Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (38 page)

“Are you cold?” she asked, her tone dulcet.

“Not at all,” he said in perfect truth, “not now.”

He mulled over her words, watching her face as she bent over him. That he had not pressed her was partly out of a disinclination to disturb the tenuous sense of communication that existed between them and partly because he did not care to have his brother or his family as witnesses to the quarrel between himself and this woman. They would settle their differences sometime, somewhere; he would see to that. But for now, it was too soon. She needed time — and so did he. Though his need of her was unappeased, a curled knot of hunger inside of him, he was not altogether sure that he would be able to do much about it, even if an opportunity presented itself. The infection and fever had left him far below his usual strength. No, it was better to enjoy her nearness, her touch, her warmth and occasional concern without pressing for more. Yet.

He moved his shoulders a little, feeling the curves of her thighs under him, their softness that was also firm. If he closed his eyes, he could remember how they had felt that night beneath his own, between them, over them. He caught his breath.

“Does it hurt, lying on your back?” she asked, frowning a little as she hovered above him with the tweezers in her hand.

His eyes flew open. For a moment, he could not speak, then in strained tones he said, “No, it — it’s just that the bandages seem to be pulling a little, sticking to the stripes.”

“Would you like me to loosen them? I would be very gentle.”

He would have liked to say that she could do anything she pleased, gentle or not. That would, however, be far from wise. Stifling a sigh of regret, he said, “No, it’s all right.”

Slowly Reynaud grew stronger. The gray days of winter with their bone-chilling dampness and frequent icy rains slipped past. One morning Reynaud left the hut in the dawn gloom to go to the river to bathe. When the watery sun broke through the clouds a day or two later, he called a meeting of the council. Before another week had passed, he was leaving the house every day, supervising the cutting of logs for the construction of a pair of defensive palisades to be built a short distance below the Grand Village, one on either side of St. Catherine Creek. The land was higher there where the bluffs rose above the winding waterway. Defense would be easier since the enemy would have to approach uphill and could attack only on three sides. It would also not be necessary to take in so great an area as would have been necessary if they had elected to build the stockade completely around the great mounds.

The weather cleared, the days grew warmer, the sun became brighter. Elise went inside one morning, stepping into the dim house. It should have been empty, for the other women were out and about, visiting, working. She saw the form of a man slumped over on the sleeping bench where she always lay with Reynaud and went quickly forward without giving her eyes a chance to adjust to the light. She put her hand on his shoulder, bending over him.

“Reynaud, are you all right?”

He turned and she saw that it was the Great Sun. He caught her hand, tugging on it so that she fell across him. “Elise,” he said, his words thick and his breath smelling of brandy, “you came to me.”

“No, you mistake—” she said, pushing at him, trying to regain her feet.

“I’ve thought of this often,” he went on, refusing to release her. “I see no reason why you should not prefer me to my brother. I want you, Elise. I want you to stay here with me, as my wife.”

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 other 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.