Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (77 page)

Captain Dodsworth filled the breach by beginning to talk of the trade goods he had brought, particularly some fine faïence ware bowls and pitchers he thought might be of interest to Cyrene. He was on the point of turning to give the order to have the items displayed when there was a stir in the doorway.

The ship’s officer on duty stepped inside. “Your pardon, Captain,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “There are Indians on the beach. Seems they want to parley.”

Cyrene’s first thought was that it was the renegades, that the savages had followed them and had come to demand that their prey be turned over to them. The same thought occurred at once to the Bretons, for they shoved back their chairs and sprang to their feet, heading out on deck. Captain Dodsworth, calling for his spyglass, followed, with the others behind him.

The Indians had built a fire. It was a leaping fountain of light on the dark shore. Figures moved around it, apparently without aim, black silhouettes against the flames. Overhead, the stars pricked the chill night sky with points of diamond brightness. The ship moved slowly up and down on the swells, with the water lapping at the hull. Somewhere from the bow came the low voices of men talking.

The spyglass was brought. Captain Dodsworth trained it on the Indians around the fire. Long seconds passed as he stared at them. Finally he brought the glass down and rubbed his eye.

“Choctaw,” he said. “Old Drowned Oak’s band.”

Pierre grunted. Cyrene let out a sigh. Jean gave a low, mirthless laugh. Drowned Oak was the chief of a small Choctaw tribe allied to the French; he was also the father of the Indian woman known as Little Foot who had spent two winters with Jean some twenty years before, the woman who was Gaston’s mother. Little Foot was not a doting parent, but she did tend to keep watch over the child she had borne and the man who had fathered him. If Drowned Oak was here now, it was because Little Foot had discovered that the Bretons had left the flatboat and knew enough about them and their business to guess at why and where to find them. Her purpose in bringing her father and his people would be simple. She would want first choice of the trade goods. And would expect special terms.

The atmosphere and inclination for close trading had been shattered. It was decided by mutual consent to postpone the matter. Captain Dodsworth, as a gesture of goodwill and for the sake of a closer look at the savages, ordered his longboat let down and had himself rowed ashore with the Bretons.

The Indians were waiting when the pirogues grounded on the beach. Some of the younger men pulled the prows of the crafts farther up on the sand so that the passengers would not have to get their feet wet, but the elders held back in dignified stances, ready to give their formal greetings. Once these were done, there were smiles all around as the captain brought out kegs of tafia and rum. It was a crime to sell liquor to the Indians, but there was none in giving it to them, and its power to impart goodwill was great, if short-lived.

Everyone settled around the main fire with cups and beakers in their hands. The talk began. Orange sparks spiraled skyward, dancing in the gray columns of smoke. The fragrance of the burning wood blended with the salt-and-mud smell of the marshlands, the freshness of the night, and the warm, wild odor of human bodies dressed in leather and wool. Some of the older Indian women sat on the outskirts of the circle about the main fire, while the younger ones moved here and there, laying out bedding, feeding babies, and bedding down toddlers. Older children scampered in circles, playing tag, running races.

Cyrene sank down at the fire beside the Bretons. For a time she enjoyed the exchange of solemn compliments and the round of tales. She had picked up enough of the Choctaw language so that she could follow the stories and boasts, each more fantastic than the last. Soon, however, the drone of voices, the warmth of the flames, and her exertions of the day lulled her to near somnolence. She yawned and blinked and yawned again. When the urge to put her head down on her knees and shut her eyes became nearly irresistible, she knew it was no use fighting any longer.

She was just ready to get up and go quietly to her shelter when she felt Jean stiffen beside her. She glanced at him, then followed his gaze to where an Indian woman had approached the fire. It was Little Foot. A woman of majestic stature, she had thick black hair, which she wore in a single braid, and bold features. She waited until she was sure she had Jean’s notice, then she beckoned with an abrupt movement.

Cyrene could sense Jean’s reluctance to answer the summons. Beyond the fact that it had been something less than courteous, she could see no reason for it. There was no enmity between the two of them so far as Cyrene knew. Little Foot, her value among the men of her own tribe much enhanced by her sojourn in a white man’s bed, had long ago taken an Indian husband and given birth to other children. After being widowed, she had occupied herself with a series of affairs, each more short-lived than the last. Jean visited her from time to time and sent her gifts, and Gaston spent a few months every summer with her among the Choctaw, hunting with them, learning their woods lore, being made much of by their women.

Little Foot beckoned again. Jean sighed, then got to his feet and threaded his way to the outer edge of the circle. Little Foot joined him, and together they moved away into the darkness. Taking advantage of the disturbance Jean had already made, Cyrene followed after him for her own escape.

She did not mean to eavesdrop. Her sole intention was to reach her pallet and crawl into it. It was not her fault that Jean and Little Foot’s quarrel caused them to stop not three paces from where her shelter had been set up on the edge of the encampment. Even then she did not stand listening but swerved around them and continued on to duck under the piece of leather that closed off the end of her shelter. She had dropped down on her bear fur in the darkness scented with resin from the peeled poles and was taking off her shoes when Little Foot’s clear, hard tones reached her.

“How can you say I have no right after what I have done for you? Do you think it’s so easy? Do you think I like it? If so, you are one mad Frenchman. You said I would be repaid. Now I ask this small thing, and you say I want too much? This I cannot bear!”

“Be reasonable, Little Foot. We are not rich men, my brother and I.”

“Do I ask for riches? No! It may be I should talk to Gaston. He would be very interested in what I have to say. Or perhaps the other one would pay in gold to hear me. If that should happen, you could use your trade goods to—”

Cyrene had to grin at Little Foot’s ribald suggestion as to what Jean might do with his trade goods. Her amusement receded as quickly as it had come as Jean issued a sharp command and their voices died away out of hearing. She had never known Little Foot to be importunate before, much less threatening. She was usually rather merry and placid, though dignified with it. Something had upset the Indian woman and Cyrene wanted to know what it was. She would make a point of asking Jean about it in the morning.

Cyrene had been asleep an hour, perhaps two, when the soft scuff of a footstep woke her. She lay for a moment, listening. The sound had come from directly outside her shelter, she knew, but it was not repeated. Then came a soft rustling as the leather flap was lifted and someone bent to enter.

“Who’s there?” she said sharply.

“Your protector.”

René. His words were dry and precise. Too precise. He was either angry or drunk, and Cyrene could not make up her mind which would be most disturbing. She sat up, pulling the bearskin with her. “What do you want?”

“Why, to share your pallet. What else?”

Her heart leaped inside her chest. “That isn’t funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“We have an agreement. I expect you to follow it.”

There was a quiet noise and a heavy piece of clothing like a coat landed on the foot of her pallet. “Willingly,” he said, his voice low, “only the Breton brothers seem to expect me to be with you. I offered to stand guard duty with Gaston but was all but escorted here.”

“Escort yourself elsewhere.”

“There is nowhere else.”

“I don’t care!” she said, leaning forward in her urgency. “You can’t stay here.”

“Why not? Are you afraid of me?”

“Certainly not, but I don’t want you in here. I don’t want your protection. Can’t you understand that?”

“I am not deficient in intelligence — or understanding, which is not always the same thing. You have made yourself abundantly clear. Now can you understand that I have no intention of shivering on the damp ground for the sake of our agreement? Can you bring yourself to believe that I don’t lust after your magnificent body, at least at this moment, and have no intention of pressing unwanted attentions upon you?”

“Don’t you?” She had meant the words to be scathing. Instead, they had a disconcerted ring.

“No. Unless you request it, in which case I will be happy to oblige, as I said earlier this evening.”

“Never!”

“Then you’re safe.”

“Oh, yes,” she cried, “while everyone assumes I’m your woman.”

“That seems to be unavoidable.”

“Not to me, not if you get out and stay out!”

He made no answer. His waistcoat plopped down onto the pallet followed by something lighter, which must be his shirt.

“Stop this,” she said, her voice tight, “or I will scream so loudly you’ll have every man, woman, child, and dog in here.”

“It’s going to be a little crowded, isn’t it? And public?”

“I mean it!”

“Then again, preventing such a racket might make a fine excuse for me to kiss you thoroughly. I was thinking about how much I would like to do that earlier this evening while you flirted with Captain Dodsworth.”

“You were — I was not flirting with the captain!”

“It was a fine imitation.”

She knew she was allowing herself to be distracted. It was only while she reviewed her position. Screaming did not seem likely to be of much use, particularly if the Bretons were aware of where René was at this moment.

“I was only being friendly for the sake of trade.”

“Using your charms for commerce? There are words for women who do that.”

“You know very well I meant no such thing!”

He sat down to remove his boots. “I do know, none better. But not everyone has my knowledge of your cool nature. You should be careful of what you say.”

“Cool nature? Because I don’t fall into your arms again after having had a sample of your practiced lovemaking? What conceit!”

“Isn’t it?” he agreed, his voice even. “Of course you could always prove me wrong.”

“Hah! You may gull some poor chambermaid or silly nobleman’s wife with such a ploy, but not me. I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

He removed his breeches and lifted the bearskin, sliding under it. “No, you don’t. All you have to do to put me firmly in my place is to go to sleep.”

Her muscles went rigid as she felt the waft of cool air and slide of the bearskin across her shoulders as he pulled it up over him. What she disliked most was his confidence. It was not, apparently, misplaced. She could see no way out of this predicament in which she found herself. As he shifted, searching for a comfortable position, his knee brushed the calf of her leg.

Abruptly, something snapped inside her. She flung herself at him, pushing, pummeling. “Get out,” she hissed. “Get out! Leave me alone.”

In an instant she was hurtled to her back. The air left her lungs as his weight came down upon her chest and the lower part of her body. Her wrists were caught in hard hands and wrenched above her head. She lay still with every muscle in her body clenched into a knot and a black and burning core of resentment in her brain.

“That wasn’t very smart,” he said.

Her breasts rose and fell against him with her short, hard breathing. The firm press of his taut-muscled thighs on her, his controlled strength, and the wrenching power of his hold were like a threat, though one held in careful abeyance. He was not hurting her, but she had never in her life felt more vulnerable or more certain that to try to fight would be painful.

“Maybe not, but it helped my feelings.”

“Did it? You want to hit me?”

The impulse was rapidly fading. She grasped at it as a defense. “Are you surprised?”

“Why? Because I struck you, back there in the water?”

“That has nothing to do with it!”

“Doesn’t it?” He released her, lifting his weight, moving back to rest on one elbow. “All right, then. Go ahead, hit me.”