Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (52 page)

The words were smooth, but they sounded false to Elise’s ear. Was it a trick like the one at Fort Rosalie when the warriors had come among the people asking for weapons and ammunition for a great hunt to supply winter food for the French as well as themselves? She could not tell. It might be her own prejudice against Path Bear that caused her to doubt him.

“Your people and mine are at war,” St. Denis said. “I cannot permit you to enter the fort, but I rejoice in the opportunity to establish peace between us. You have only to say what it is you want me to tell Governor Perier.”

An angry scowl darkened Path Bear’s face. For long moments, he was silent, and when he spoke again, his tone had a harsh edge. “I see with you the war chief of the Natchez. It is strange that you harbor such a man if you so distrust my people.”

“He come without an army of warriors at his back.”

“Am I to blame that my brother warriors and I have been driven from our ancestral home and now must exist in the woods like animals? They joined me in the hope that I might lead them to safety and comfort. But, come, this shouting back and forth is without dignity. If we may not come in, then you and your officers must come out and hold council with us. Bring also our war chief, Tattooed Serpent, that he may join us in our entreaties.”

Did St. Denis hear the undertone of duplicity in Path Bear’s voice? Elise wanted to turn and shout to the commandant to take care, but she did not quite dare to interfere, not yet.

“The fate of your people, who have been so helpful to the French in the past, is of deep concern to me,” St. Denis said. “However, for the sake of the men and women of my own race who depend on me, I cannot leave the fort to treat with men painted for war. I repeat: If you wish me to send a message to the governor on your behalf, give it to me now as we talk.”

“You must come out!” Path Bear shouted, waving a fist.

“Another time, when you come with the calumet of peace.”

“You come now!”

St. Denis shifted as if to turn away.

“You will come out to me or else I will give the order to burn the Frenchwoman!”

“You’ll what?” The voice of St. Denis cracked like a whip across the cleared ground and the river beyond as he swung back.

“I will burn the Frenchwoman whom I have with me, as your governor burned the women of the Natchez at New Orleans.” Path Bear swung around, gesturing toward the woods. Two warriors appeared, supporting a woman between them. She could barely walk and stood with her head hanging, her white hair trailing around her face. Her clothing was no more than soiled rags.

The men on the parapet cursed softly and there was a buzz of voices punctuated by cries of shock as the news was relayed to those on the ground. Elise stood staring, trying to deny the evidence of her eyes. She wanted to think otherwise, but knew beyond doubting that the women with the Natchez was Madame Doucet.

“Burn that woman,” St. Denis said, “and we will wreak a vengeance upon you more terrible than your worst imagining!”

Path Bear smiled, a ferocious lifting of full lips. “To do that, you must first come out of the fort.”

The Indian turned, striding away.

The people surged forward around St. Denis as he came down from the parapet. Some of the women were crying. Many of the children, seeing the tears and feeling the tense atmosphere around them, began to wail, too. The men were silent, but stared at each other with hard, sidelong glances. All except one. Pascal stepped from the crowd in front of the commandant and Reynaud, who walked beside St. Denis.

“Forgive me, Commandant,” Pascal said, his voice laden with heavy irony, “but I think I speak for all of us when I ask what you mean to do with the traitor among us?”

“Traitor?” St. Denis frowned, his mind obviously on other matters.

“As that Indian out there said, we have given refuge to the war chief of the Natchez himself, the half-breed here that they call Tattooed Serpent. He has now betrayed us. What is to be done?”

“This man is Reynaud Chavalier,” St. Denis said sharply, “no traitor.”

“And yet the Natchez came on his heels. Can he prove he didn’t lead them? That he didn’t come on ahead to gain entry to the fort? What will happen to all of us if, when the Natchez launch their attack, he opens the gate?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous? When this half-breed is the man who directed the building of great forts for his Indian half-brothers to fight from, who must have led their forces in the siege we’ve been hearing about? He has turned his coat any number of times in the last few years, living with one race or the other as it pleases him. Why should he not turn on us again?”

Elise pushed to the forefront of the crowd, stopping beside Pascal. “This man saved your life after the massacre at Fort Rosalie!” she cried. “Have you forgotten?”

“No,” Pascal said with a sneer as he turned to look Elise up and down, “nor why.”

Beyond the walls of the fort, screams, thin and shrill, began. A sentry, his voice none too steady, called down. “They have driven a stake into the ground and are tying the lady to it. Now they are bringing brush.”

Elise looked at Reynaud and saw stark desolation in his face. His glance caught hers and the expression was wiped away, becoming hard and grim and stiff with something that might have been acceptance.

St. Denis was speaking. “What a man may do for one people out of loyalty has nothing to do with what he may do to another.”

“Maybe not,” Pascal said, swinging back to the commandant. “But I say we can’t take the chance. I say we send him back to his half-brothers. Let him prove himself by doing something for the French. If he is the war chief and brother of the Great Sun, it should be no problem to him to save Madame Doucet from burning. Let him do it.”

There were growls of approval. Frail with distance and terror, the screaming continued from outside the gate. Elise, her eyes wide, whispered, “No.” She said again, louder, “No! The man who leads these warriors is Reynaud’s enemy. He has tried before to usurp his position. War chief or no, he may kill Reynaud the moment he is in his hands, without giving him a chance to free Madame Doucet.”

St. Denis, his face hard, turned away. “This is wasting precious time. We will mount an offensive to save this woman.”

“Wait,” Reynaud said. His voice was not loud, but it carried authority. As St. Denis paused, turning his head, he went on. “I will go. There is no need for more.”

“No,” Elise said, but if Reynaud heard, he gave no sign.

“I cannot permit this, not if what Madame Laffont says is true.” The words of the commandant were clipped, impatient, for time was growing short. Already the word had passed of the brush being piled high around the Frenchwoman beyond the walls. Her screams had turned to great, racking sobs mingled with prayers. Several of the Frenchwomen had closed their eyes and begun to pray while one elderly woman had her rosary in her hand, slipping the beads through fumbling fingers as her lips moved soundlessly.

“You cannot stop me,” Reynaud said, “nor should you, for the sake of those here. Only prepare the offensive, in case I fail. And if that is not in time, give me leave to put an end to the torment of Madame Doucet.”

Elise heard the gasps around her, felt her own indrawn breath as she realized what he meant. If he could not save Madame Doucet, if the offensive did not reach her in time, he would kill her. That offer, so brief, so humane, so cruelly kind, was an indication of his Natchez blood and of his unflinching courage. Elise felt her heart swell inside her, felt the burning press of tears behind her eyes.

St. Denis stared at him a long moment, then inclined his head in a deep bow. “It shall be as you say.”

Then Reynaud turned toward Elise. She moved forward even as he took the long strides that brought her to him. That others watched mattered not at all. She reached for him and he caught her hands.

“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Don’t go.”

“I must, don’t you see? It will be better this way.”

She shook her head as tears blurred her vision. He stared down at her, at the pale oval of her face, at the liquid amber-brown of her eyes, at her trembling lips. There was nothing he had ever wanted so much or ever dreamed of wanting as his desire to stay with her. But it could not be. He was an outcast, without a home, without safety or comfort to offer. If he had not known it before, he must accept it now. He could not ask her to share so precarious an existence as that which lay before him. It would be cruelty and he had hurt her enough. He had thought to teach her love and succeeded only in bringing her pain. It was better to end it now. A clean cut, as swift and sharp as a knife stroke.

“Forget,
untsaya athlu,”
he said, his eyes bleak. “Remember only that I loved you. Let happiness find you.”

From the wall, the sentry called, his voice breaking, “The murdering savages are firing the brush.”

Reynaud released her and stepped back. He ran with lithe strides toward the gate. It was opened a bare crack for him, then shut again when he was through.

Wife of my heart, he had called her. Elise raised shaking fingers to her mouth, staring after him, then, with a gasp, she lowered her hands to snatch up her skirts and run for the steps to the parapet. She clambered up them in haste, stumbling as she reached the top and was caught by a soldier. Then she was at the wall, holding on to the logs with their hewn points with fingers so tight the knuckles shone white under the skin. With burning eyes, she stared toward the edge of the woods where Reynaud stood talking with hard, abrupt gestures to the Natchez warriors.

Near where they stood, Madame Doucet writhed, coughing, screaming once more in the midst of a pall of smoke that boiled up from her feet. Bright tongues of flames licked at the brush and rotted logs piled high around her. The crackling of the fire, growing louder, could be heard plainly. The smoke turned yellowish at the bottom, thickening, making ready to explode into a leaping conflagration. In a moment, it would be too late. The smoke and heated air would sear Madame Doucet’s lungs. Death would be quick then, though the flames might first reach her feet and her gown, racing up them with such flaring agony that the end would be a release.

Reynaud made one last gesture. He swung away from the warriors, turning his back on Path Bear to run to the woman at the stake. He kicked the brush and burning brands apart, sending them flying. Around Elise, a ragged cheer went up, rising higher as Reynaud tore at the bonds that held Marie Doucet.

The cheering was silenced abruptly as Reynaud, wreathed in obscuring smoke, reached to take his knife from his belt. The blade flashed in the sun.

Then he was running toward the fort with Madame Doucet cradled in his arms. The figure of the elderly woman was limp. Her arms dangled and her head hung back with her white hair streaming, smoking slightly, as was the straggling hem of her gown. The gate of the fort opened. Reynaud stepped inside. St. Denis came forth, carefully taking the Frenchwoman into his arms. Reynaud stepped back, bowed, then swung on his heel, passing through the gate once more. Outside, he moved with swift strides to join the Natchez.

“Murdering bastard!” came a strangled cry. A man raised a gun, fired after Reynaud. Another musket crashed and another. From the direction of the forest, gunsmoke blossomed as the Natchez returned fire, covering the retreat of their war chief.

Reynaud ducked, increasing his stride to a loping run, dodging until seconds later he reached the protection of the trees. His voice was raised in a shouted order.

Inside the fort, St. Denis, staring down at Madame Doucet, lifted his head in sudden concern. “Cease firing,” he bellowed. “She’s not dead! She’s not dead!”

The ragged volley of shots died away. The Natchez warriors faded into the woods, disappearing from sight. Within moments, the only thing left to mark the fact that they had been there was the stake and the scattered brush, still smouldering, around it.

The French spent the night in the fort, being uncertain as to how far the Natchez had gone or whether they would return. There was a great deal that had to be done before order could be brought from the chaos. Bedding had to be arranged and an evening meal served to the multitude. With nerves on edge, the women fell to wrangling over who had contributed the most to the community supper, who had appropriated whose quilt for her children, and who should have the honor of sleeping in the church or barracks rather than in the servants’ quarters or the guardhouse. For the most part, Elise was ignored.

Slipping away from the uproar that would have made the Natchez smile as everyone talked at once in the manner of gabbling geese, Elise went directly to Madame St. Denis and offered her help with Madame Doucet. She was there when the elderly woman, still unconscious, was undressed and bathed. It was she who put a soothing ointment and loose bandages on the few burns she had suffered. Elise also helped to place her in a clean linen nightgown and combed out the thin white hair with its singed ends. When the other women began to wonder who would sit with the poor thing while they tended to husbands and children, Elise quietly volunteered.

It was good to have something to do, to prevent herself from thinking. But she also felt that by her ministrations she might in some small way lessen her remorse for leaving Madame Doucet behind. As much as she had tried to tell herself that it had not been her fault, everything that had happened, she could not believe it. She had known the older woman was ill, that she was not herself; she should have watched after her more carefully.