Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (5 page)

“Shut her up,” the armed man rapped out, “else the Natchez will do it permanently.”

“She is too distraught.” Elise raised her voice no more than was necessary to make herself heard over the sobs.

“A slap in the face is what’s needed. Here, give her to me.”

Elise had seen both of the new arrivals about the fort and, in the way of all small communities, knew them by repute. The man with the makeshift crutch was Jean-Paul St. Amant, a man near thirty whose handsome appearance was considered to be enhanced by the desolate look in his dark eyes. He had come upriver to satisfy his curiosity about the country and remained to become a planter of sorts on family holdings. He was so obviously unsuited to the undertaking that no one understood why he stayed, particularly when preferment in New Orleans would have been made easy by his family connections. The other man was known as Pascal, a merchant friend of the commandant who supplied the fort by special, and mutually profitable, arrangement with Chepart, or so it was whispered. His thickset body and overbearing manner had so reminded Elise of her dead husband that she had always avoided him.

Now she took instant dislike to his rough words. Her grasp on Madame Doucet tightened and she turned her shoulder to the merchant. “She will calm herself in a few minutes.”

“We don’t have a few minutes.”

“I am as well aware as you, m’sieu, but see no need for cruelty.”

Pascal grabbed the older woman, jerking her free of Elise and swinging her around. He drew back his hand, but the blow never landed. Madame Doucet, her eyes wide and so pale blue they were colorless, stared beyond him with horror growing in her face, then crumpled forward in a faint at their feet.

“Your problem,” said a deep voice tinged with derision from just beyond where they stood, “seems to be solved.”

Henri drew in a single deep breath and was still. The merchant spat out an oath and raised his musket. Elise swung her head to see a tall man with copper skin and white breechclout and cape and instantly thrust up her arm, flinging the barrel of the merchant’s firearm skyward. The Frenchman cursed again, but the expected report did not come; it seemed he, too, had identified the man in front of them in time to keep from pulling the trigger.

He grunted as he lowered his musket. “You were nearly a dead man, Chavalier.”

“As you say.”

Elise watched the graceful inclination of the head that accompanied the acknowledgment with resentment as rankling as it was amazing. Even more astonishing was her action in preventing injury to the half-breed. It was self-preservation, she told herself, no more and no less. The noise of the shot might have brought the Natchez down on them, and in Reynaud Chavalier could well lie their salvation.

“What brings you here?” the merchant was demanding. “Is your scalping arm tied or could it be the handiwork of your blood brothers turns your stomach?”

“I was following the lady.”

Reynaud allowed his gaze to rest on the woman at their feet. If they wanted to think it was this one he meant, he would not enlighten them. In truth, it was the Widow Laffont for whom he had been searching since he had found her hat lying in the mud in front of her burning house. The sight of it there had struck sick pain into the center of his being. For an instant he had wanted to kill his brother, the Great Sun, for leaving him in ignorance of the day of the attack, for letting him lie sleeping while the warriors set off at dawn to station themselves for the slaughter. An instant of reflection had convinced him that the Great Sun might well not have known himself. As the godlike ruler of his tribe, he was not expected to take part in the planning of such exploits, much less direct them. That last was the responsibility of the second most important man in the tribe, their uncle, Tattooed Serpent, chief of war.

“For what purpose?”

That was an excellent question. Reynaud flicked a glance over the face of the young Frenchwoman, who had knelt to take Madame Doucet’s head on her lap. There were traces of tears on her cheeks, but her self-control was complete. She looked deathly tired, however, and her features mirrored a haunted fear that he would give much to banish. At that instant she lifted her lashes, meeting his gaze, and so much virulent dislike sprang into her eyes that he felt the muscles of his abdomen tighten involuntarily as if in anticipation of a blow.

“To keep her from harm,” he said slowly.

“You could do that?” It was the man with the crutch who spoke and the hope that threaded his voice gave it a ragged sound.

“It’s possible.”

“How?” the merchant asked, a sneer curling his lip. “By taking her back to the village to slave for you?”

“There is another way.”

Something in the half-breed’s tone sent a tremor of uneasiness over Elise. Or perhaps it was the way his gaze kept returning to rest on her in impassive speculation. She had had time while hiding under the magnolia to think about what might be done, however. She swallowed hard, then spoke from where she knelt.

“If we could know what has happened at the fort, know if they are holding out there, perhaps we could reach it.”

“It has fallen.” St. Amant shifted uncomfortably on his crutch. “Or perhaps it might be best to say it never held. Chepart is dead. I saw him struck down and dismembered in his own garden.”

She caught her breath at the implication of those stark words. If the fort had not held, then all was lost. There was scarcely time to consider it at this moment. “Then we must get away. With a boat, we could go down the river to New Orleans, give the alarm.”

Reynaud shook his head. “The river will be watched, sentries posted for miles downstream. It is unlikely that you would get through. There were six men who took to the river at the first sign of the attack. Four were killed and the other two are being pursued even now.”

Elise glanced at the others. Their faces were tight and pale, their eyes fixed on Reynaud Chavalier as if he alone could save them.

“You mentioned a way out,” St. Amant suggested.

“The nearest place of refuge for you is at the fort at the
Poste de la Saint Jean Baptiste
. I could take you there.”

The normal method of reaching this post, located in the country of the Natchitoches Indians, was to travel down the Mississippi to where the Red River flowed into the larger river, then to proceed up the Red to the site of the French post, which had been built on its banks.

“But if we can’t go on the river, how—”

“We would have to cross to the west bank after nightfall, then make our way overland using the Indian trails. That’s much less dangerous than running the gauntlet down the river.”

“Yes,” interrupted the merchant, Pascal, his voice harsh. “I seem to have heard a tale or two about these trails. Dangerous, they are, if I remember right, and long and hard.”

“Regardless, it appears we have no choice.” St. Amant looked at Reynaud, but the other man only returned the Frenchman’s gaze without speaking.

The merchant gave a hard nod. He spread his legs and put his fists on his hips. “Name your price, half-breed!”

Until that moment, there had been no thought in Reynaud’s mind of profiting by the misfortune of the small band of French; he would have sworn it. Now something in the other man’s tone grated on his taut nerves like a flint knife scraping buffalo hide, mingling with the scorn shown him by the Widow Laffont to stir his anger. That they could despise him even while he was offering his help was bad enough, but that they should show it so plainly marked them as arrogant and bigoted ingrates who even in the deadliest of danger could not forget their prejudices. It would be best if their position was brought home in a single, sharp lesson.

Still, he hesitated a moment as the idea took form in his mind. He was not certain whether it was prompted by the need to make these people aware of their dependence upon him, by sheer petty vengeance, or by something more that he did not care to name. Did it matter, in all truth? The impulse was too strong to be denied.

“I have no price,” he said slowly. “All I require is the usual services.”

“I don’t believe I understand.” The expression of the merchant who had become their spokesman was wary as he glanced from Reynaud’s intent face to the others.

“It is the custom among the Natchez to supply male guests with a woman to see to their needs: to cook for them, to refill their food bowls, and to warm their bed furs on a cold night, whether in the village or on long hunts.”

“You are saying that we should supply you with a woman, a Frenchwoman?”

“What objection can there be?” Reynaud asked, one brow raised in polite inquiry. “There is one here who is acceptable to me, a widow not unaware of the ways of men.”

“Why, you bastard!”

Reynaud’s voice was soft as he spoke. “Is it too much to ask, too great an exchange for your lives?”

Elise stared at Reynaud with the last vestiges of blood draining from her face and congealing in her veins. Madame Doucet stirred and gave a soft moan, but she did not notice. Coldness spread from the center of her being and she could hardly breathe. Her stiff lips formed a single word. “No.”

Reynaud expected her swift objection, had set himself to listen to an impassioned appeal. If she had approached him in that vein as a civilized man, if she had asked him to reconsider, then he would have abandoned the suggestion on the instant, with apologies. Instead, he saw the horrified loathing in her face and felt his purpose harden. If she was so ready to think him the complete savage, what had he to lose by acting like one?

“I am to understand you do not think it too much to ask?” His voice carried a hint of steel in its quiet irony. “How generous of you, Madame Laffont. I will accept your sacrifice.”

“No!” she cried.

“Wait, Madame Laffont, we must not be too hasty.” The merchant’s tone was soothing, almost oily, as if he thought her needlessly upset but considered it unwise to disturb her further.

St. Amant, his face pale, looked at her, then away again. “It’s a question of — of life or death.”

“It’s m-monstrous,” Henri declared, moving to stand protectively at Elise’s left shoulder as he glared at Reynaud. “That you c-can suggest it is beyond belief!”

Indeed, it seemed so to Reynaud, and yet as he stated down at Elise Laffont he felt a tightness in his loins, an urgent need to hold her against him until the frantic disgust on her face turned to soft compliance. He wanted her, had wanted her from the moment her glance had clashed with his across the dining room of Commandant Chepart’s house the night before. That instant of self-knowledge played havoc with his resolve.

“He can suggest it,” Elise said with venom, “because he is a monster indeed, a vile mongrel lower even than the Natchez who at least act out of righteous anger.”

Reynaud’s head came up and his features hardened. “One capable of leaving you to meet that anger, if such should be your decision.”

“Leave me then! Only take the others!”

“Now how can I do that?” he asked, his voice soft. “Madame Doucet is a worthy woman, but no substitute for someone of your — charms.”

Elise clenched her hands upon Madame Doucet’s arm and wrist so that the older woman groaned and opened her eyes to stare around in pain and bewilderment. There had been times before in her life when Elise had wanted desperately to strike out at a man, but they were as nothing compared to this moment.

The merchant stepped forward. “She will go with us and she’ll be sensible about it; this I will assure you.”

Reynaud transferred his gaze to the merchant and so dark with menace was it that the man stumbled backward again. “I want no unwilling woman, nor do I care for a damaged one.”

“You think we would—”

“I know not. I can only assume that you judge me by yourselves.”

“I’m sure she’ll see reason.”

“That may be. There are arrangements that must be made. I will return at dusk and will expect an answer then.”

Reynaud directed one last glance at Elise where she still knelt at his feet. His features were hard, unreadable. Abruptly he swung around, moving away. Before he had taken a half-dozen steps, he had disappeared into the forest.

Pascal argued with her in the long hours that followed, talking until he was hoarse with the effort to keep his voice down yet to convince her that she was a fool, that what was being asked of her was a mere nothing, a few days of unpleasantness soon over. When his temper rose, St. Amant stepped in to prevent the merchant from becoming abusive. Still, he conquered his own scruples enough to swear that he, St. Amant, would see to it that she was not ill-used, if that was her fear. Also, though the decision was, of course, hers alone to make, he would point out that she held in her hands the lives of four other people. For himself it did not matter, but she must remember that one was a woman like herself, another a young boy. It might well be a mistake to let pride and fear dictate a choice that she could live to regret.

Elise was enough of a realist to recognize that they were right in their way; still, she could not overcome her revulsion. As the time grew shorter and Madame Doucet roused enough to add her tearful entreaties to their arguments, she began to feel the desperation of one cornered, left without a choice.

In the end, it was the thickening pall of smoke, the sound of the drums, the piping of cane flutes, and the drunken shouts of celebration that forced her decision. There could be no doubt that the Indians were in command, that the vast majority, if not all, of the French were dead. There was no possibility of making a foray for food and water to sustain them without the risk of discovery. Every moment they remained where they were only increased the danger of some Natchez warrior walking up to them. If that happened it would mean torture for the men, without doubt, and for herself and Madame Doucet slavery at best. They had to get away and their best hope of doing so successfully was Reynaud Chavalier. As long as he was not before her, as long as she did not think of what she must do to assure his cooperation, she could convince herself that she could go through with it. Somehow. It could not be any worse than the alternative, could it?