The Pelican Bride (45 page)

“Pray?” If he’d said he would consult the Koasati medicine man, Bienville could not have looked more stunned and offended. “What difference will that make?”

Marc-Antoine, looking like a man come back from death, pushed himself to his feet. “It couldn’t hurt. Commander, Dufresne is our real snake in the grass. He must be found and court-martialed before he makes more mischief. And with the storm blown over, I believe we would all make better decisions with a few hours sleep. Time enough to assess the flood damage when daylight comes.”

After a moment or two, Bienville rose as well. He stared down at Tristan. “All right, then, but you’d be a fool to turn down my offer, Lanier.” He cocked his head and walked over to the open window. “What am I hearing? It’s coming from the chapel.”

Tristan listened. A faint roar of men’s voices grew louder by the moment. “Sounds like a mob—”

But Bienville was already bolting to the door.

Marc-Antoine followed more slowly. After grabbing his musket and powder horn, Tristan caught his brother’s elbow to support him down the gallery steps.

Marc-Antoine shook his head. “Go. I’ll catch up.”

Tristan loaded his gun, gave his brother a brief nod, and took off. A faint lightening of the sky over the river indicated that dawn was not far off. At least he hoped it was dawn, and not a fire.

The chapel was wide open, throwing the men inside into relief. Bienville reached the gallery and pounded up the steps just as a milling crowd of some twenty or thirty poured through the open door. Some carried torches, some muskets, and a few wielded swords and clubs. None were in uniform, so at least this wasn’t a mutiny, as Tristan had halfway feared.

Then his heart stopped as the crowd parted and three women—Geneviève, Nika, and Aimée, bound at the wrist—were dragged forward and shoved to their knees in front of Bienville.

“What is the meaning of this?” Bienville roared, even as Tristan passed him to get to Geneviève.

Nicolas de La Salle seemed to be at the head of the mob. His musket fixed on Tristan. “Stop right there, Lanier, or I’ll blow your head off.”

Ignoring him, Tristan reached Geneviève and scooped her into his arms. She sagged against him, shaking.

Bienville leveled his own musket. “La Salle, release these women before I have you court-martialed. Have you all gone mad?”

Looking uncertain, La Salle jerked his head toward Father Henri, who stepped forward to speak for the group. Behind him were gunsmith Théo Boyer, shipbuilder André Ardouin, and brickmaker Jean Alexandre—all Frenchmen who had emigrated a year or more before the
Pélican
’s arrival and all allies of La Salle. All three carried raised bayonets.

The priest was of course unarmed, but he puffed out his chest and shook a plump finger at the commander. “I was sent by Minister Pontchartrain himself and the bishop. I defy you to threaten me, Bienville. We caught these women in the act of assaulting one of your officers—after they had sabotaged the powder magazine, leaving it open to flood.”

“That’s over seven-hundred man-hours of labor lost,” Boyer said belligerently. “It’s unforgiveable.”

Geneviève wrenched away from Tristan to face her accuser.
“None of us had anything to do with it!” She looked at Bienville, an agony of distress in every line of her face. “You cannot believe this, Commander.”

Bienville stared at her, doubt hooking his brows together. “I . . . must have the entire story.”

“We don’t have time for that. We are about to be overrun by the Indians you love so much, Bienville.” La Salle pushed the mouth of his gun against the back of Nika’s bent head.

She whirled, releasing a spew of Kaskaskian at La Salle. Just as suddenly she switched to French. “There are no Indians coming to attack you—unless you go off to provoke them like the little boys you are! You
brave
Frenchmen, to allow yourselves to be overcome by three women! Oh—you are so stupid that you do not recognize the snake in your own garden.”

La Salle hit her with the barrel of the gun, cutting her temple open as she fell unconscious.

Tristan lunged sideways to grab the gun barrel, wresting it from La Salle and throwing him to the ground. “Coward,” he panted, standing over him. He glared at the men behind the priest, most of whom had backed away in confusion. “You are no Frenchmen, and you are certainly no Canadians, to attack three defenseless women. Where is your proof of any wrongdoing? Where is this officer who was attacked?”

Father Henri’s mouth opened and closed, his chins wobbling. “He was right behind us. Who brought Dufresne?”

“Dufresne?” Bienville barked. “Where is he? I was just about to arrest him.”

“My sister felled him with a rotten pike from the stockade.” Aimée Gaillain struggled to her feet, flinging her long golden hair back with a toss of her head. “I hope he is dead, but I’m afraid he is not.
He
is your traitor, Commander!”

For the first time, Tristan realized Aimée was dressed in men’s clothing. She looked like a beautiful actress in some bizarre theatrical
play. She also looked more like a woman than the spoiled child he had last seen pouting in Geneviève’s kitchen.

But before he could respond, Marc-Antoine pushed past the clearly flummoxed Bienville and fell to his knees beside Nika. Gathering her up with his one good arm, he looked around at the shuffling crowd of inhabitants. “La Salle,” he said betwixt his teeth, “you have just assaulted the woman who kept me alive—after your so-admired Dufresne arranged to have me and the rest of our party murdered by her husband and his band of renegades—and then, by herself, dragged me all the way home on a litter.”

La Salle shook his head, raising his shaking hands. “I did not—I did not know, I swear! I only know that this woman—” he gave Geneviève a venomous glare—“was caught in correspondence with the enemy, and she somehow escaped from the guardhouse—”

“You left her there to drown, you fool!” Tristan reached down and hauled the clerk to his feet, shaking him like a rat. “Even if she were guilty—and she is not!—no one deserves to die that way. I hope Bienville will lock you up in her place and see how you like it!” Realizing he was losing control, Tristan released La Salle, who staggered backward into his henchmen, and took Geneviève’s hands. He untied her wrists and bent to kiss them one at a time.

He lifted her in his arms and turned to carry her into the chapel, her body a precious weight against his heart. Behind him he heard the roar of voices in dissent, but he cared little how Bienville settled the contretemps or even what happened to Dufresne. His decision had been made. He was not staying in Fort Louis and, legitimate or not, he was not going to France as the Comte de Hayot.

He and his bride were going home.

“And you are sure there are no Indians coming to attack us?”

Aimée, seated in one of Bienville’s office armchairs, shook her head. “I told you, he was trying to create conflict where there was
none, to discredit Bienville and to make himself more valuable to the British.” She allowed her eyes to close and her head to fall back against the wall. When were they going to release her to her bed? Her entire body ached, her scalp was unbearably tender, and she felt like bursting into tears. For some reason, now that she had endured real struggle, she was determined to cover her emotion.

Geneviève was brave. Nika was brave. And Aimée was no longer a child. Therefore she must no longer behave like one.

But, oh, she was tired.

“Mademoiselle,” Commander Bienville persisted, “you say Aide-Major Dufresne had planned to leave the settlement with you sometime during the night, but he changed his mind. Why do you suppose he did that?”

Aimée forced her eyes open again to focus on the commander’s face. How had she once thought him handsome? His nose was hawkish, there were severe lines radiating from his black eyes, and a streak of gray grew from the center part of his hair and striped down the left side. Why, he was quite an
old
man.

She bared her teeth. “I have no idea. You will have to ask him when he wakes up. All I know is that he is a liar and a brute, and if I ever see him again, I am going to use Nika’s tomahawk to cut off all his flaming red hair! If he is lucky, I will leave the scalp.” She pushed herself to her feet, swaying a little. “You will excuse me, Commander. I am going to sleep.”

She stalked from the office, feeling his wicked black eyes follow her until she had slammed the door behind her.

Nika did not know why she had been called into this meeting. She had given her testimony to Commander Byah-Vee-Yah. She had said farewell to Jon-a-Vev and to Tree-Stah, gathered her meager belongings, and attempted to slip out. A few hours’ sleep in the common room had refreshed her for the long walk ahead back to
the Apalachee village. Her little boys would be so happy to see her, and she would kiss their faces until they squealed and giggled.

But at the last minute, Mah-Kah-Twah had appeared in the door between officers’ quarters and the common room, and insisted she stay “for just another hour.” His sleepy black eyes had held hers until she found herself nodding and following him into the office of the commander. Even with an injury that would have killed most men, worn out from lack of food and sleep, he walked like a warrior.

Her heart longed for him. Her mind shamed her for her weakness.

He held the door until she entered the room, then shut it and took her elbow as if she were a French duchess. He hooked a chair with his foot and pulled it in front of Byah-Vee-Yah’s desk for her to sit on, then stood behind her, his hand braced upon its back. She could feel his fingers touching her, and she closed her eyes, all but blind with pain, willing him to move away. Opening them again, she forced herself to look around. Jon-a-Vev sat in another chair a few feet away, Tree-Stah standing behind her. The commander sat behind his desk, elbows propped on it, fingers steepled against his lips.

The men began to speak about the scoundrel Dufresne, where he would be sent, how much damage his treachery had brought about, whether he should be shown leniency because of his aristocratic father. Nika remained silent. She did not care what happened to him. She wanted to get out of that room.

Then the discussion shifted to the flooded settlement. All the water that flowed away from the bluff on which the fort stood had collected to form a huge lake in the center of the town. Nika could have told the commander four years ago that the fort and settlement would never last at that location, subject as it was to torrential rains at least twice a year, once in the spring and once in the fall. Now the French faced the decision of when and where to move their little colony.

Again, she remained silent. It did not matter to her where they went, because she must go back to her people. Leaving the Mobile village would be hard, because she had made many friends, including Mitannu’s sister Kamala, their mother and their father. But she no longer belonged with them. The Kaskaskians would welcome her back. She was young. Perhaps she could find another husband with whom she could be content. This time, though, she would make her decision based on cold thought, the answers to careful questions.

“Byah-Vee-Yah,” Tree-Stah said forcefully, “you know the fort should be moved down to the southern bluff at the top of the bay. You gave the property to me, but I choose to return it to the King.”

The commander was shaking his head, but Mah-Kah-Twah spoke behind her. “Commander, he is right, and you know it. We can’t stay here any longer. The fort is rotting out from under us, and this last storm was nearly our undoing. If we start planning now, make it through the winter, perhaps we could start rebuilding in the spring and be moved by next summer.”

Byah-Vee-Yah sat silent for a long time, gaze cast aside. Finally he spread his hands and looked first at Mah-Kah-Twah, then at Tree-Stah. “All right,” he said on a sigh. “Yes, you are right. I have known this for some time. But no one in the settlement is going to like it. And convincing Pontchartrain to loosen the purse strings for a new fort will be all but impossible.”

“I think you would be surprised to know how many supporters you have, Commander,” Jon-a-Vev said softly. “The women especially—they hate the constant floods, mildew, rotting wood, mosquitoes . . . And they have influence with their husbands. If you
lead
them, with a level head and a good example, you’ll find they will follow you anywhere.”