1
THE GATHERING WAS sparse. At the board of Commandant Chepart, with its cloth of Flemish linen scattered with bread crumbs and ringed with spilled wine, there were a number of conspicuously empty chairs. It was not to be wondered at, of course, not when every day brought fresh rumors of unrest among the Indians. The village of the Natchez tribe was so close and tempers so uncertain that few cared to risk being caught on the road at dawn, should the evening be prolonged.
Elise Laffont had felt a qualm or two herself. She did not usually attend such affairs as the commandant's soirée, nor would she have this evening if it had not been most important. She had kept to herself during the past three years since her husband had died. Some considered it, she knew, a becoming show of grief and modesty in such a young widow. The truth was that she preferred her own company and had far too much to do managing the estate left to her for frivolous amusement to be an attraction.
From the head of the table came a roar of laughter. Chepart, chuckling at his own joke, signaled the servant behind his chair to refill the glasses of his guests with the excellent Madeira that was to accompany the dessert course. The light of the candles in the crystal chandelier, hanging from the rough rafters overhead, gleamed among the waves of Elise's honey-brown hair, bright despite their dusting of white powder, as she turned her head to glance at her host. The warm amber of her eyes turned cool with the disdain that rose to her finely molded features.
Two places farther along the board, Madame Marie Doucet leaned across her husband to catch Elise's eye. Her plump face was alight with good-natured amusement and pleasure. "Commandant Chepart is quite the bon vivant tonight, is he not?"
"Certainly he thinks so," Elise said under her breath.
"What was that, chére? I didn't quite catch it."
The older woman had been quite pretty once, in a doll-like fashion. She had kept the quick coquettish mannerisms and light tone of voice despite the gray in her fading blond hair. She had been a good friend to Elise, however, in the past few years and a good neighbor who lived less than a third of a league away. Elise had learned to overlook much of the silliness for the sake of the kind heart underneath.
Elise shook her head in quick dismissal. "Nothing."
The commandant of Fort Rosalie, the representative of his Royal Majesty King Louis XV here in the wilderness known as Louisiana, was indeed given to good living. Elise, with a slight curl of her mouth, which was smooth and a trifle wide, thought that he was more of a debauchee than a bon vivant. Chepart had been a tankard friend of her husband. He and Vincent Laffont had spent many an evening drinking each other under the table and guffawing at crude stories. When her husband had had the consideration to drown himself while fishing on the Mississippi, the commandant had come to her. He had been all concern, most solicitous of her comfort and well-being; so solicitous in fact that he had pressed her down upon a settle and thrust his hand into her bodice to fondle her breasts. She had snatched a wooden knitting needle from the basket in the corner of the settle and done her best to skewer him with it, then had taken down Vincent's musket from over the fireplace and ordered the commandant from her property. When he had gone, she had cried for the first time since Vincent's death, tears of rage and disgust, and of gladness that she need never again submit to any man.
It was distressing, then, that she must now ask a favor of Commandant Chepart. She did not like to accept his hospitality, much less endure his company; still, she would do it until she had what she wanted from the fat fool.
She allowed her gaze to wander around the room, noting the jewel-colored Turkish rug underfoot, the silk hangings at the shuttered, glassless windows, the Watteau pastoral scene that hung above the enormous fireplace where red coals pulsed with fire and a back log smouldered. How out of place these things seemed in the simplicity of the house provided for the fort's commander. With the elaborate table setting and the ridiculous grandeur of the crystal chandelier that shed as light upon them, the furnishings were an indication of both the commandant's pretentious arrogance and his ambition. Chepart intended to use his office as a stepping-stone to greater things, perhaps an appointment at court, but in the meantime it pleased him to live comfortable splendor, regardless of how his underhanded dealings with the commission merchants might affect supplies for the fort and the men who manned it.
What means could she use to persuade someone like Chepart to listen to her? She did not have the funds to offer him monetary inducement, and she refused to consider bartering that commodity she felt might interest him most: herself. But perhaps she was wrong in thinking that he would want something in return for what she would ask. It was not so great a request, not so unusual after all, however much it might mean to her. It would be no loss to the commandant to allow the prisoners now in the guardhouse at the fort to build a storage barn and poultry yard for her.
The men were not dangerous, being charged officially with nothing more serious than insubordination, for all of Chepart's railing about sedition and a blatant attempt to undermine his authority. The crime committed had been the spirited representation by these men, all of them officers of the fort, of the wisdom of preparing a defense against the coming Indian rising. That there was going to be one, they were positive. Their information had come straight from the Indian village of White Apple, from women who had heard it direct from Tattooed Arm, mother of the Great Sun who was the ruler of the Natchez.
Chepart had not been impressed by their source. He had declared that French soldiers should know better than to be swayed by their Indian whores and that his officers would learn better if he had to whip the skin from their backs to bring home the lesson. No puny Indian tribe would dare to challenge the might of France. Hadn't the diplomacy of the French governors of Louisiana always ensured amicable relations with their Indian allies? They were as children in the hands of men of intelligence and guile. Besides, no Indian chieftain would dare to order an attack knowing that the armed force of France would be turned against his people for such treachery.
In Elise's opinion, it was just such blatant disdain for the Natchez, just such lack of judgment in dealing with them, that was the reason for her pressing need for a barn and fenced yard. It was Chepart's bungling that had caused the recent unrest of the Indians, had turned them into marauders who took delight in carrying off her chickens and ducks, hogs and calves. Not that the Natchez had any great appreciation for property rights at the best of times, but everyone knew that their depredations in the last months were made from a sense of ill-usage and spite. And every day they became bolder.
Unconsciously Elise turned her amber gaze upon the corpulent figure of her host. Chepart, catching her eye, raised his glass to her. His expression held a hint of barely concealed lust as he surveyed her high-piled hair, the proud tilt of her chin and the determined self-possession of her features in the oval of her face. He lifted his hand to twist a curl of his long, full wig where it fell over his shoulder as he permitted his overwarm gaze to drop to the low bodice of her gold brocade gown that cupped the gentle swells of her breasts. His thick tongue came to lick his lips, leaving them wet.
Elise clenched her teeth, but could not prevent the shudder of repugnance that rippled through her. In sheer reaction, she covered herself as best she could by drawing up the edges of her shawl as if against a chill draft.
"Are you cold, my dear Madame Laffont?" Chepart called down the table, clapping his hands at the same time for a servant. "Now that we cannot allow!"
An African slave, little more than a boy, came running. The commandant gestured toward the fire and the boy went quickly to the hearth. At the same time, a serving woman emerged from the back of the house with a tray of cakes and custards. A small silence fell as the diners watched the mending of the fire and waited for their dessert to be placed before them. The only sound was the crash of logs being thrown on the hot coals and the crackling rush as they caught. The flames leaped up the chimney in a burst of yellow-orange light that chased the shadows from the corners of the room. The bright glow also penetrated, through a doorway that stood open, into the dimness of the connecting salon, a reception room with access to the outside.
A shrill scream shattered the quiet. "An Indian! Come to murder us!"
It was Madame Doucet, her eyes glassy with shock as she pointed with one trembling hand toward the salon. Men surged to their feet, looking around wildly. Women gasped and cried out, springing up to clutch at their husbands. The serving woman threw her tray into the air, then stood rooted as custard and cake dishes crashed to the floor, scattering their sticky contents over her feet. Chepart cursed, flinging down his glass so that wine streamed across the table and dripped like blood down the cloth to the floor. Elise clutched at her shawl with white-knuckled hands as she turned in the direction Madame Doucet indicated.
The Indian moved forward from the salon doorway into the dining room with silent animal vigor, tall as the Natchez were tall, magnificent in his sculptured barbarian grace, infinitely savage. The firelight was reflected in a copper shimmer from the muscled planes of his chest that were shadowed by intricate lines of tattooing unobscured by the faintest trace of body hair, lines that gave mute evidence of his ability to bear pain. The light also caught the beading that patterned the white doeskin of the moccasins on his feet and the breechclout that covered his loins, and shimmered in the soft white nap of the cape of woven swansdown that hung from his shoulders. More swan feathers had been used to form the circlet that he wore on the crown of his head in the fashion of the Natchez males of royal birth, those of the Sun class. Just behind that circlet was the knot of his hair where it had been drawn up, the thick, black knot that offered an easy hold for an enemy in deliberate scorn for any prowess other than his own, one that would become a scalp lock should that prowess fail. But his hairline had not been plucked for a higher brow in the Natchez fashion, and his eyes, watchful, dangerously opaque, were not black but gray.
"Merde!" the commandant exclaimed, the oath bursting from him in his relief. "It's Reynaud Chavalier!"
The fear that had gripped the men in the room dissolved into anger. Tight-lipped, they exchanged glances before turning back toward the intruder. The women sighed and whispered among themselves with nervous titters. Elise sat very still, staring in horrified fascination. She saw the man called Chavalier sweep the room with a glance that seemed to hold an edge of contempt, felt the glance touch her in stinging appraisal, pause, then move on as if there was nothing there to hold his interest.
Madame Doucet bent toward Elise over her husband's empty chair. "He's a half-breed," she said in a trilling undertone.
"I know," she replied.
She did know, as who did not? She had never met Reynaud Chavalier, but she had heard of him. He was the son of Robert Chavalier, Comte de Combourg, and the Natchez woman called Tattooed Arm, and the brother to the man now known as the Great Sun. He had been raised by the Indians until his thirteenth year. At that time he had been taken to France by his father, when the comte had returned to his native land after his service in Louisiana, to be educated. The old comte had died some years later, leaving Reynaud a sizable fortune and an immense tract of land on the west side of the Mississippi River. Reynaud had tarried in France to settle his father's affairs, which had included a French wife and a legitimate heir to the title and estates.
Then five years ago he had returned, melting into the wilderness of his holdings and dropping the mantle of civilization as easily as he had shed his satin small clothes. He spent most of his time on his lands across the river where it was rumored that he had entertained the governor and his entourage in great state on occasion. No one believed it. When he visited the Grand Village of the Natchez in the jurisdiction of the commandant of Fort Rosalie, he always wore the trappings of his mother's people.
Reynaud Chavalier surveyed the startled faces before him with grim impatience. He was here on a fool's errand he was certain, but it must be carried out. At last he swung toward the commandant, sketching a bow totally without subservience. "I give you good evening."
"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" Chepart blustered, snatching at the remnants of his self-possession as he jerked his napkin from his neck and flung it down on the table.
"I sent a request to see you this afternoon and was told I must wait on your convenience. Not wanting to trouble you while you were occupied with the weighty affairs of your office, I thought to seek you out during your leisure." The words were smooth, but carried the whiplash flick of irony.
"You thought to see me at a time when I would be less likely to have you thrown in the guardhouse for your impudence! I've half a mind to call my men --"
"Certainly, if it pleases you. I trust you will not be too disturbed if they fail to come."
Chepart gripped the table edge as he leaned forward, demanding, "What have you done?"
"Merely disarmed them."
His speech carried the cultured tones of Paris, his voice was deep and vibrant. If she closed her eyes, Elise thought, it would be possible to suppose that she was listening, at the very least, to a courtier, if not a member of the French nobility. She stared at the silver armbands that compressed the muscles of his upper arms, aware of a feeling of disturbance inside her that she did not like.
"How dare you!" Chepart demanded.
Irritation gathered inside Reynaud, combining with a hard anger as he regarded the corpulent and self-important fool before him. "Because I felt it necessary. It is of the utmost urgency that you listen without doing something so stupid as ordering yet another arrest. The lives of your command, the people you are here to protect, even those assembled in this room, depend on it."
Chepart stared at Reynaud, then dropped heavily back into his seat. "I will disregard the insult," he drawled, "if you win tell me that you are not going to present to me yet again this rumor of imminent attack by the Natchez."
"It is no rumor, but fact."
"One I am to accept because you say it is so? What proof have you?"
"My mother was told of it by my brother, the Great Sun. Because of the love she had for my father, she does not wish those of his blood removed by violence from this land. She has charged others with this warning and you would not listen. Now she has charged me."
"That makes you a traitor to your mother's people, does it not?"
"I would be just as much at fault if I allowed the French, the people of my father, to be slaughtered. It is my hope that if the Natchez see you well-armed and prepared to defend yourselves, they will not attack."
"I don't doubt it, cowards that they are."
Reynaud Chavalier stared at the man before him until he had conquered the strong urge to plant his fist in the greasy face of the commandant. "Not cowards, but realists who see no glory in dying without purpose."
"We won't quibble over the term," the other man said with expansive condescension.
"It's a distinction you would do well to remember, Chepart." Reynaud's voice was even, deadly earnest. "My mother's people are proud; yet you have, in the last weeks, had a warrior stripped and flogged for a misdemeanor that should have been brought to the attention of the Great Sun for punishment. They are just; and you have allowed a soldier of the fort to walk about free after shooting and killing an old man whose only crime was his failure to pay back a measure of corn on a given date, when his corn was not yet ripe in the fields. The Natchez have held this land for centuries, but you have demanded that they move from one of their oldest villages, that of White Apple, because you covet the richness of their cleared fields for your own use. These are only a few of the events that have tried their temper. They are sworn to move against you in concert with the Yazoos, Choctaws, Tioux, Tensas, and others. The date has been set and a bundle of reeds sent to every tribe; one reed must be removed daily until the day comes for the attack. My mother found the bundle in the Temple of the Sun, risking much to remove a handful of the reeds. Because of her action, the attack here will come early as a warning to the French in the Mississippi Valley. If you are ready, it will come to nothing. If not, then you must be ready to face the holy war of the Natchez called the Blood Vengeance."
"I fear I disappoint you, my dear Chavalier, with my lack of alarm. You must forgive me." The unctuous quality of the commandant's voice was maintained only with an effort. Perspiration stood out on his forehead.
"It is not my forgiveness you will need, but that of the seven hundred men, women, and children you are sworn to protect."
In the warmth of the room, there came to Elise, from the man on the other side of the table, the smell of well-tanned leather and woodsmoke, the bear oil scented with aromatic spikenard that had been used to seal his moccasins from water, and the sharp, wild freshness of the night air. The combination of scents was threatening as it clung to him, heightening the aura of virile masculinity and effortless power that he exuded. She turned her head in an attempt to escape it.
Chepart thumped the table. "I should have you run down, trussed up, and flogged just to teach you to respect this office!"
"Do so," came the instant, scathing reply. "If you think you can."
Impotent rage brought purple color into Chepart's face. "Get out. Get out of my house and don't come back! You half-breeds are all alike: lying, thieving, cunning bastards a thousand times worse than any blood Indian!"
"I understand your frustration, commandant, but it would be a mistake to let it blind you to your danger. I have delivered my warning and can do no more. I advise you to heed it."
Reynaud inclined his head once more in a curt gesture that did not begin to express the contempt he felt. He allowed his gaze to sweep over the company gathered at the table: the pale-faced women, including the beautiful creature in gold brocade with the cold features of one who feels no passion or else has learned to hide it well; the men still standing in stiff poses. Swinging around with his swansdown cape spreading wide around him, he stepped toward the door.
Madame Doucet drew a deep breath as if released from a spell. She flicked a glance at Elise, saying in hushed tones, "A noble savage."
"And a malodorous one," Elise murmured.
Reynaud Chavalier checked, turned, his hard gray glance striking her face as he caught the edge of spite in her words. He had never seen this woman before, that much he knew. What then had caused her enmity? He had little vanity; still, he had sampled enough of the perfumed embraces of the ladies at court, the gambolings of Indian maidens as unashamed of their hungers as kittens, and the practiced seductions of older widows to know that he was far from unattractive to women. His surprise and displeasure was so great that it was difficult to maintain the expression of implacable indifference suited to the occasion. That the attack was so unexpected must be his excuse. It was not every day that a Frenchwoman saw fit to fling the most deadly of insults at the head of a Natchez of the ruling Sun class.
Elise caught the flare of angry interest, quickly suppressed, in the half-breed's eyes. A wave of hot color sprang to her face as she realized what she had done. The lowest rank of Natchez, the common people who did the dirtiest work, were called Stinkards and by inference she had applied just that name to Reynaud Chavalier. She had not meant it, had not intended that he should hear her, still she would not disavow her words. Holding his gaze, her heart beating with heavy, sickening thuds, she lifted her chin in defiance.
Reynaud studied the pure oval of her face, the sensitive mouth, the direct amber eyes with faint shadows of vulnerability in their rust-flecked depths. Something in his chest tightened and he felt the sudden warm rush of the blood along his veins. Still, neither a warrior nor a gentleman crossed swords with a woman. Swinging around once more, Reynaud strode from the room, but as he let himself out of the commandant's house he was frowning.
The evening had come to an abrupt end after that, of course. The commandant had stormed from the house to curse and kick at his trussed-up sentries. His guests, alarmed and yet at a loss as to what to think about the warning or what to do if Chepart would not act, had talked together in low voices while servants ran to bring them their wraps. Their host, profuse in his apologies and snide in his comments concerning Chavalier and the Natchez, had returned in time to see them off to their homes. He himself would go at once to the Natchez to look into this matter. He could promise them that he would be met with drink and feasting and all manner of merriment. They need not be concerned. The Great Sun was wily; there was no doubt that this talk of an attack was only an attempt to frighten the French, to prevent the takeover of their village. It would do them no good; this he, Chepart, would also promise.
Elise had left with the Doucets. There had been no opportunity to speak to Chepart concerning her barn, and so great was her distaste for the man after his display of choler and bad manners that she did not feel she could have taken advantage of it in any case.
She did not forget, however. She was up early the next morning. She put on her well-worn habit of hunter's green velvet and ate a quick breakfast in the kitchen while she instructed the African woman who saw to the house in her tasks for the day. Carrying her broad-brimmed cavalier's hat, she strode out to the small shed that served as a stable and barn. Her African man-of-all-work, Claude, was there. She talked with him about cleaning out the shed and making a dung heap for use on the fields in the spring, then went with him to show where she wanted him to start clearing the trees and brush from the site of the new barn. They looked at a cow that was due to drop her calf in late winter and discussed the possibility of trading milk and butter for some of the bantam chickens the Doucets were raising. As they turned toward the stable shed where Claude would saddle her mare, she paused to look around her, her chest swelling with pride at the sight of her well-kept arpents, four hundred in number, ten wide and forty deep. The land was solid, unchanging. It would never betray you, never hurt you. Here was something to love.
It was well after sunrise, nearly half-past eight by Elise's reckoning, when she mounted her mare. If she rode toward the fort, she should be able to see the commandant as he was leaving his house, before he barricaded himself in his office inside the stockade. It was possible, of course, that he would not work today since it was St. Andrew's Eve. Tomorrow would be a holy day, and it was the habit of many to indulge in feasting and relaxation from their labors before such religious observances. Not that there would be much made of the occasion here where they had only a small church that was without a priest except when one chose to visit on his way up or down the river.
The road that led from the fort to the Grand Village of the Natchez on St. Catherine Creek was little more than a muddy track rutted by the two-wheeled carts used by the French and flanked by a smooth path worn by the moccasin-clad feet of the Indians. It stretched the distance of a league and a half, winding uphill and down through woods that were duck with underbrush and hung with creepers, and was intersected here and there with trails that led to the lesser villages of the tribe. Now and then it passed a cleared area where the French held property. These open spaces contained neat houses, built of upright logs set in the ground, in the style of cabin derived from the Indians known as a maison de poteaux en terre, a house of posts set in the ground. The spaces between the log posts were packed with bousillage made of mud mixed with deer hair. These stout walls supported peaked roofs that spread out over surrounding galleries, protecting the windows closed only with contrevents, or shutters, from the wind and rain. In most cases, the floors were of earth packed and glazed by the tramp of feet. Spreading around the houses were fields with plowed rows lying fallow and cattle and sheep grazing in pastures still showing a little green among the brown grass of November.
The sun reached higher and was more brilliant as Elise trotted her chestnut mare out of her own front yard and along the track. Her holdings were almost exactly halfway between the fort and the Indian village, so her ride would be no more than a pleasant jaunt. The air was crisp, but not overly cold; a brisk trot would keep her warm. There was a breeze drifting through the trees, bringing down showers of leaves in gold, scarlet, and brown. They carpeted the road, making a soft rustling sound as her mare trotted over them.
Elise had not gone two hundred yards when she heard a call. She glanced back to see three Indians standing in the road, one of them holding up his arm in a gesture of greeting. A sense of disquiet moved over her, then she dismissed it. It was not at all unusual to see Indians abroad. They traded regularly at the fort and often brought game or fish to the French farmers to exchange for chickens or geese. Indeed, quite a number had passed the house already that morning, moving along in groups of three or four.
Reining in her mount, she walked the mare back along the track to meet the Indians near her own outbuildings. She recognized one of them. He was the husband of Little Quail, an Indian woman who had been bought as a slave and used as a concubine by Elise's husband. They had been friends, she and Little Quail, rather than enemies; their common hatred for Vincent Laffont had made them so. On his death, Elise had freed the Indian woman, allowing her to return to her village.
Little Quail's husband was a dark, taciturn man. Elise had never liked him and was by no means sure that he was an improvement over Little Quail's last master. Now he stood back with a grim look on his face while another of the three men repeated his greeting.
Elise had learned quite a few words of the Natchez language from Little Quail and also of Chickasaw, the lingua franca of the other tribes in the region that encompassed land on both sides of the Mississippi River: the Chickasaws themselves, the Choctaws, Tensas, Tunicas, Yazoos, Natchitoches, Caddo, Ouachita, and a half-dozen others. She returned the salutation with proper ceremony and asked their destination.
They were on their way to visit her holdings, they replied. The Natchez planned a great hunt of many days' journey. They were sure to bring back much game, perhaps even buffalo, if they had weapons. They had been sent by the Great Sun to request the use of what firearms she might be able to spare for this noble purpose. In return, they would promise her ample meat to last her and the Africans who served her through the winter.
It was a tempting prospect, a gesture that certainly seemed peaceful and accommodating, instead of one of war. Being without a husband was most noticeable when it came to supplying game for the table. She could not afford to slaughter her cattle for food, not in quantity, and she did grow extremely tried of poultry. Sometimes she sent Claude out to hunt, but there was little to be had near the farm except for rabbits and an occasional squirrel. The big game had been driven farther into the forest.
She had only one musket, however. She did not like to let it out of her hands for any length of time, and it was entirely possible that the Indian who took it into his possession during the hunt might decide to keep it. She would receive recompense, doubtless, in furs and hides and meat, but that would not give her a weapon with which to protect herself. That last thought brought the night before, never very far from her mind, forcibly to the front of her thoughts.
She summoned a smile. "It is a fine prospect and I wish you the luck beyond your dreams. But I am in a hurry to see Commandant Chepart just now. Perhaps we could discuss it when I return."
"But, Madame Laffont, by then it may be too late. The men of the hunt may have gone, and those of us without weapons not among them."
"I shall not be gone long. In the meantime, you may ask M'sieu Doucet. If he does not give you firearms then you may still see me when I return."
She kept her voice firm with an effort despite the fact that the spokesman for the three had stepped forward within reach of her bridle.
"It would only take a moment to fetch out the weapon."
"But I do not have a moment," she answered, smiling stiffly. Tugging on her reins, she wheeled her mare and thrust her heel into the smooth chestnut side. "I'll see you when I return."
Little Quail's husband started forward, but the spokesman stopped him with a sharp gesture of one hand. Elise could feel them staring after her as she rode away and it was not a pleasant sensation. Her hands were trembling, she discovered, clutching tightly at the reins so that her mare jibbed at the bit. With a conscious effort she forced herself to relax.
The Indians had not approved of her refusal of the request of warriors. They thought that, a mere female, she should have a man to speak for her and to keep her in line. They were as bad, if not worse, in their way than the men of the French community at Fort Rosalie. Because she was a widow of property and not unattractive, there had been a number of bachelors, especially among the officers at the fort who had to subsist on their meager pay that was often slow in coming, who had thought she would do well to listen to their suits. She needed a husband to protect her, they had said, to do the heavy work, to warm her bed. She was foolish to think she could live alone. It was not a woman's way; it was not done. They had kissed her hands and brought her flowers and swaggered in and out of her house. Their friends had called and so had every matron they could interest in their cause. The suitors had given her no peace. The more distant and cooler she became, the more they persisted. She became a challenge to their manhood, one they swore to answer, wagering among themselves as to who would win her. When she had finally barred her door against them, refusing admittance to any unmarried man, they had called her a cold-hearted bitch, a widow of ice who froze men with a look. They had sworn that she would be sorry, that she would fail miserably to earn her own food and would dry up into a bitter hag eking out a living in a hovel with only a cat for company.
She had shown them. She had lived alone and prospered, and she would continue to do just that. She did not need a husband. She had no use for a man of any kind. If there was hoarfrost on her heart, then what did it matter? It hurt less, she had discovered, to care little.
Into the turmoil of her thoughts came a sudden vision of Reynaud Chavalier. He had not approved of her either, she was sure. She winced as she thought of her stupid gaffe, implying that he was a Stinkard. It bothered her; that error had robbed her of sleep during the night as she tossed and turned so that her straw-stuffed mattress set up a constant rustling. She did not usually make such mistakes. It would have been better if she had acknowledged it in some way, though the idea of apologizing to such a haughty barbarian set her teeth on edge.
What would he make of the Indian's offer of game in exchange for firearms? She would give much to know. The fact that she had no use for his kind of overbearing masculine self-assurance did not prevent her from recognizing that his opinion would be valuable. After the night before, however, it was doubtful that he would be inclined to give it, either to her or to any of the French around Fort Rosalie.
He had not been so much like the Natchez, after all, now that she had seen the Indian warriors once more. He had been as tall, towering nearly a head over Chepart, but his hair had been finer in texture, with a polished sheen, rather than the coarse black of his mother's people. His head had been well formed, without the flatness at the back caused by being bound to a cradle board in infancy, and his features had been more refined, with fewer harsh angles, doubtless the results of his French blood.
And yet for some reason he had appeared more dangerous. Was it the hard intelligence that shone from his gray eyes? Or was it perhaps his lack of any emotion about the message he had come to deliver except for disgust that it was not being heeded? Surely it would have been natural for him to express some concern for the lives of the women and children who would die if his warning was genuine, and yet there had been little more than anger that Chepart was not taking his responsibility toward them as seriously as Chavalier thought he should. Certainly he had not seemed to waste any time thinking of what the fate of women like herself might be if an attack came. Not that she needed his concern, not at all.
With a violent effort, she wrenched her thoughts away from Reynaud Chavalier. A pox on the man! That she was wasting her time thinking of him was a sign of how much the Indian warriors had disturbed her. She would do far better to turn her thoughts to how she was going to cajole Chepart into giving the order for his prisoners to build her barn. That would be much more to the purpose.
The dry leaves of a post oak rattled overhead as she passed beneath an overhanging limb. The thudding hoofbeats of her mare on the damp track seemed loud. Elise looked around at the bright morning, allowing her gaze to rise to where a turkey buzzard circled lazily against the intense blue of the sky. It was indeed a turkey buzzard and not a hawk, and yet she was aware abruptly of the singing quiet in which there was no sound of other birds. The breeze died away. The woods that lined the sides of the road seemed to crowd the track, closing in. She felt a prickle at the back of her neck.
The cracking boom of a shot rang out, echoing through the woods. Elise reined in, staring toward where the sound had come from just ahead of her while the mare danced and sidled with nervousness. It could be anything: a man out hunting, someone shooting at a fox or weasel sneaking around their chickens, a signal to bring a man in from the fields for some emergency. Ahead of her was the Doucet place, Monsieur Doucet, a woodcarver by trade who had been employed in France making woodcuts for the printing of books before he signed up as a colonist for Louisiana, had been known to let off a few shots of a morning to perfect his aim.
Abruptly there came the scattered booming of more firing. Hard upon it could be heard distant cries that might have been either terror or exultation. They came not only from ahead of her, but also from behind her. Elise twisted this way and that on her sidesaddle, listening, her eyes widening with a terrible fear. Then, with sudden decision, she urged the mare onward though she held her to a walk.
The clearing of the Doucet arpents came into view. There was the Doucets' farmhouse with smoke curling in a blue plume from the mud-and-stick chimney. For an instant the scene seemed peaceful, normal. Then Elise saw the body of Monsieur Doucet sprawled on the high front steps and the mastiff that served as his watchdog lying with blood-wet fur beside him. A fat billow of smoke came from the front windows. From the entrance door a pair of Indians emerged carrying bundles of clothing and sacks of food, one of them with a huge ham strapped to his back. Behind them came a third Indian who pushed a screaming woman with blood running down her face before him and held a wriggling, crying young boy still dressed in his nightgown under his arm. It was Madame Doucet's daughter and six-year-old grandson.
For a stunned instant Elise allowed her mare to continue to walk toward the house. Then, with a gasp so sharp it hurt her throat, she pulled her mount up and around and slammed her heel into the horse's side, kicking her into a gallop. Behind her came a yell. She had been seen. She did not look back. Putting her head down, she leaned over the mare's head, urging her along the track back toward her own home. She scarcely gave a thought to the Indians in pursuit. They were laden with booty and captives and were without mounts. Her every fear was concentrated on the farm she had left, the farm she had worked so hard to keep and make prosper, the place where every single thing she owned or cared for was now endangered.
For there could be no doubt. In spite of the warnings and rumors, they had been caught unprepared. The attack they had not thought possible had come. It had come not with cries in the dawn but with a trick designed to put French arms into Indian hands. It had come with soft words and promises of meat for the winter, with trickery and guile worthy of the French themselves. The Natchez were rising, carrying, the French before them and leaving death behind.
Copyright © 1985 by Patricia Maxwell
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