The Pelican Bride (35 page)

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.