19

Dawn sent a pale prism of light filtering through the narrow window in the infirmary’s exterior wall as Geneviève woke sitting straight up in the ladder-back chair Lefleur had brought in for her last night. Bienville had decided not to send for Sister Gris, who had been in sickbed herself for several days, and curtly assigned Geneviève the role of nurse. Requesting that she let him know if Barraud awoke with further information, the commandant and his officers had since been holed up in his office, putting together a plan to deal with this new crisis.

Geneviève had been attending the surgeon-major alone for the last four hours, with a young cadet stationed outside the guardhouse to relieve her at intervals and to run for any supplies she required.

Barraud continued to breathe with labored irregularity, stirring every so often out of a feverish stupor into muscle spasms and unintelligible muttering. Geneviève had changed the dressing of his wound every couple of hours. Upon uncovering it for the first time, she had turned away at the stench of rotting flesh, certain that she would be sick. But she gathered her willpower and, with Cadet Foussé holding the surgeon down, cut away the blackened wad of damp pine resin with which Barraud had packed his own wound.

Despairing of his recovery, she had sent Foussé to Sister Gris for her recommendation of herbs with which to redress it. The ensuing hours passed in an endless cycle of checking the surgeon’s thready pulse, turning his pillow, washing the festering wound, and praying for some miracle to save the men Barraud had abandoned in the Alabama woods.

Tristan, she thought, sitting rigid in the half-light of dawn. My husband. My heart. How can it be that you left me so soon?

It wasn’t possible to think of his vital flesh gone to dust. Surely God had not done this violence to her again. Surely Barraud was mistaken.

She reached out to place a finger at his neck again. He still lived.

Awaken, you wretched drunkard. Wake up and tell me my husband lives.

The wretched drunkard twitched and emitted a dense snore. Geneviève released him and put her hand in her lap. She heard music in her head and, unthinking, began to hum along.

Girls are faithful like gold and silver, Mommy, boys are fickle like rain and wind.

She lifted her head, which had drooped until her chin rested on her chest. That was a real voice, a thin, eerie soprano coming from the other side of the building. Ysabeau. She’d forgotten all about the poor girl, contained for her own safety in a guardhouse cell meagerly furnished with a bed, a washbasin, and a chamber pot.

She got up, glancing at Barraud, who lay still as death. She wouldn’t be away from him for long. She crossed to the open infirmary door and leaned out. The guardhouse cells were contained on the other side of a thick wall strengthened on the outside by forged iron bars and accessed through a steel door. Surely it would be locked.

But she crossed the breezeway between the two sides of the building anyway and rattled the latch of the guardhouse door. It lifted easily in her hand, so she pushed the heavy door inward and slipped inside. There were three unoccupied cells, with Ysabeau in the fourth corner cell. She sat on the floor beside the cot, wearing nothing but her shift and corset, twisting her hair and singing.

Geneviève walked up to the bars of the cell. Compassion instantly seared her, flooding her eyes with tears. She sank to the floor, the cold iron bars sliding through her palms, until she was knee to knee with the prisoner. She thought of the way the women at the party last night had whispered about Ysabeau, mercilessly, as if she had voluntarily cast herself into madness and refused to come back. Having stared into that abyss herself, Geneviève knew it wasn’t that simple. Madness rooted itself in a garden of fear, growing to tangle about one like prison chains. Only by God’s grace had she found the strength to escape.

She began to hum with Ysabeau. She didn’t know all the words, but the tune was familiar, a song that her mother had sung while she sewed, cleaned, and tended the family garden. Beautiful, sad Mama, who had grieved herself into the grave when Papa was gone.

In the middle of the last verse, Ysabeau stopped singing. “He took my clothes away.”

“What?” Geneviève blinked away tears. “Who?”

“René. He was fickle too. He wed me and he left me. He said he would never come back. Because I wouldn’t do what he wanted.”

Geneviève could hardly bear the despair in Ysabeau’s eyes. Tristan left me too. But not like this, never like this. “Ysabeau, no one can take your clothes. It’s not right that you—you uncover yourself like this. I’ll give you my other dress. I don’t need it.”

Ysabeau sighed and leaned her head on her hand. “Aimée tried to give me her dress too. But I want mine. I want the yellow one he tore when I said no.”

“He tore your dress?” Geneviève thought she might go mad herself from outrage. Why had Bienville not chased René Connard all the way to Pensacola and brought him back to be flogged? “Did you tell the commander this?”

Ysabeau shook her head sadly. “A wife should not say no. They would lock me up in the guardhouse.”

Geneviève wondered if Ysabeau knew where she was.

Before she could ask, Ysabeau continued, “I heard Aimée agree to marry Monsieur Dufresne. I don’t think she should. He’s a fickle boy too. He came in to visit me after she left.” She scowled. “I do not like Monsieur Dufresne.”

Neither do I, thought Geneviève. “He won’t bother you again,” she said. “You may come to live with me and work in the bakery. And I’ll make you another yellow dress.” She had no idea where she would get the fabric. Neither did she know how to free Ysabeau from the guardhouse, but when she explained about Connard and Dufresne—

“There is someone drowning in the hall,” Ysabeau said, wrapping her arms around her knees. “We’re all drowning.”

Geneviève looked over her shoulder at the open door. “There’s no one—”

But a gurgling, raspy voice could indeed be heard faintly from the direction of the infirmary. Barraud had awakened. She’d forgotten all about him.

She scrambled to her feet. “I shall come back later,” she promised Ysabeau. Without waiting for an answer, she dashed across the hallway into the infirmary.

She found the surgeon attempting to sit up, wild-eyed, clutching at the bandage over his shoulder. It was already seeping greenish blood. Frightened, Geneviève pushed him down on his back again. “You mustn’t, sir! Lie still, I beg you.”

“Tell Bienville—the Koasati attacked—” Barraud gasped for breath, closing his eyes—“middle of the night,” he mumbled. “I knew we shouldn’t have—”

The broken report ended as Barraud fainted again.

Geneviève stared at him, one hand on his good shoulder, the other over her own pounding heart. She felt an insane urge to shake him until his teeth rattled. “Oh, no. No no no. Wake up! What happened to Tristan?”

“I fear your husband is dead, Mademoiselle. I mean, Madame.” Julien Dufresne sauntered up from behind her to stand looking down at the surgeon, hands clasped behind his back. He looked concerned, as if he had just discovered a scuff on one of his shiny boots. “Those treacherous Indians.” He shook his head. “Barraud is right. We shouldn’t have trusted them.”

Tristan tied the pirogue off at the landing below Fort Louis, where a couple of young cadets waited to help him and his Indian companions ashore. He leaped onto the sandy beach without aid and stopped to stretch aching shoulder and chest muscles, relieved to have the long downriver journey behind him. Bienville would not be happy with his report, but Tristan was anxious to deliver it. In fact, he hadn’t even spared the time to bury the massacred members of his party.

All three Koasati boys he had met in the woods had been eager to accompany Tristan back to the French settlement. The chief had been reluctant to allow both his sons, Fights With Bears and Turtle Boy, to travel so far together, but he seemed to understand the necessity of sending representatives to demonstrate the good will of the clan. In the end, he decided to let them go, along with their tall, lanky cousin, Little Frog.

While Tristan had waited in unbearable impatience to be gone, the chief outfitted the youths in traditional ceremonial costume of fine deer-leather breechclouts and leggings, with heavy woven necklaces made of dyed river reeds clanking against their scarred chests and tufts of feathers tied into the formal topknots of their hair. He then carefully painted red-and-yellow streaks across the boys’ cheekbones, speaking to them of courage and pride and brotherhood. They must represent the Koasati village of the Alabama nation well. And they must bring back presents to prove they had earned the respect of the French King.

Duly noted, thought Tristan, shifting from one foot to the other. Presents.

He had already given a set of stockings to each of the three boys, plus a blanket and a musket for the chief. He wondered what had become of the rest of the goods the contingent had brought upriver.

At the massacre site he had scared away the buzzards with a couple of musket shots and then assessed the scene. Two puddles of blood, one near the fire and one at some distance, indicated that Marc-Antoine and Barraud had either escaped or been taken prisoner by the attackers. The one farthest away seemed to have been dragged off into the woods, where Tristan lost the trail in a sudden rainstorm. The other trail of blood disappeared at the river. One of the pirogues was missing, so presumably either Marc-Antoine or Barraud had gotten away in it.

By the time Tristan retraced his steps to the camp, heavy rain had obliterated all traces of the fight. But it appeared that the two soldiers, Guillory and Saucier, had died quickly, their throats cut, while the priest had been shot in the head from behind. As he had inspected the evidence of the massacre, a blind rage nearly tore him apart. First Sholani, now this. His brother, murdered by—

There he stopped, for he couldn’t say who had done it. He couldn’t help glancing back toward the village he had left that morning. The Koasati had been receptive to his offer of peace and friendship; it didn’t seem likely that they would have perpetrated this unholy murder.

In the end, all he could do was take the story of what he had found back to the Koasati chief and watch for reaction. And he could swear that what he saw in the face of the chief was genuine shock and sorrow—and worry, lest the French blame him for the massacre and retaliate.

Hence the chief’s willingness to send three valuable young braves down to Louisiane with assurances of alliance.

Fights With Bears, followed by Little Frog and Turtle Boy, leaped lightly from the boat onto the pier, showing little physical effects of the journey. Rainstorms had dogged them off and on as they pulled the oars through the swift southward current of the Alabama river, sluicing over rapids here and there, and then tying up to make a fire, cook a couple of large fish, and sleep on the riverbank at night.

Tristan had found the young Koasati to be amusing and energetic companions, apt to pull pranks on one another, but always willing to take a turn at the oars and to share camp chores. Each carried a spear, as well as a fine ash bow and a quiver of well-made arrows, with which they competed to show off their hunting and fishing skills.

Under other circumstances he might have enjoyed the adventure and appreciated the boys’ obvious excitement at being so far away from home and out from under their chief’s gimlet eye. But before Tristan could even kiss his wife, he had a difficult encounter with Bienville ahead of him.

Bracing himself at the top of the bluff, he turned and shrilled down a whistle that brought the young Indians, who had stopped to gape at the imposing stockade around the fort, running effortlessly up to join him.

“Big guns!” marveled Little Frog, pointing to a cannon poking its snub nose from a corner bastion. “Boom!” He mimicked falling backward, slyly whacking his elder cousin in the chest.

Fights With Bears dodged neatly, catching up to Tristan. “My father will be glad to hear of this powerful protection. He says we may retreat here, if the Kaskaskian devils attack us. He has talked of moving the village south.”

Tristan wondered if Bienville had any notion what hopes and assumptions he had fostered in his Indian allies along the river. How were they expected to feed several hundred extra hungry mouths on the meager amount of supplies they were allotted by the Crown, when the colonists were having such bad luck with the production of food crops?

At the fort’s main gate, a young sentry he didn’t recognize stepped in front of him, gun across his chest. Tristan stopped, gesturing for the Koasati youths to stay behind him. They obeyed, sobering, as if they understood the gravity of their presence in the settlement. Tristan hoped they did.

The sentry’s eyes widened as if he recognized Tristan. “C-Captain Lanier?” he stammered. “Y-you’re supposed to be dead!”

Tristan’s heart slammed into his throat. “I’m Tristan Lanier, the captain’s brother. You knew about the massacre?”

“Yes, sir.” The cadet swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Surgeon-Major Barraud got here last night, but he died this morning. He said everybody else in the party was dead.” The boy looked Tristan up and down. “You aren’t dead!”

And neither was Marc-Antoine, please, God. Tristan smiled grimly in spite of his weariness and anxiety. “I certainly am not. Where’s the commander?”

The cadet lowered his bayonet and shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. Probably at headquarters with the other officers. They’ve been making plans to go after the Koasati.”

Tristan could feel the tension jerk behind him as the Indian boys heard the reference to Koasati. He hoped they didn’t understand its context. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Let us through. I must present my report.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy saluted, despite Tristan’s present lack of military rank or uniform, then moved back to his post in the guard tower.

Tristan beckoned Fights With Bears, Turtle Boy, and Little Frog to follow and headed for headquarters. He could feel the stares of the soldiers drilling in the quad following him all the way across the green. Ignoring them, he took the shallow steps onto the gallery two at a time and banged on the doorframe with the side of his fist. As he waited, he could hear voices from inside, loud with strain and tension. One was Bienville’s familiar growl, another La Salle’s nasal drawl, and two others he couldn’t immediately identify.

After a long minute, he heard boots thunking against the wooden floor.

“Didn’t you understand the commander’s order that we aren’t to be disturbed?” Châteaugué, Bienville’s younger brother, appeared in the doorway scowling. His eyes widened. “Lanier! Thought you were dead.”

“So I heard. Let me in.”

Châteaugué’s gaze flicked to the Indians behind Tristan.

“They’re with me. Now let me in so I can bring a report.”

Châteaugué stepped back, plowing a murderous stare into the young natives. “Commander’s office.”

Tristan nodded and headed for the office, the three boys on his heels and Châteaugué bringing up the rear. Without bothering to knock, he strode into Bienville’s office. He found the commander seated at his desk, with La Salle and Dufresne ranged at two corners and Châteaugué’s empty chair across. All three officers gaped at him with varying degrees of shock.

“I know. I’m supposed to be dead,” Tristan said, heading off the inevitable. “Sentry said Barraud made it back. What about my brother?”

By now Bienville was on his feet. “No. And Barraud’s dead. What happened? You look unscathed.” His expression was almost accusatory, as if Tristan’s escape made him culpable in the attack.

And perhaps he was. How could he say for sure? He looked away from his old friend’s gaze. “Could we sit down? I’d be grateful for a drink, and for these men too.” He gestured toward his companions, who had lingered close to the door, shifting from one foot to the other. “Fights With Bears, Turtle Boy, and Little Frog.”

Châteaugué moved toward a side table supplied with a pitcher of ale and a clutch of tankards.

Dropping into his chair, Bienville regarded the Indians with suspicion. “They’re Koasati. Have you lost your mind?”

Handing Tristan a tankard, Châteaugué kicked the empty chair into the center of the room and gestured for Tristan to take it. “I’ll stand.” He walked toward the door, where the Indian boys were crouched against the wall. Folding his arms, he stood amongst them, disapproval in every line of his body.

Tristan sat, assessing the potential threat in La Salle and Dufresne’s presence. So far both had remained watchful, silent, as if waiting for an opportunity to object. La Salle was always at odds with the commander, Dufresne a boot-licking toady. Châteaugué, of course, would back his brother.

He met Bienville’s frowning gaze. “I don’t believe the Koasati are responsible for the attack. I spent that night in their village and smoked peace with the chief. I was awake most of the night. I would have heard the attackers leave or return if they had been Koasati.”

Dufresne leaned forward. “I heard Barraud’s description of the attackers before he died. Cockscomb headdresses, red-and-yellow paint streaks on cheeks and chin—” He gave the Indian boys a murderous look. “Do you deny the similarity in their costume?”

“No, but listen. These boys could have killed me the day of the attack when I came across them hunting. They didn’t. In fact, we shared a meal together, all of us, and they invited me to return with them. Why would they wait until night to attack?”

“Perhaps to lull you into false security,” Dufresne said, looking to La Salle for corroboration. “The Alabama clans have hated us for years. They’ve invited in the British and traded slaves from the southern tribes in return for arms.”

La Salle grunted agreement. “Don’t forget they’ve killed our missionaries too. Which is why Father Albert is so reluctant to leave the fort and start a mission there.”

Dufresne pressed the point. “We mustn’t tolerate such outrage.” He shoved his chair back, stood, and sent Turtle Boy a contemptuous look. “We’ve got to retaliate, show them who is strongest.”

Tristan leaped to his feet. “Bienville, if you execute payback to the wrong clan, you’ll start a war you won’t be able to end. Listen to me—make certain of the facts before you act.”

Bienville pinched the bridge of his nose. “The war is already begun! Lanier, they murdered your brother, not to mention another of our priests!”

That just might be true, though Tristan prayed not. If Marc-Antoine lay dead, somewhere in the Alabama forest, he knew not how he would survive. Still, his gut told him the Koasati were innocent. Somehow he had to prove it.

“Let me take Deerfoot and these three boys, plus another man of your choosing. Give us two weeks, and we’ll discover who’s really behind the massacre. If we haven’t returned by then, launch your attack and I’ll stay out of the way.”

“Or what?” snarled La Salle. “You’ll go renegade and join your precious Indians against your own people?”

Tristan fought to keep Bienville’s fractured attention. “Commander, my wife is here! I may be disgusted with the lot of you, but I’m no traitor.” More calmly he added, “You know that’s true, no matter what happened between us.”

Bienville stared at him, indecision in every line of his body. But there was also a flicker of guilt. “The irony is inescapable. You blamed me when I didn’t pursue Sholani’s captors.”

Tristan nodded. “Fair enough—but this is different.” He pressed for compromise. “I know you don’t want all-out war with the Indians, not with the British hoping we’ll annihilate ourselves in the process. Listen, keep one of the boys hostage here, as a sign of good faith.” He glanced back at Fights With Bears. “His father is the Koasati chief.”

Fights With Bears surged to his feet. Though he didn’t understand French, he clearly sensed the conflict in the room. Proudly he hit his chest with a fisted hand. “The Koasati are afraid of nothing,” he said, addressing Tristan. “My father bids me follow you into battle.”

Tristan held Bienville’s gaze. The commander had a fair command of the Alabama tongues himself. Surely the Indian boy’s courageous words must sway him to common sense.

Châteaugué grabbed Fights With Bears’ arm. “You cannot trust this savage, Bienville! If we wait to go on the offense, they may bring the violence to us here, gathering up all the other clans along the way.” He glared at Tristan. “Lanier is a traitor, and don’t forget he’s trained to negotiate with words. You ought not trust him either.”

Julien had been so sure that he’d killed the proverbial two birds with one stone. Lanier’s escape now made everything so much more complicated.

Bienville had assigned him the task of inspecting the powder magazine and delegating the inventory of weapons in the event that the garrison went on the defensive. What the commander had not agreed to was calling out an immediate detachment to march north and attack the Alabama nation. Apparently Lanier was to be granted his two weeks to obtain proof of the Koasatis’ inculpability in the murder of three of His Majesty’s men and a priest. Bienville might be an erratic and gullible fool, but no one could deny his loyalty to old allies. Any other garrison commander would have had Lanier hanged as a traitor, rather than allowing him to keep one of the largest tracts of land in His Majesty’s southern colony.

At least there was incontrovertible evidence that Father Mathieu had perished, and with him documentation of Lanier’s legitimation and claim to their father’s title. Now all he had to do was secure his rival’s demise—again—and the gates to the de Leméry fortune would once more swing open before him.

As though it were a symbol of that latent fortune, he pulled open the heavy iron-bound door to the powder magazine. Before him marched row upon row, ceiling high, of dry powder kegs. It was a goodly store and would provide plenty of ammunition in case of siege or attack—but should Bienville decide to fling their small garrison into Anglo-Indian war, it would be depleted soon enough. And if some natural disaster such as fire or flood destroyed the magazine . . .

Julien allowed himself a secret smile. There was no limit to what the commander would pay the one who possessed the resources to replace it.

For two days Geneviève had barely had time to mourn Father Mathieu. She had taken it upon herself to provide meals for Ysabeau Bonnet, still incarcerated in the guardhouse—and in the process to make sure the various young cadets assigned to prevent her escape did not sneak in to “comfort” the girl with their unwanted caresses. The commander, having now much more pressing concerns than the madwoman in his prison, seemed not to care whether Geneviève fed her or not.

Under the circumstances, she hadn’t the temerity to approach him with her suspicions regarding Ysabeau’s treatment at the hands of his men. But she found to her surprise that her agreement to tend the now deceased Surgeon-Major Barraud had purchased a certain amount of favor in the eyes of the commandant. And so when she requested permission of the sentry guarding the fort’s principal gate to exit into town, the cadet gave her a hasty, wide-eyed salute accompanied by an inexplicably sly grin and let her pass.

The slate-colored clouds blocking the sun today seemed to reflect her morose spirits. As one in a stupor, she walked past the vacant corner home of deceased hero Henri de Tonti. So many good men gone, killed by fever or violence. Hardly anybody in this place lived to quiet old age.

Not Élisabeth le Pinteaux. Not Angela Lemay’s baby. Not Father Mathieu. Not Tristan’s good friend Charles Levasseur, in whose home they had spent their wedding night. And she must face reality—perhaps not even Tristan.

She hesitated, turned the corner, and faced Levasseur’s still vacant house, cattycorner from the home of the Lemay family, with whom she had become quite friendly. Serge and Émile would now run for her when they saw her, and she loved to scoop them up in both arms, reveling in their musky little-boy smell of dust and sweat and fresh air. Angela of course still bitterly mourned the loss of her baby. The simple proximity of coincidental facts—the baby’s death at the same time that Ysabeau’s hold on reality snapped—had convinced the young mother to lay blame at the only door available.

Geneviève had done everything in her power to prevent two tragedies creating a third. Continuing her slow walk toward the seminary burial grounds, she gave a heavy sigh. Finally she felt prepared to pay her formal respects to Father Mathieu. It occurred to her that Jean Cavalier would want to know of his friend’s martyrdom. Somehow she would have to get another message to the Carolina pastor. The familiar ache of dread gnawed at her stomach. No matter how much she owed Jean, the underhanded way she had to communicate with him continued to trouble her.

Shaking off fruitless worry, she picked up her pace. She still had a list of chores to complete in the kitchen at Burelle’s before she could lay her aching head upon her pillow for the night. Halfway down the street, she heard a sharp whistle behind her.

“Hey, Madame! I am in the market for someone to bake me a boatload of bread. I will pay well, should you know someone who can oblige me.”

She stopped. That almost sounded like . . .

Heart leaping, she turned. And there he was, leaning against one of the posts holding up Levasseur’s porch, sunburnt, bareheaded, and coatless, grinning at her utter astonishment. With a shriek she ran for him, oblivious to public decorum, heedless of the scandalous amount of shin bared as she picked up her skirt to free her stride.

Tristan caught her halfway up the steps and swung her off the ground, hauling her hard into his embrace, staggering backward with her until they bounced against the front of the house and rolled inside the open doorway. He kicked the door shut and leaned back against it, holding her so tightly that she could feel the hammering of his heart against hers.

“I missed you,” he said, and kissed her.

Eagerly she responded, fearless this time. Drunk on sensation, she knew not how much time had passed before he loosened his grip enough to allow her feet to touch the floor. With her arms looped around his neck, she tipped her head back to see his face. “What’s the matter?” Her lips felt numb.

“Nothing.” His expression was quizzical. “I just wanted to make sure I’m not—”

“You aren’t hurting me,” she said fiercely. “I’m as strong as you are.”

He laughed and drew his thumb across her lips and cheek. “You look like you’ve been rubbing noses with a bear.”

She smiled and tugged his beard. “No doubt I have.” She sobered. “I was afraid you were—”

“Dead, I know. Seems to have been the popular belief.” The smile faded as he searched her face. “I’m so sorry about Father Mathieu. I know how much you loved him.”

“Yes.” She laid her head on his chest to mask the sorrow that knifed through her joy. “I—I still cannot believe it’s true. I feel as if he ought to swing through the door at any moment with a child by the hand, asking for cake batter or beignets.” She paused and made herself say the words. “And your brother—”

“He is not dead.”

The grit in his voice grieved her more than Mathieu’s death. “Tristan, wishing will not make it so.”

“Bienville says Barraud was out of his mind with fever. He thought I was dead too, remember?”

“Yes, but—”

“Geneviève, I studied the campsite. Marc-Antoine’s body wasn’t there. It looked like someone dragged him off into the woods and then went back to cover the trail. Carefully and cleverly done, but if you knew what to look for, it was obvious. The Indians who perpetrated the raid wouldn’t have bothered. They left the other three bodies where they fell.”

She stared up at him, perplexed. “Who would have done such a thing?”

“I don’t know, but my brother isn’t dead. I just know it.” He laid his cheek against the top of her head. “And there’s one other thing I know right now—my wife will be in my arms until I leave again tomorrow.”