Hunting for the Mississippi Read online

  But it’s no good. She remains inconsolable until Mr. De La Salle, worried about the effect her bawling is having on the morale of the troops, intervenes. From outside, I can only catch snatches of the conversation.

  “Madame, the sorrow you feel… understandable, nevertheless… God often tests his… only appropriate… and our state of mind cannot… control yourself in order that…”

  He suddenly falls silent—no doubt midsentence—and I hear the floor squeak beneath the sudden shuffle of shoes. I think to myself that Mrs. Talon has stood up—I hear the distinct rustle of cloth as her skirt brushes against the bed—then the sound of the timber at the entrance, then—

  Isabelle Talon rushes out of the shelter, her eyes blinking in the bright sunlight. For a second or two she seems to be looking for something—or someone—then she sees her children around my mom, then she sees me. It only takes her a second to cover the five paces separating us… and to slap me harder than I’ve ever been slapped!

  “You little bastard! Marie-Élisabeth was pregnant! You killed her!”

  I’m so stunned by the blow that it blurs my vision. It takes a moment before I can see the reactions around me. Behind Isabelle Talon’s furious scowl, I make out Mom’s shattered expression, the frightened looks of the children, the amazement on the faces of Joutel and his first mates, the dumbfounded priests, and the other settlers looking on sternly. Only Duhaut and Liotot exchange vaguely sardonic grins, amused at the entertainment provided by a mother’s sorrow. Jean L’Archevêque keeps his head down.

  When the widowed Mrs. Talon collapses in tears at my feet, I instinctively look around for Hiens. I’m surprised to find him off to the side, frowning, his bottom lip trembling. For an instant, I’m almost moved to pity, imagining him touched by the woman’s distress, by Marie-Élisabeth’s death, maybe even by the loss of his child.

  But a second later I understand.

  He’s afraid he’ll be linked to Marie-Élisabeth’s pregnancy.

  * * *

  With the death of the girl I was hopelessly in love with, I discover the true meaning of absence and dejection. When my dad died, I had been too young to feel much; when my brother left us, it had been coming for a while. But Marie-Élisabeth! Blown out like a candle left beside an open window!

  There had been no hint that she was about to leave us, aside from the throbbing pain in the stomach she had complained of the night before. The surprise of her passing only magnifies my misery.

  Marie-Élisabeth. Secretive and unassuming Marie-Élisabeth, even when she had suffered most; the repeated rapes endured in silence, proof if ever it were needed. Placed by God on my path so that we might walk along together. All our lives. To accompany me, build our Louisiana with me, our little corner of France in America. Marie-Élisabeth. A demon has gulped down your existence, as though delighting in the blood of a sacrificial pig.

  Marie-Élisabeth.

  Alone in my corner, I move off to take my turn to cry, all day and all night long, then all the next day and all the following night. When I come back to accept my mother’s wordless pardon—she assumes that I am the stillborn child’s father—I have used up my reserves of grief. My heart is dry. Bone dry. All that remains inside of me is a violent urge to kill. A hatred and thirst for revenge too strong to be Christian. Too strong for me to avoid Hell if I let it guide my intentions.

  But even the thought of the fires of Hell is not enough to divert me from this new course.

  * * *

  For weeks after Marie-Élisabeth’s death, Isabelle Talon refuses to speak to or even acknowledge me. She doesn’t answer my questions or respond to anything I say, even when it involves her children, whom I continue to treat as my own siblings. Her relationship with my mother, cold at the start, gradually returns to normal, with the occasional fit of the giggles. There’s no longer much to laugh about in the colony, apart from certain evenings, when the usual drunks have too much brandy. But their guffaws bring no real joy to our miserable situation.

  After many postponements, Mr. De La Salle’s fourth voyage of exploration is at last planned for January. This time Mr. Joutel will be part of the expedition and Barbier will stay behind as governor at Fort Saint Louis. To defend us if ever the Karankawa attack, twenty other men will also stay behind with the women and children. For our survival, seventy-five pigs, twenty chickens, a few barrels of flour, musket powder, lead shot, and eight cannons but no cannon balls remain in reserve.

  “Mrs. Talon, I would like to bring your son Pierre with us. It will be a weight off your shoulders and make him a man who’s capable of looking after you and your children when he comes back.”

  Mr. De La Salle is holding his large feathered hat against his thigh. This exposes his terribly worn-out wig, making him look more like a churl than if he resigned himself to his natural hair, as he looks Marie-Élisabeth’s mom straight in the eye.

  “But he’s only ten,” she replies.

  “As you please, ma’am. But Pierre could learn a great deal alongside Eustache.”

  “I will be helping look after the horses, Mrs. Talon,” I chip in, interrupting as I wouldn’t have dared just a short while ago.

  I’m starting to feel more self-assured as an adult.

  Isabelle Talon, just as she’s done since her daughter died, pays no attention to what I say. But I know that deep inside she’s not completely ignoring me because when Pierre says…

  “Oh please, Mom! I’ll be safe with Eustache.”

  …she tells Mr. De La Salle:

  “Very well, sir. If my son is so enthusiastic…”

  Then, sighing more than is necessary, she concludes:

  “At least if the Indians breach the Saint Louis defences, there will still be a Talon alive.”

  Strangely enough, Mom also takes news of my departure calmly. Perhaps she imagines, just like her friend Isabelle, that the fort won’t withstand a Karankawa attack. Perhaps she’s resigned to dying. Or to the compromise of letting me escape an early grave by moving away from her.

  When the time comes to go our separate ways, I can see the distress in her eyes—dejection not unlike the emotions she felt back when we were begging on the streets of La Rochelle—but at the same time I can see a glint of something she didn’t have back then: dignity. My mom no longer has to grovel to live, despite the misery and death that hound us with relentlessly. She earns her daily pittance one thousand times over by working hard and putting her life on the line.

  Plus, she’s proud to be on an adventure that’s bigger than us, bigger even than De La Salle. An adventure as big as life itself. Win or lose. She knows that by working hard to extol our faith and language, we are helping spread the immortal hopes of a nation worthy of its history.

  PART V

  The Final Expedition

  30

  THE FINAL EXPEDITION

  And so on January 12, 1687, I set off with Mr. De La Salle on the final expedition that will see us reach the mythical Mississippi and then on to Canada and Europe. Assisted by Pierre Talon, I’m in charge of two horses at the back of our group. Ahead of us, apart from our leader and his lackeys, are Henri Joutel, the Recollect priests, the older Duhaut brother, Jean L’Archevêque, Hiens, Liotot, and a few others. Moranget and a few men I barely know are bringing up the rear not far behind us.

  For days, then weeks, we cross endless prairies, clusters of huge trees, lilting rivers, raging torrents, and lush, dense forests teeming with more birds and animals than I can count. Every day brings new surprises and marvels, making it easier for me to forget the two women I left behind: Mom... and Marie-Élisabeth. But their memory lives on with me, of course, and often when evening comes and I try to find sleep, I miss them. At the same time, these memories are a great comfort to Pierre Talon and me whenever our bodies hurt or are overcome with fatigue.

  “Remember everything we find, Pierre. Mem
orize it all as best you can. One day, you’ll have to describe all these wonders to your mom.”

  “Yes, Eustache. And... happy birthday, Eustache!”

  “It’s my birthday? How did you know?”

  “Actually it’s mine. I’m eleven. You turned fifteen... maybe three weeks ago now.”

  “Ha! So you wanted me to wish you happy birthday!”

  I feel a twinge of sorrow. I’m sure that one month ago my mom made a cake to eat with my ghost. Thanks, Mom.

  * * *

  The Karankawa back at Fort Saint Louis proved a threat, but the Natives we meet along the way are incredibly friendly. There are so many nations that we have a hard time telling them apart. Only Mr. De La Salle and Joutel can manage it, and even then only by writing down their names.

  “The Spichcets, Kabayes, Thecamons, Theauremets, Kiaboha, Chaumenés, Kouans…”

  Each time we pass through a village, we are welcomed like lords. They ask us if we would like to eat and drink, give us supplies for the road ahead. Some of our men take the chance to slip off for a moment with their girls, some of whom join our group. Mr. De La Salle is only too happy to accept them.

  The Natives say the same thing everywhere we go: they know other white men, like us, who come from the west and the southwest. White men who speak a language different to ours and who are incredibly violent. We are happy to learn that the Natives are all enemies of the Spanish from Mexico and that they will gladly become our allies, especially since we have powder weapons.

  * * *

  To our surprise, in three different villages we meet Europeans who lost their way on past expeditions years earlier. A man called Ruter, a Breton, is one of them, with coarse manners and a weasel face. I’m not especially pleased to see him join our ranks. Particularly since the men fall in so quickly with the Duhaut-Hiens group.

  There’s also a man by the name of Jacques Grollet, who tearfully thanks Mr. De La Salle, and another named Meunier, who says he’s from Provence. For several days, I doubt if he’s ever set foot there: he can barely speak French and he’s tattooed just like the tribe he lived with. But I come to see that poor old Meunier simply got lost a long, long time ago.

  Despite the wonders and the friendly encounters along the way, tension continues to mount between the Duhaut and Moranget factions. Both men detest each other and take every chance they get to fuel their mutual hatred. It might be a barked order, or a blatant case of dishonesty; a favour granted to men close to De La Salle, or a reluctance to share the meat of a dead animal.

  Mr. De La Salle turns a blind eye. Like any nobleman, he refuses to lower himself and get involved in quarrels between commoners, quarrels that are in his eyes petty squabbles over nothing. And when Mr. Joutel tries to play the peacemaker, our leader cracks the whip, calling out, “Henri, come here!” and going over his plans for the day with him.

  The Natives observe these internal differences with a mixture of surprise and amusement. I think they imagined that we were somehow different, above such pettiness. But the entertainment makes up for their disappointment.

  At last, in the spring of 1687, we finally reach the Cenis tribe that Mr. De La Salle encountered on his previous expedition. Keen to help us, they agree to guide us to the Mississippi Delta and meet the mysterious Illinois who are to escort us to Canada.

  31

  AS THOUGH HE KNEW

  On March 15, 1687, our mood is as dull and grey as the sky. We are exhausted, and our food reserves have seriously diminished. Hunting hasn’t met with much success over the past few weeks and we need to stop for a while to stock up again.

  “We shall put the tents up here,” Mr. De La Salle announces, pointing to the grassy plain around us. “I am familiar with this place. I came here on my previous journey. It is not buffalo season, but they can sometimes be seen where the land dips, further on. And last year, on the other side of the river, I left dried provisions I no longer had any use for. We had so many dead men...”

  “Shall I send men for them, sir?” asks Henri Joutel.

  But La Salle turns to two men who had been with him at that time, including one by the name of De Marle.

  “Do you recall the cave? By the tall oak trees?”

  “Of course, sir,” De Marle replies.

  “Take a few Indians with you and fetch the food there. And take these hotheads with you, too. They’re always trying to pick a quarrel with Moranget. It will give them a break... and us a break from them.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “You, Henri. You have a good eye. Go flush out an animal that’s in fine health down below. Fresh meat will do us good.”

  Joutel glances at me before replying. I know that he’s going to ask me to go with him to look after his arquebus and powder, but I’d rather not. I’d rather follow the others and stick close to Hiens. Even though I need no longer fear for Marie-Élisabeth, I have other projects concerning him.

  “My musket needs cleaning, sir,” Joutel finally admits. “It will blow up in my face. Give me a day, sir.”

  “Very well, Henri,” Mr. De La Salle replies without hesitation. But he turns away as he says it, as though to express his annoyance.

  As is his wont, in his little book Mr. Joutel jots down the names of those who go off looking for food this morning. Along with a dozen or so Natives, alongside De Marle and his companion who know where the food can be found, he writes the familiar names of Duhaut, Hiens, L’Archevêque, and Liotot. He adds Saget and Nika to the list, Mr. De La Salle’s personal lackeys. The group finds a ford in the river and the men disappear one by one over to the other side like beads on a rosary.

  The storm begins five minutes later.

  * * *

  It rains all evening and all night. We stay in our tents as much as possible, except when Pierre Talon and I have to take care of the horses. We tied them to the shelter under the branches of a longleaf pine. And on the morning of March 17 it’s still pouring.

  “The river looks set to swell up more than a butcher’s belly,” Henri Joutel mutters to himself, hands on hips as the rain runs off his hat and down his back.

  So imagine our surprise when we see Saget, one of the servants sent off for food with the other men, appear on the other side of the river. He waves to us then wades across the ford. The water is up to his knees, and he’s grinning from ear to ear.

  “Well, lackey?” inquires Mr. De La Salle, barely giving the young man time to reach our shore. “What good news do you bring us? Did you find the provisions we hid?”

  “No, sir. Well, yes, sir. But they had spoiled. All rotten.”

  De La Salle expected as much for his disappointment scarcely shows. The same can’t be said for the men around us. But our leader realizes there must be a reason why Saget returned alone.

  “Go on. Spit it out,” he says.

  “We ran into some buffalo on the way back. There must have been twenty of them. We managed to kill a few.”

  “How very—”

  The rest of Mr. De La Salle’s sentence is swallowed up by the men’s shouts for joy. The thought of eating fresh meat fills them with enthusiasm. That much is clear.

  “I will need a horse, sir,” Saget explains. “To carry all the meat that the others are cutting up.”

  “With pleasure!” Henri Joutel cries, turning to me.

  “Eustache, big lad. Can you put a packsaddle on the little mare?”

  “Certainly, sir. I’ll be ready to follow Saget in fifteen minutes.”

  “No,” Mr. De La Salle interrupts. “It is Moranget who… Moranget! Where are you? Ah! There you are, nephew. The boy will prepare the animal and you shall go with Saget. Take another man with you, a strong one. Not a child.”

  I bite my tongue. If there is one person on this campaign who still hasn’t noticed that I’ve become an adult then it’s our leader. It’s en
ough to make you think he remembers everyone’s weak spot just to poke them from time to time. For no good reason. Just for the hurt it causes. I can see how, on top of all his obsessions, he has managed to raise everyone’s heckles.

  “And be quick about it, boy,” Mr. De La Salle shouts, turning around. “The river continues to rise.”

  A quarter of an hour later, Moranget, Saget, and a Native (the burly individual they were after and who surely has four times more muscles than I do) begin to wade very carefully across the river. The mare quivers at the end of its harness.

  * * *

  We huddle in our tents for the rest of the day and wait.

  And wait.

  Night passes. Then the day and night of the eighteenth. Then the day and night of the nineteenth. The rain is so heavy, the river so high, that the noise drowns out all gas, burps, and snores. Living at such close quarters, being outside in the rain isn’t always such a bad thing.

  Moranget and the others still haven’t reappeared. Mr. De La Salle is getting worried: I’ve caught him scanning the other shore each time I’ve gone outside to answer the call of nature or to take care of the horses.

  The sky is at last dry on the morning of March 20. A timid sun tries to break through the clouds.

  Down by the river, Pierre Talon and I are washing the pails belonging to Mr. De La Salle’s cook. De La Salle himself is not far away, looking out at the water.

  “Do you see that shrub from last night?” I ask Pierre. “The water level is down around its base. That shows it stopped raining upriver earlier. There’s not much runoff water adding to it.”

  “No one on the opposite shore, sir?” Joutel inquires as he joins his superior.

  De La Salle makes do with a shake of the head. His wig slides across his damp brow and he has to readjust it. In his other hand, he’s holding his hat, still wet from the night before.