Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (39 page)

“Elise! Madame Laffont!”

The call came from behind her. She turned quickly, alarmed by the grief and fear in the tone. It was one of the young French-women. She was running to catch up with her, her face contorted with tears. As she jolted to a stop in front of her, Elise caught the woman’s hands, holding them tightly.

“What is it? Tell me!”

“It’s poor Madame Doucet. Her daughter, may
le bon Dieu
rest her soul, passed from this life during the night. Now Madame Doucet sits in the hut holding her, refusing to let any touch her. She is mad in her grief, quite mad. She cries and speaks to her dead daughter and will let none come near to prepare the body for burial.”

“I understand,” Elise said.

It was not unexpected. The last time she had visited the hut where the two women stayed, the daughter had been nothing but skin and bones, refusing to eat, willing herself to die. She had been a frivolous young woman like her mother, given to gossiping about the latest fashions, adorning herself with silks and satins at the expense of her husband’s holdings. It was amazing what strength of purpose such women could show even if it was often misdirected.

“You must come and talk to Madame Doucet. She will listen to you, if to no one else.”

It was an appeal that could not be ignored. Elise, in her concern for the woman with whom she had shared so much, had no such intention. Calling to a small Indian girl about nine or ten, she sent the child with the food utensils to the Great Sun’s house while she herself turned away to go to Madame Doucet.

The hut was dark and noisome, little more than a hovel. The fire had been allowed to go out and there were no lamps hanging from the beams. The wooden bowls and pottery dishes of many meals were scattered here and there with the food congealed and moldy in most and the rest unscrubbed. There were no mats on the hard dirt floor and the rain had poured in at the smoke vent in the roof, puddling among the wet ashes and charred ends of wood and making the footing as slippery with mud as a pigsty.

Before she had taken a step inside, Elise turned and gave instructions for firewood and hot water for cleaning to be brought. She moved forward into the gloom, then found her way by the light falling through the open doorway.

“Madame Doucet? I have come to talk to you.”

“Ah, Elise, grieve with me, for I am losing her.”

The voice came from the farthest corner. As Elise’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw the older woman sitting on a bench with her back against the wall and her daughter clasped in her arms. Babbling, brushing back the dead woman’s hair, she begged Elise for advice on how to restore her daughter to health, asking her to look at how thin she was, how pale. It was a litany of fear and horror and unacknowledged mourning. The older woman was dressed in the rags to which she clung as being civilized clothing and her once gray-blond hair had turned white.

On her knees beside Marie Doucet, Elise reached out to touch the woman’s hand. “I fear, madame, that it is too late. She is gone.”

“No, no. She cannot be gone, not when I have found her again. Save her, Elise, save her.”

“I would if I could, but I have not the power. Come, let me take her and see that she is laid to rest.”

“No! They shan’t throw her to the animals. They do that, you know. They take them into the woods and leave them, the slaves, the Common people. There are no ceremonies, no companions for them, no great fires to lift their spirits to the sun.”

It was true, in its way. The burials were simple, a quiet place in the woods, a few favorite possessions placed with them in a shallow, unmarked grave. It was different for the upper class, who were placed first in coffins of bark above ground where their spirits were supplied with food and water until the flesh fell away from the bones. They were then buried in the earth floors of their houses, which were set on fire above them, with the exception of their rulers, the Great Suns, whose bones were kept in baskets in the temple. But, in truth, what difference did it make in the end?

“You agree then that she is no more,” Elise said quietly.

“Tell me how you would wish her to be buried and I will see to it.”

It was not quite as simple as that, but in the end it was agreed. Madame Doucet allowed her daughter to be taken away, not because she was convinced that it would be all right as much as because she was too exhausted to resist any longer.

It was the Frenchwomen who bathed the body and laid it out in the few pieces of what they called decent clothing left among them. They carried the body to the woods and dug the grave in the wet and muddy earth with digging sticks and clay scoops, then made a cross of limbs lashed together with leather strips.

Elise said a prayer as they knelt, speaking in the purest French, then they sang a quiet song that Madame Doucet had requested, one that she had sung in a nursery in France many years before. A few tears were shed, but not many. Most of them had cried so much that they no longer had any tears to spare.

There were tasks to be done, meals to be prepared, and children to be seen after. The women straggled back to the camp in silence, dispersing to the huts to which they had been assigned. Elise returned to Madame Doucet’s hut and set to work, sweeping, shaking out bedding, letting in air while a hearty meal cooked on the fire. She talked in normal tones all the while to the older woman, telling her of the burial that she had refused to attend, talking of the progress of the palisades, giving her the news that had been brought by visiting warriors — anything, everything. She bathed Madame Doucet and wrapped her in a clean blanket while she rinsed out her clothing and hung it out to dry. Then she placed food in her frail hands and stood over her while she ate. And through her mind as a constant refrain ran her pity for the plight of the French.

They had lost everything, these women: men; homes; livelihood; often children, especially boys grown to young manhood. They were forced to live in what they considered to be squalor, doing manual labor such as many had not done in years and had thought never to do again, serving as slaves to people they were certain were beneath them. Most of the women had not been molested due to the strict control and moral conduct of Natchez men and the fact that those same men considered the Frenchwomen unclean because they did not bathe every day. A few had excited the lascivious curiosity of their owners, however. It was impossible to say how many, for most would not admit to it, but the one or two who had done so lived in shame. Many of the women had received lacks and blows, though not to excess, usually because of their hauteur and refusal to work. They had learned to live with the fact that they could be beaten at will, but there were many who had been so injured in their self-esteem that they would never recover.

They called the Natchez cruel beasts, these women, and constantly recounted the scenes of horror that lived in their dreams: the shooting down of their men; the slashing of their throats with knives and crushing of their skulls with hatchets; the slaughter of pets and farm animals; the burning of houses that contained family treasures brought with such care and pride from France. Elise could not but agree and yet she was torn.

Little Quail was a Natchez and that wild blood ran in Reynaud’s veins. She had watched Small Owl and the Great Sun and his wives and their aunts and uncles, had heard them laugh and seen their affection for one another, and she knew they were not monsters. She had passed the temple and seen the guardians of the flame standing watch two by two throughout the march of the days, and she saw their steadfastness of purpose. She had talked to the women, and she knew that they exclaimed in horror at the way the French sometimes slapped and beat their children; the way the French, instead of tormenting their enemies, used the scourge, the branding iron, the rack, the stake, and the burning fagots on their own people.

Who was right? Were the customs of either defensible? Or was the only thing that mattered the might of the arms and the will of the soldiers that both would bring to the meeting that must come?

It was late, well into the afternoon, when Elise left Madame Doucet. The rain had stopped and a watery sun was slanting through the trees. She stood for a moment, enjoying the faint warmth of it on her face; then, feeling in need of a bath after her labors, she turned toward the creek. She lingered in the water, swimming up and down as she had learned to do in order to warm her blood in the frigid stream. After a time, she treaded water, listening. The men had stopped working, for she could no longer hear the sounds of axes and adzes or the shouts and grunts of effort. They would be coming to bathe soon, passing nearby. A few were already in the water above where she had been, or so she thought, from the sounds of splashing.

She waded from the creek, dried herself on her damp cloak, and donned her clothing. She had left the umbrella of turkey tails in Madame Doucet’s hut, she realized; she must go by and pick it up before going home since it belonged to the Great Sun’s second wife.

The detour made her late, for Madame Doucet was crying and had to be comforted and settled for the night. The lavender light of dusk was settling over the village when she left the hut again. It seemed odd after the rain, but the air felt warmer, caressing her skin, as if it had come from the south. Its dampness brought out the smells of wet earth and resin from the palisade across the way. Mingling with them were the heavy smokiness of cooking fires and the rich aroma of the evening meal that sat ready at every hearth. The thought of food made Elise realize that she had not eaten since early morning and her footsteps quickened.

He came at her from behind the trees, which during summer shaded the huts of the Nobles. He was not alone, but had two or three other men at his back. Swooping down upon her, he caught her up in his arms and began to run, rounding the mound that held the home of the Great Sun. He covered the ground with swift strides so that her breath was jolted from her and her arms around his neck tightened in reaction.

Above them on the mound, the women of the Great Sun emerged, screaming and calling. Behind them came Reynaud’s half-brother, St. Cosine, and the old uncle of the Great Sun’s first wife, their hatchets in their hands. The Great Sun himself came out, shaking his fist, brandishing his bow and arrows as he ran down the slope with the others in pursuit, though he made no attempt to fit one to the other.

Reynaud ducked into his own hut and put her on her feet. He left his friends outside, Pierre among them, along with his relatives and a gathering of elders. Pulling the door into place and pinning it closed, he swung around to face her.

Outside, the yelling and protests had stopped as abruptly as they had begun. Elise, with a curious rising sensation in her chest, guessed the meaning of the small drama that had been played out; still, she had a role of her own.

Drawing herself up, making her voice as frigid as she was able, she said, “Would you care to tell me the meaning of this charade?”

A smile widened Reynaud’s mouth and there was a bright light in his dark gray eyes as he came toward her, though when he spoke his voice was quiet.

“It means you are my wife.”

14

“YOUR WIFE? I don’t remember being asked!”

“If I had asked, would you have agreed?” He stepped in front of her, his hands on his hips.

“Who can say now?”

“You could, if you would,” he answered, though without anger. “But it hardly matters. This marriage is not binding on you.”

“Unless, of course, you wish it.”

“Then why—”

“It is my brother’s command.”

She stared at him, her excitement fading to be replaced by wrath. “You mean this farce was at the order of his royal majesty the Great Sun?”

He held her gaze for a long moment before he made an abrupt gesture. “Not entirely. It is also what I want. I am bound to you beyond severance, by the sound of your voice, the wild-honey color of your hair, the vivid life in your eyes. The taste and touch of you haunts me, and all that will content me is to be with you. The small ceremony of capture just played out, along with the questions we must answer soon before the elders, only makes it public. I love you, Elise.”

How long had it been since she had heard those words? Not since her mother had died. Rich and deep, they echoed in her mind, bringing such disturbance inside her that her hands trembled. A tightness deep inside her ballooned, then gave way, and she was assaulted by a sudden need to fling herself upon him, to become lost in him. Her chest hurt with the burgeoning pain of it. She clenched her hands into fists, standing rigid.