13

As Geneviève examined Dufresne’s bleeding ear, two small Indian boys, as like as puppies from the same litter, stepped into the clearing. One of them held a miniature longbow and had a quiver of arrows strapped to his back. The other, carrying a dead pheasant, leaned over to jabber in his brother’s ear, pointing first to Dufresne, then in the direction from which they had come. The boy with the bow looked frightened and turned as if to run.

“Wait!” Geneviève called. “We need help!” She doubted they understood French, but they seemed to interpret her frantic gesture.

They turned back to regard her with big, scared brown eyes. The hair of both was chopped off at the eyebrows and hung in ragged brown clumps about their naked shoulders. Both boys wore breechclouts made of woven palm fronds but not a stitch more. Their skin was dark teak from exposure to the sun, but lacked the olive tint Geneviève had noted in the native peoples with whom she had previously come in contact. She put them at no more than six years of age, probably less.

“Let them go,” Dufresne growled, hand to his ear. “I’ll tell the chief who did this, and they’ll be sorely punished.”

The boy with the bird stepped forward, motioning to his cowering companion to stay put. His little cleft chin was elevated, his posture proud. “Madame and monsieur, my brother sorry. Shoot for turkey. He miss.”

“Accidents happen,” Geneviève said, trying not to laugh. Dufresne wouldn’t consider this a funny situation. “I am Geneviève. What is your name?”

“I am Tonaw.” Tonaw flung a hand backward and whacked the other boy on the chest. “My brother is Chazeh.”

Chazeh nodded without speaking, and Geneviève got the feeling Tonaw did most of the talking for the two of them. She thought of Émile and Serge and smiled. “You speak French very well.”

“My mother is good French lady. She teach.”

“Their mother is the woman we are going to see.” Dufresne walked around the little boys with barely a glance, gesturing for Geneviève to follow. Clearly he was tired of wasting time in conversation with children. “Nika is the best cook in the village. Her mother-in-law is a gifted medicine woman too, and I’m hoping she will do something about the notch in my ear.”

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry.” Geneviève followed Dufresne, but paused to look over her shoulder. “Boys, will you come with us?”

Chazeh shook his head, looking frightened, while Tonaw shot a resentful glare at the French officer’s back. “Yes, but mademoiselle, please do not tell that Chazeh shot the rooster-head. She mistake him for turkey and put him in the stew pot!”

She couldn’t help a shout of laughter. “I promise,” she said, laying a finger over her lips. The mischievous dimple in the boy’s brown cheek put her in mind of someone, but unable to put an exact face or name with the image, she shrugged it off and beckoned the children to walk with her in Dufresne’s wake.

In less than fifteen minutes, they reached the first hogans of the Mobile village. The two little boys ran ahead toward a one-room cottage thatched with palm fronds on a wooden pole frame. The slatted floor had been cleverly tied a foot or so off the ground, no doubt in deference to the nearby creek’s tendency to overflow its banks. Near the cottage was a small lattice-type enclosure made of river cane, in which a few chickens scratched and squawked, with a fat pig lolling in a muddy trough nearby.

In response to the boys’ shouts of greeting, a pretty young Indian woman appeared at the cottage’s open doorway. She answered in their own language, shooing them away on some errand, then lifted her hand to shield her eyes as Geneviève and Dufresne approached. She seemed to recognize the aide-major, but her expression was cautious as she looked past him at Geneviève.

Geneviève raised a hand in greeting as Dufresne turned and waited, scowling, until she caught up to him. She supposed she could hardly blame him for his bad temper. His wounded ear, still dripping blood onto the shoulder of his uniform, probably stung like fire.

“Nika, I have brought a friend to visit,” he said in French, drawing Geneviève’s hand through his arm. “This is Mademoiselle Gaillain—I mean Madame Lanier—newly come here from France. She would like to learn about cooking with native plants and herbs. I told her you’re the best cook in the village.”

“You are—Lanier, you say?” The young woman had shot a startled glance at Geneviève, then quickly schooled her expression into a smile. “The elusive Captain Marc-Antoine Lanier married at last?”

Geneviève shook her head. “No, his brother, Tristan.”

“Ah.” Nika’s smile neither grew nor dimmed, and Geneviève couldn’t tell what she made of the distinction.

She did her best to present a friendly mien. “My husband has gone as part of a peace contingent sent to the Alabama territory. I decided to occupy my time in learning to feed him.” Of course there was every chance that Tristan wouldn’t come back, but speaking that aloud wouldn’t help anything.

“The Alabama will not be easy to persuade, madame. A warlike people they are.”

“Please, call me Geneviève—or better yet, Ginette, as my friends do.” She impulsively held out her hands, sensing that the Indian woman might become a truer friend than the women of her own race. “I know my husband is on a dangerous mission. But I trust his life to God.”

Dufresne rolled his eyes. “You ladies will get along much better without me. I have business with the chief. Nika, is Mitannu in the village today?”

“He is with his father.” The Indian woman looked as if she wanted to question him, but with a quick glance at Geneviève, she stepped back. “Come inside, madame. You are welcome.”

“Madame, I’ll come for you—” Dufresne pulled a pocket watch from inside his coat and consulted it—“in three hours. I want to be back inside the fort well before dark.”

Geneviève addressed Nika. “Have you that much time to spare?”

“Of course.” Nika smiled and waved a dismissive gesture at Dufresne. “You are correct, sir. You are not needed.”

Dufresne bowed an ironical farewell, turned smartly on his high-heeled boots, and strode off toward the largest hogan in the village.

As Nika welcomed her into her home, Geneviève wondered what Dufresne’s business could be, then found herself caught up in studying the native cottage. Simple, clean, and neat, she decided. The thatched roof seemed to be well-made, for the floors, walls, and bedding—which had been rolled up and tied in bundles in one corner—were all dry and fragrant. Simple braided mats lay scattered over the raised floor, and Nika gestured for Geneviève to seat herself on one as she herself collapsed upon another.

“Your home is lovely,” Geneviève said politely, not quite sure how to start a conversation with one whose life was so entirely foreign to her own. “This is the first Indian house I have been in.”

Nika looked pleased. “Thank you. But it makes me laugh to be called an Indian. I believe our territories were mistakenly assumed to be the near eastern continent by your first explorers. Our clans and nations are as diverse, with regard to language and cultural habits, as are your own in Europe. It would be as if I lumped you and your countrymen with the Chinese.”

Geneviève laughed. “I see how that would be insulting. I’m sorry.”

Nika waved away the apology. “I find it funny.” Her smile faltered. “My husband, however, is not so easily amused. If you meet Mitannu, please do not call him anything other than Mobilian—or his name.”

“I’ll remember.”

“Thank you.” Nika tilted her head so that her heavy black hair swung over her shoulder. “You are the first Frenchwoman to visit the village. Are you not afraid I will kill you and eat you for dinner?”

Geneviève laughed again. “That never occurred to me. I think the other ladies aren’t afraid of you, so much as stumped by the language barrier. I’m surprised at how good your French is. Your boys speak well too. Well, Tonaw does,” she added, remembering Chazeh’s taciturnity.

“I had a good teacher.” Nika looked away. “I am Kaskaskian, of the Alabama people that your husband visits. Many years ago there was a young Frenchman who lived among us. We exchanged languages.”

“But aren’t the Alabama at war with the Mobile and other southern tribes? I hear stories of attacks and slave trading . . .”

“At the time of my marriage, there was an alliance, and I was given as a seal of peaceful intent.” Nika turned her hands palm up. “Alliances are broken all the time.”

Days had gone by since Geneviève thought of the war at home. As she looked into Nika’s troubled eyes, she saw the face of her childhood friend, Nicolette—Catholic Nicolette, who had loved Papa’s pastries and who had stopped talking to her when the bishop came for a visit.

“Yes,” she sighed. “Alliances can be broken.” She began to understand why Jean Cavalier had told her to find and trust Nika. The woman’s loyalties must be with her own clan, and the Alabama were known to favor the British over the French. Still she must be very careful. As careful as Nika herself. She smiled and opened her hands. “But I came to learn anything you have time to teach me about cooking with native fruits, grains, vegetables, meat, seafood . . . I’m realizing more each day that the way things were done in France won’t necessarily translate here.”

“It is true.” Nika grimaced. “The Frenchmen come here and complain about the lack of flour for bread, the toughness of the meat, the bland vegetables. There are ways to compensate, but as I said, the women will not come here to learn.” She shook her head with a smile. “Until today. Come. We will start with what to do with uche—corn. Such a useful grain.”

Nika took her out the back of the cottage, where the boys were playing some noisy game that involved crouching and leaping at one another, growling and wrestling in the dirt like young bear cubs. Smiling at their play, Geneviève stood there a moment looking around, shielding her eyes with her hand. Behind the cottage, which stood on a slight rise, lay a small garden plot, where browning cornstalks and other, smaller plants withered in the harsh autumn sun. It was obviously well tended, clear of weeds and planted in neat rows. A few chickens scratched and pecked near a thatched henhouse; behind it a blanket was suspended by its four corners atop a frame made of hickory poles. A well-worn path led from the main house down to a creek. In the distance, the roofs of other hogans appeared among the trees. It all looked domestic and remarkably civilized.

Geneviève discovered Nika to be a wonderful teacher. With humor and patience, the Indian woman explained and demonstrated the use of mortar and pestle, as well as a set of beautiful handmade baskets specialized for fanning and sifting the softened corn kernels.

“See? Easy as can be.” Nika’s dark eyes sparkled as she plunged her hand into a basket full of hominy, which she claimed could be used as cereal or bread, or even a thickener for meat and vegetable dishes. “Now we do it again . . . and again . . . and again.” With the gourd she scooped up more corn kernels and poured them into the mortar. “Would you like to take a turn with the pestle?”

“Of course.” Geneviève took the pole and set to work. She discovered the corn kernels had a tendency to slide away from the pounding of the pestle, and it took her a few moments to get the hang of keeping them centered in the bottom of the bowl. A primitive method of grinding grain, this, but there was a certain satisfaction in mashing the soft kernels and turning them into a substance that would feed a hungry family.

As a child, she used to love to accompany her father to the mill on the outskirts of the village, riding in the mule-drawn wagon for miles over craggy, sloping hills, following one of the streams that rushed from the top of the mountain to the valley below. In sight of the beautiful three-story stone mill, they would halt at the river’s edge for several moments to watch the water sluice over the paddle wheels, the roar drowning out every other sound for miles. After crossing the stone bridge and leaving the mule tethered outside the mill, they would clomp down the stairs to the ground floor, where Papa would inspect bag after bag of flour. “You must choose only the best ingredients, little cabbage,” he would tell her, touching her nose and leaving a dusting of flour that made her giggle and sneeze. “Good bread needs fine flour and strong yeast.”

They would return to the village and store the sacks of flour in the kitchen loft, then make loaf after fragrant loaf for customers who happily paid well for Monsieur Gaillain’s famous crusty bread.

Until the summer Jean Cavalier came to be Papa’s apprentice. Fiery, handsome young Jean, warrior for the cross, had changed them all. Geneviève, barely fourteen years old, had of course been in love with him and believed every word he preached. Papa saw truth in him and swayed Mama. But martyrdom? None of them had seen it coming.

No one guessed that neighbors who bought bread from Papa on a Friday would be cheering for the dragoons on Monday.

“Mademoiselle! Ginette! Come, you will have powder if you grind it anymore!”

Geneviève looked up blindly to find Nika’s face close, her strong hands on the pestle, halting Geneviève’s fierce jabs of the pole into the mortar. “I’m . . . sorry,” she said, loosening her grip and backing away in embarrassment. “I’m very sorry, Nika. But I have to talk to you about a message I must send to—to someone outside the French territory. I’m told you can do this.”

In all her short life, Aimée had rarely seen such a pigsty as Commander Bienville’s office. During the dinner she and Geneviève had attended a month ago, she had been able to inspect only the commander’s public rooms, and they had been neat and well cared for—due in large part, no doubt, to the work of his Indian servant women. Geneviève seemed to think those women were more than housekeepers and cooks, but then her sister tended to cynicism. Aimée preferred to think the best of people until proven otherwise.

But if the state of his office was anything to judge by, Bienville seemed to live rather a double life. There were papers and parchments everywhere. Maps, letters, bills of lading, receipts—those were the things she could see—and who knew what else was in the towering stack teetering on the edge of that gigantic teak desk. She saw a blowgun decorated with colorful feathers leaning against the wall in a corner, next to a long saber-ended musket and an oddly shaped piece of stiff hide, which she assumed was a shield of some sort. A pair of large muddy boots had been tossed into another corner, along with a shapeless tricorn hat. On the floor next to the desk was a wooden tray containing a decanter of some thick brown liquid, an empty tankard, and the smelly half-eaten carcass of a roasted hare.

The mess seemed not to bother Bienville, for he shoved a pile of ledgers out of his chair onto the floor and sat down, propping his elbows upon the leather journal in front of him. He was in uniform as usual, but his neck cloth was rumpled and loosely tied, and he needed a shave. Dark circles ringed his fine black eyes, and pain pinched his eyebrows together over that magnificent nose. Still, he was a handsome rascal. Aimée couldn’t help thinking of the exotic tattoos she’d once seen etched upon his broad dark back and densely muscled arms. It was too bad he was such an uncivilized lout.

After fat Father Henri took the only other chair in the room, the remaining company—Aimée, Françoise, Ysabeau, Jeanne, and her husband, La Salle—arranged themselves awkwardly about the office, waiting to be told what to do. Aimée stayed close to Ysabeau, both to make sure the impromptu cloak stayed about her shoulders and to keep the girl out of Father Henri’s line of vision. The man frankly made her skin crawl.

Before Bienville could so much as open his mouth, Father Henri and La Salle spoke simultaneously.

“Commander, you should know—”

“Commander, it is my opinion—”

The two men looked at one another indignantly as Bienville held up a large, elegantly manicured hand. “Gentlemen, this is my meeting, and I will ask the questions.” He looked at Françoise, who stood, shoulders back and spine straight, close to the door. “Mademoiselle, I grow weary of your charges cutting up my peace. What have you to say about this latest scandal?” He frowned at Ysabeau, who sat studying her fingers tented in front of her nose. She looked fairly cross-eyed.

Françoise, clearly uncowed by Bienville’s disapproval, clenched her hands at her waist. “I say that you have much to answer for, that you allow your men to gamble over this poor girl, and then treat her to the humiliation of marriage to a defector! How dare you blame a fragile, gently bred young lady for the sins of the roughnecks you call soldiers of the King? When I write to the Duchess to apprise her of the sad state of affairs here in the colony—that nearly every promise made to us before we boarded that wretched tub Pélican has been broken ten times over—”

“How dare you threaten me!” Bienville lurched to his feet, wincing at the sudden movement and grabbing his midsection. “I’m well aware that tattling letters have gone out from here already, spewing such lies that it’s a wonder the ships that carried them didn’t go up in flames.” He rounded on the priest, who sat gobbling in inarticulate outrage. “And that a supposedly holy father would contribute poison to the tales—I only regret the day I requested the bishop to send a shepherd for our flock, as he has seen fit rather to send a wolf in a sheep’s garment!”

Françoise’s gasp popped her mouth and aristocratically sleepy eyes wide open. Father Henri fell back in his chair, crimson of face, huffing and puffing. Ysabeau started to cry.

Aimée could tell that the confrontation had escalated well beyond Ysabeau’s public misdemeanor. She took her friend in her arms, shushing her as best she could, while listening for the next juicy explosion of political accusation. She had picked up from Julien Dufresne’s chance remarks that unspoken jealousy and competition for royal favor and financial reward had riven the parties of the colony asunder. But this overt vitriol was as entertaining as a play. Perhaps now she would gain a sense for where she should place her own loyalties.

She would once have placed her bets on Françoise, but Bienville seemed a formidable opponent. His rage loomed like clouds preceding a thunderstorm.

To this point, La Salle had hovered in the background near the door, arms folded over his shallow chest. Now he stepped toward Françoise, positioning himself and his silent young wife, who clung to his elbow, in clear alliance with the governess. “Father Henri, it would seem that the commander is not to be trusted with the King’s mail.” His tone was soft, controlled, and sarcastic. “I wonder if he also knows the number and sex of the sheep Madame La Salle and I have requested to be brought on the next ship from Havana.”

Bienville planted one palm flat on the desk and leaned over it to fix La Salle with dangerous eyes. “I have read no one’s mail, sir, and if you charge me with such, you are a liar. Your resentment of my authority is no secret, as you have bragged of your intent to play sneak-thief to anyone who would listen.”

Françoise took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Monsieur le Commandant, I beg you to reserve these personal contretemps for a later date. These children need to be settled as quickly as possible, wouldn’t you agree?” She glanced at Ysabeau, then ruefully met Aimée’s eyes.

Though Aimée would prefer not to have been lumped in the “children” category, she appreciated the governess’s diplomacy.

Bienville reddened. “I suppose,” he growled, looking at Aimée with little favor. “What have you to say for yourself, mademoiselle?”

“Sir, I’m not sure what triggered Ysabeau’s behavior, but it does seem to have something to do with Monsieur Connard. Your men claim that he has disappeared from the fort and the settlement without warning. Is this true?”

Bienville maneuvered himself upright again. “I . . . cannot vouch for his exact location at the moment.” He picked up a chunk of stone, carved in the shape of an ugly bird, which served as a paperweight on one of the piles on his desk. “When is the last time Madame Connard saw him?”

Aimée looked down at Ysabeau, who had fallen asleep like a child on her shoulder. She didn’t look like Madame anybody. “I honestly don’t know, sir. When I found her at the well, she was leaning into it, singing a nursery song. She seems to have retreated to some time before leaving France.”

“What do you mean?” Bienville dropped the paperweight with a thunk. “Has she forgotten everything that happened since?”

“I’m not sure.” Aimée would have given anything for her older sister’s wisdom. “She spoke of her father as if he were in the next room, and flirted with the soldiers like a—like a very young girl.” Which was precisely what she was—a very damaged young girl. Aimée struggled to explain the inexplicable. “I don’t understand it myself. I only know she is not the same Ysabeau she was the last time I saw her.”

Bienville frowned at Françoise. “What do you propose we do with her? She cannot walk about the settlement in her . . . undergarments!”

“She is her husband’s responsibility, and therefore yours, as the man’s superior officer.” Françoise’s expression was implacable.

Bienville looked horrified. “But you were paid to watch over these young ladies!”

“Yes, and my duties as well as my wages end with their marriage.”

“Perhaps, Commander,” La Salle said silkily, “you would like to rethink your insistence on maintaining the salaries of your layabout Canadians, in order to provide funds for a caretaker for the girl.”

Bienville rounded on him. “I’ll have you court-martialed for your insolence—”

“As I am neither your subordinate nor your inferior, you’ll do nothing of the sort. I answer directly to Pontchartrain.” La Salle extracted a tin of snuff from a small pocket in his waistcoat and removed a pinch, which he laid upon his wrist and inhaled. After sneezing, he regarded Bienville, blinking like a lizard in a sunny patch of garden.

Visibly gaining control of his temper, the commander tried a more moderate tack with Françoise. “Perhaps, then, mademoiselle, I might solicit one more favor for the Crown before you completely release your charges.” His charming, raffish smile made a sly appearance.

A tinge of pink stained Françoise’s high cheekbones. “What—what is it?”

Bienville grinned, clearly considering himself the victor in this battle of wills. “The most logical caretaker would be the nursing sisters, and I’m sure they’d agree to help, if you’d use your influence—”

“Out of the question,” La Salle interjected. “Mademoiselle Dubonnier is cousin to my wife. She will not add to the insult you have paid us by taking your part in this conflict.”

Father Henri heaved himself out of his chair and onto his feet. “Besides, the Sisters are servants of the church and are not to be at your beck and call. This situation has developed, sir, out of your own hasty, self-serving policies.”

“Is it so?” Bienville asked grimly. “I beg you to inform me of those policies so that I might properly repent.”

Father Henri failed to perceive the underlying threat. “Shall we start with failure to supervise your rowdy and ill-behaved men? And you have ignored the needs of sick soldiers. My parishioners are starving, because the food His Majesty sent to feed them has been sold to the Spanish to line your pockets—while the meager supplies left over are sold to the settlers at exorbitant prices.” Father Henri’s face grew redder and sweatier by the moment.

“I defy you to prove any of that.” Bienville’s voice grew softer, and Aimée would have bolted to the other side of the room, had she been in Father Henri’s sandals. “Quite to the contrary, I have swiftly punished any of my soldiers who step out of line. And La Salle will testify that I allotted money to you, to distribute among the soldiers only last week! What did you do with it?”

“Do not change the subject in an attempt to deflect your own guilt onto my head!” Father Henri wagged an accusatory finger.

La Salle didn’t seem to be any more intimidated than the priest. He gave Bienville a sour smile. “And proof of your price-gouging tactics will be discovered when Pontchartrain sends someone to audit the books and the contents of the warehouses.”

A flash of alarm reflected in the commander’s eyes. “I’ve not had word of an auditor arriving, other than my brother Iberville. I have expected him for some time now.”

La Salle shrugged. “Even your brother will not be able to help you when Pontchartrain sees the report from Dufresne’s ledgers. Perhaps you thought he was your partner in crime, Bienville, but he has gotten cocky of late—and, therefore, a bit sloppy. You may both find yourselves recalled before the year is out.”

Aimée sat up at that, jolting Ysabeau’s head off her shoulder. Julien Dufresne could not be in trouble—could he? Did that have anything to do with his trip to the Indian village with Geneviève?

She would have a thing or two to say to her sister when she got back to the settlement.

“I want to send a message to . . . family who have settled in the British Carolinas.” Geneviève stumbled over the lie, telling herself that the Huguenots with whom she needed to communicate were spiritual brothers and sisters, if not by blood. Nika would not understand that, so there was no point in trying to explain.

Nika, kneeling in front of a small cookfire, tending the bread frying in a shallow cast-iron pan, looked up at Geneviève. Her expression was bland. “I can get it there, but how will the messenger find them?”

“Will you not take it yourself?”

Nika shook her head. “How could I leave my boys long enough to deliver a letter some eight hundred miles away? I am part of a system of runners operating throughout the Spanish, English, and French territories. We are not political, and no questions are asked at either end.” Holding the pan by its handle, she briskly flipped the bread to reveal a beautiful brown crust, then set it back on the grate over the fire. “Do not fear. Your message will arrive safely.”

Geneviève bit her lip. She had no choice but to trust Nika and her couriers. She slid her hand into the interior pocket of her skirt. Her feelings about sending this message were more than mixed. Though its contents were little more than an acknowledgment of her arrival in the colony, writing to the King’s enemy could still be construed as treason.

But she had promised Cavalier.

She slowly slipped the letter out of her pocket and proffered it to Nika with a trembling hand. “This must go to a man in Charlestown, named Elie Prioleau. He is a . . . pastor, a very holy man, well respected. He will handsomely reward whoever brings him this letter.”

Nika looked at her for a moment before setting the sizzling frying pan aside. She took the paper from Geneviève’s hand, carefully folded it, and tucked it inside the bodice of her dress. “I will make sure it gets to him. Do you expect him to answer right away?”

Geneviève looked away. “I don’t know. Probably not.” Had she been foolish to choose to come to New France instead of finding a way to get to the Carolinas herself? But to come among a people who served the British king, even though they worshiped as her family had worshiped . . .

But if she had not come to Fort Louis, she would never have met Tristan Lanier. Never to have known his laughter, his burning dark eyes, the kiss that had all but drowned her. His awkward, courtly bow, his scarred hands that had touched her so gently in the darkness.

Nika gave her another searching look, then nodded. “All right then. I will let you know if anything comes back.”

With that she had to be satisfied.