Chapter Fourteen

André lay atop his wife, his cock still buried in her. His breath eluded him. Nothing in his imagination could match the feel of her throbbing under him, the salt–and–woman taste of her, and the heat and pressure of her body sheathing him, even now. He struggled to find his bearings, but his senses seemed to have scattered to the four corners of the earth. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that he’d lost something, maybe the part of him that knew better than to spill his seed into a woman's body.

Genevieve shifted beneath him. He kissed her temple, and then lifted himself on his elbows to look down upon her face. Her eyes mirrored his own lingering surprise, his own sense of dazed rapture.

She smiled. “This is a thousand times better than wintering with the Jesuits.”

He laughed but the humor quickly faded. Her comment reminded him that he had tried to save her for a better fate, and he had failed.

“Come.” He shifted his weight. “You must be cold.”

“Let's stay here for a while.”

“We'll stay. But I'm crushing you, and the ground must be hard against your back.”

She winced as he pulled out and he felt another twinge of guilt. She may not have been a virgin, but from what she’d told him, she had little experience. His tastes had always veered toward women of more experience, and in the mad fog of their lovemaking, he had no idea if he’d been too hard on her.

She sat up and tossed her skirts over her legs, then wrapped her arms around herself. She pulled her rumpled deerskin blanket from beneath her hips. “Come keep me warm under this.”

He pulled her on top of him. Pebbles dug into his back, and he realized how hard a bed he had given her for their lovemaking. She spread the blanket over them, kicking it down to protect them both from the cold air. She pressed her cheek against his chest.

For a long time they lay in silence. He listened to the murmur of the autumn night and smelled the tart scent of rain on the wind. He stared at the star–filled sky as he ran his hands through her tangled hair. His mind raced with so many conflicting emotions, with so much guilt, yet lying with her body warm and still atop him, he felt an unusual, rare sort of peace.

“André?”

“Mmm?”

She plucked at the ties of his deerskin shirt. “Is it always … like that?”

He wanted to tell her that lying with a woman had never been like this. That he felt like a virgin—right down to the sharp pain he felt because in the end he sensed he would bring this woman nothing but sorrow.

He told her none of these things. Instead, he brushed her hair off her face and let his hand linger on her cheek.

“For us, Taouistaouisse, it will always be like that.”

That much, at least, he could promise.

 

***

 

André stood in the stern of the canoe, squinting at the clouds in the distance. The waters of Lake Superior swelled beneath the laden vessel. Twice in seven days, he had seen what looked like whitewater breaking on a reef, only to discover that it was a storm, descending with fury. Fortunately, both times he and his men had made it through the black, choppy water to the protection of the scalloped shore. But he didn't relish another brush with fate. And right now, the air smelled like an oncoming squall.

A swell bobbled the canoe as they veered off into deep water. A groan rose from the deerskin–covered form at his feet.

Wapishka said, “Oui, I smell a storm too, Blossom.” He pulled another powerful stroke. “But this Indian guide knows Mishipeshu better than us.”

André frowned. Mishipeshu was a spiny–backed, horned creature of Ojibwa legend who, with one swipe of his tail, could swirl up the wind and the waves on Lake Superior. He didn't welcome another battle with him now that they were in the middle of a bay. He glared at the forward canoe and wondered if the Ojibwa guide he had hired at Sault Sainte Marie really knew what he was doing. Normally, he would never hire a guide when he could explore the land himself, but since they had left Manitoulin Island, the morning frosts had grown more persistent, the nights colder. He knew that if he did not arrive at Chequamegon Bay soon, the lake would grow grim with ice, and he and his men would be forced to walk the last long leagues across frozen land. So he had hired an Indian who knew the way, an Indian who now blithely forged across open water toward a distant peninsula in the midst of a gathering storm.

“That Indian is in league with the Iroquois.” Tiny lifted his paddle and waved at the forward canoe. “He’s sending us right into the dragon's mouth!”

“Mishipeshu can't be out here.” Genevieve's pale face peeped out from the edge of the blanket. “I'm sure I swallowed him.”

Tiny said, “Didn't my squaw's brew do you any good?”

“Mishipeshu didn't like it at all.” She sat up and pulled the deerskin around her shoulders. “He's been chasing his tail all morning.”

Despite her words, his wife looked better than she had in days. Her skin was pale, but it was no longer as green as boiled peas. The noxious, watery brew that Tiny's new wife had prepared seemed to have made her feel better.

It was ironic that after all the portages, all the whitewater, and nine hundred miles of rivers and lakes, it was this final leg of the journey that was physically challenging her. The first day out on Lake Superior, she told him that the rocking of the canoe on the enormous lake reminded her of the sea voyage from France to Quebec. He remembered what she'd looked like after that voyage. He didn't want her sick. He wanted her strong and healthy and determined and bold. More than anything, he wanted her to turn to him in the night and press her body against his like they had on Manitoulin Island.

He tightened his grip on the cedar handle of his paddle. Under the influence of her touch, he had about as much restraint as a fourteen–year–old fumbling with his first girl. Only three nights after their lovemaking, he reached for her but she told him that it was “her time.” Though the news left him with aching balls, at least he knew she wasn't pregnant.

Not yet, anyway.

“Why are we so far from the shore?” she asked.

“We have to portage over that peninsula.” He nodded toward the strip of land in the distance. “If we land high on the peninsula, it will take less time to cross it.”

“If we make it across this bay,” Tiny mumbled.

The Duke knelt in the bow of the boat. He took his paddle out of the water and balanced it across his knees. The Indian pulled what was left of a carrot of tobacco from the pouch hanging from his belt. He cut off a hunk, lifted it in the air, and then tossed it into the water.

“By the Martyrdom of Saint Joseph.” Tiny stopped paddling. “There's barely a carrot left of that tobacco.”

The Duke shrugged. “Mishipeshu asks only for a sacrifice.”

Simeon shook his black–bearded head, muttering, “pagan rubbish.”

The Duke dipped his paddle back into the water with a shrug. “The tobacco will do us little good if we drown.”

Wapishka and Tiny looked at one another, then at Julien and the Roissier brothers behind them. Their paddles clattered against their knees as they dug into their near–empty pouches for the last vestiges of tobacco. Curled brown leaves fluttered to the lake and bobbed on the swells in their wake.

“It's all your sacrifices to false gods,” Simeon warned, “that will bring God's fury upon us.”

Tiny closed his pouch and settled his paddle back in the water. “For all you know, Mishipeshu and God may be one creature with a different name.”

“Blasphemy!”

She reached for her battered case and unknotted the ragged ties. Gripping it on her lap, she riffled through the contents. “I have nothing to offer,” she murmured. “I don't think Mishipeshu would appreciate pins or linens.”

His scrotum tightened as she held up something lacy, a knot of corset strings, and a frilly edge of a shift. Deeper in the case, he saw a swatch of green velvet. He found himself wondering what it would be like to see her dressed like a civilized Frenchwoman in the midst of this wilderness—stiff–backed from a boned corset, her breasts thrust up, her legs rustling beneath yards and yards of underskirts. But as soon as the image materialized in his head, he started thinking about stripping the layers from her body until she was naked as the day she was born.

He reached inside his pouch and pulled out the end of a stick of tobacco. “Here. Offer this.”

“Don't you want some?”

“Mishipeshu would probably prefer it from your hands.”

She held the tobacco in her palm, closed her eyes, and then tossed it into the water.

“Look what you've all done,” Simeon raged, “corrupting a good Christian—”

“Oh, put a pipe in it, Simeon,” she exclaimed. “And paddle, will you? Before Mishipeshu stirs and we become the next sacrifice into these waters.”

He didn't know whether to bless the tobacco sacrifices or just plain luck when all his canoes and all the squaws who followed pulled into the mouth of a river on the peninsula, just as the squall burst overhead. It rained furiously, and then the storm passed as quickly as it had come. They paddled upstream to a lake as far as they could go, and then spent the last light of day portaging across the rest of the peninsula. They finally set up camp on the shores of the west side just as the sun sank below the horizon.

Pleased to be on land, Genevieve ate more than her share of the dwindling reserves of sagamité, even daring to complain about the lack of meat. She looked at him so longingly as she entered the tent that it took all his will not to chase in after her and to hell with his responsibilities.

But his canoe had been damaged during the trip across the peninsula. He and The Duke had stumbled over some rocky ground and dropped the vessel, ripping a hole in its belly. If he intended to be in the water tomorrow, it had to be fixed immediately. He stayed up late into the night with Tiny, Wapishka, and The Duke, mending the tear and caulking the belly with heated spruce gum, swearing and cursing all the time. By the time he crossed the campsite to their tent, set a short distance away from the men, the fires had burned to embers and the men snored beneath the overturned canoes.

He opened the flap and crawled in. Beneath the tarpaulin the air was warm from the heat of her body, smelling faintly of tanned leather and dampness. He kicked off his wet moccasins and slid up behind her, pulling a deerskin and a red woolen blanket over him as he nuzzled the back of her neck.

She wiggled her buttocks up against him. “What took you so long?”

He ran a hand over her head, pushing the hair out of her face. He couldn't see her expression in the darkness, but he sensed her alertness. His blood coursed in anticipation. “I had to repair the canoe.”

“I've been waiting for you.”

A breast filled his hand. He kissed the back of her neck as he released her only to slide his hand up her leg, under her skirts, reaching for her cleft from behind.

She was slick and ready for him, and he felt a thrill of victory as he realized she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

She whispered, “Hurry.”

He pushed his clothes away, lifted her skirt up so he saw the pale globes of her buttocks for a moment. Then he slipped a thigh between her legs, opened her up so that he could maneuver himself into her tightness. She arched her back, pressing against him, and suddenly he was sheathed and she was throbbing.

He gripped her, buried his lips in her hair, and felt their hearts pound as one.

***

La Vieille, the old woman of the wind, whirled around the sandy spit of land called Chequamegon Point, to swirl in the bay of the same name. André and his men had improvised a sail from the tarpaulins that covered the merchandise. It puffed full, now that the wind was blowing from the right quarter, and propelled the vessel deeper into the bay. The men took their ease, sharing the last of their tobacco, tossing the ashes into the water as a ceremonial sacrifice in order to remain in the good graces of La Vieille during this last stretch of their journey.

André's gaze was fixed on a spot in the distance, where the forest of sugar maple, aspen, and birch gave way to a cleared section of the shore. He thought he saw movement upon the bank—movement of the human kind. He knew for sure that the pale blue smoke that curled up beyond the tips of the red and white pines indicated a settlement of some sort. It could be an Indian village. He could only hope that the smoke came from the fort his advance men were supposed to restore around the structures Nicholas Perrot had abandoned last spring. If it didn't, André knew he would have to search every one of the low, flat islands that lay in the north part of the bay until he found it.

All his worries disappeared as he neared and distinguished the flash of a bright red capote—a distinctive cap worn by the men of Quebec.

“That's it.” His blood surged with excitement. “They're straight ahead, where the smoke rises.”

Genevieve clutched his leg and rose to her knees, leaning to one side in an attempt to see past the gaping sail. “I can't see anything but trees. Show me where it is!”

He pulled her to her feet. The canoe wobbled in the water, for already the Roissier brothers were tearing down the makeshift sail. After six weeks of paddling, the men intended to enter their home under their own power. Tiny broke the excited babbling with a rendition of Salut a Mon Pays.

She struggled for balance on the craft. Her deerskin blanket fell to a puddle at her feet. Her fine dress, once rose–colored, was now nothing but a faded rag, webbed with mending and hanging in tatters around her legging–covered knees. But the sparkle in her eyes made her look as beautiful as if she were dressed to be presented to the Court.

He reached for her, spread his legs for better balance, and pulled her back against him. Genevieve stood tense, rising up on her toes. Her hair tickled his beard. He thought of this morning, when he had woken up to see her poised over him, bright–eyed, wet–lipped, laughing as she lowered herself upon him.

“I see them.” A shiver of excitement shook her small frame as the canoe headed landward. “There are so many people!”

“Mostly Huron and Ottawa. There are a few native villages nearby, and maybe even a Jesuit trying to save their souls.”

She looked up at him, smiling slyly. “And I thought we'd be alone in the wilderness.”

“We'll be alone often enough, Taouistaouisse, and we'll have more damned privacy than we ever had at the campsites.”

The canoe approached the shore with growing speed as the men increased the tempo of their paddling with the tempo of another song. An icy wind raised goose bumps on her fair skin. “I can hardly believe it,” she murmured, snuggling back against him. “We're finally home.”

Home.

Apprehension twisted like a knot in the center of his gut. He didn’t know what awaited them within the camp, but he had a feeling she was going to be disappointed.

They approached the shore. He recognized the leader of his advance contingent and raised his hand in greeting. A crowd of Indian maidens sang their own song of welcome to the newcomers. The Duke pounded the blunt end of his cedar paddle on the thin glaze of ice that rimmed the edge of the broad cove, cracking a path so the men could work the canoes through. André urged Genevieve to sit back down so he could help push the ice away.

When he could see the sand beneath the water, he leapt off the side and plunged his legs into the frigid bay. He turned to wade to the shore.

“Wait!” She rose to her knees and held open her arms. “Take me with you.”

“No, stay here,” he ordered, more harshly than he intended. “I'll come and get you in a moment.”

His stomach twisted, but he didn't turn back, even when she called his name. A thick–thighed canoe man with a mane of dark hair had stopped dead in his tracks as André approached. He pulled his red cap off his head and stared at the canoe. André turned to find his wife standing in the vessel, arms akimbo. The song the men on shore had been singing died off. André suddenly realized that everyone—the voyageurs, the Indian maidens, the few Indian men who stood aside—were all staring at his wife.

He frowned and turned to face David, the leader of his advance contingent. “It's good to see you made it.”

The dark–haired woods–runner didn't acknowledge his words. “That's … that's a Frenchwoman.”

“I'm glad you're familiar with the species. By the way you're all staring, you'd think she was some new breed of moose.”

“How did she … why is she …”

“She's my wife. If you're through gaping at her like an ass, you can show me the fort.”

Recovering, David replaced his cap. He walked away from the shore toward the high stockade of birch and aspen trees, not more than fifty paces from the shoreline. Scattered around, near the walls, stood a dozen small bark huts—Huron huts—probably belonging to the Indian wives of the Frenchmen.

“There's a Jesuit here by the name of Marquette,” David said. “He's got a little bark chapel called Saint Esprit about a half league down the coast, and he visits once a week, on Sundays. When we arrived here a few weeks ago, all that was left of Perrot's post was his house, a storehouse, and a building large enough for the men to share. We had to cut the trees and sharpen the ends to set up the stockade, and that took most of our time. This past week we've been replacing some of the boughs that thatched the roofs because all of them leaked, and we whitewashed the inside of all the buildings with a white clay …”

André barely heard David's report as he strode through the tiny Huron village. It was empty now, for everyone congregated on the shore where his men were unloading the merchandise for the last time. Blue smoke curled out of the open holes in the center of the bark roofs. A tiny grouse carcass cooked over an open fire, unattended. A webbed snowshoe leaned against one of the huts, discarded as the mender ran to the shore to greet the newcomers. A deerskin, with half the meat scraped off, hung on a pole dug into the ground. A wide bowl lay tilted, filled with ground cornmeal and corn.

He eyed the stockade critically, noting the tight fit between the wooden palisades. He gripped one and shook it for stability as he passed through the gate. It was as solid as stone. The scent of pine smoke hovered in the air, for to one side of the open fort, two broad flanks of moose meat hung from a stand, slashed, drying in the air with the help of the wood–fire smoke bathing its flesh. Leaning against the side of what he assumed was the warehouse were a half–dozen willow frames with dark, silky beaver fur stretched over them. The trading had already begun.

“… plenty of food. The deer sometimes wander right into the village. There's a couple of Ottawa and more Huron villages about an hour's walk south, and they've got enough maize and squash and pumpkin to feed all of us at least until Christmas. We've started setting seines into the river for the whitefish …”

André walked to the corner of the stockade, where a tiny dwelling stood apart from the storehouse and the large house set aside for the men who didn't have Indian wives. There was a window cut into the logs, and an oiled skin flapped lightly against the wall. A mud and stone chimney sagged on one side.

“We didn’t know what to do with this,” David said. “We thought we’d wall up the window and use it as a smokehouse, but I suppose with you having a wife and all …”

He stared with growing dread at the tiny cabin. The chimney would have to be cleaned and partially rebuilt, or the house would fill with smoke every time a fire was lit. But even if he cleaned the chimney and walled up the window, the wind would still whistle coldly through the cabin. The logs that formed the walls were ill–fitting, and the mud that had been used to clog the chinks chipped and flaked. The dried boughs that thatched the roof were held down by poles that hung askew upon the peaked top.

He stared ruefully at his new home, thinking that no self–respecting settler in Montreal would house their pigs in this place.

“There you are! Why didn't you take me with you?” Genevieve strode through the gate. “I had to ride on Tiny's back to get off that canoe, and those women were poking and prying at me as if I were a fat goose to be slaughtered.”

He turned to face her. Her hair, tangled and falling out of its plait, glowed in the light. Wapishka, Tiny, and Julien followed close behind, glowering at the Frenchmen who wandered in to stare dumbstruck at the ragged Frenchwoman in their midst.

“And how long have your men been in the woods?” Genevieve asked David, pulling her deerskin around her. “They're staring at me as if I were a pet bear at the Saint–Germain fair.”

“The Indian women have never seen a Frenchwoman,” David explained. “And my men … you'll have to excuse them, Madame. They've never seen a Frenchwoman out here.”

“They'd best get used to it.” She peered around, examining the inside of the stockade for the first time. “Where's our house, André? Is it here or is it somewhere else?”

In his lifetime, he had walked twenty–mile portages in the driving rain, he had willingly run the wildest of rapids, he had faced and fought a group of war–crazed Indian warriors—and he had lived through all of it. Yet right now, in the face of Genevieve, he felt as weak as a naked child.

“That's it.” He jerked his head toward the cabin.

“That?”

Her face went blank, and before he could answer, she strode past him. She brushed away the deerskin in the window and peered inside. A clod of mud fell from the top of the sill and tumbled onto her shoulder before dissolving into dust.

He said, “It may need a little work.”

“Of course it will.” She turned her face to him. “When it's done, André, it's going to be beautiful.”