greetings had been exchanged, René took from under his arm a scroll hung with ribbons and seals and unrolled it, reading it to the old chief in a hard, clear voice.

Couched in the high-flown language of officialdom, it was an arrest order. The men known as Pierre, Jean, and Gaston Breton, along with the woman Cyrene Marie Estelle Nolté, were fugitives, accused of crimes against the king. They were to be placed in confinement and delivered to New Orleans, there to stand trial. The goods in their possession were to be confiscated as evidence against them. Any attempt to escape would be viewed as an admission of guilt and dealt with accordingly.

Cyrene was placed in wrist irons and guards were stationed on either side of her. The Bretons were subjected to full irons from neck to ankle and were also chained together. René took no part in the proceedings but remained some distance away, consulting with the young officer in charge of searching out the trade goods. Cyrene thought that he deliberately held himself aloof, distancing himself from them, though whether from tact or disdain she could not tell.

It was Touchet who saw them placed in bonds. There was gloating satisfaction in the man’s narrow face as he checked the cuffs and tugged at the links, and the tone of his voice as he ordered them into the hut commandeered as their prison for the night, before the trip back to town in the morning, was an invitation to escape so that he could have the pleasure of shooting them down.

It was a pleasure they did not give him. Cyrene, watching the docility of the Bretons, the consciousness of defeat etched into their faces, knew with sick certainty that she had brought them to this. If she had never pulled René from the river, if she had never conceived of the crazy idea of using him to gain her independence, if she had never persuaded them to rob the king’s warehouse, then they would not be here. It did not matter that their way of life ran counter to the good of France or that they had been involved in it for years before she came to them, she knew herself to blame.

There must be something she could do to help them, some trick, some piece of information. The only trouble was that she could not think of what it might be. The order for their arrest was in the name of the king, not the governor. That the official edict had been in René’s hands, that the soldiers seemed to be taking their orders from him made it appear that he had revealed himself as an agent of the crown. If he no longer feared that exposure, what defense was there against him?