Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 by Jennifer Blake Page A

target in the darkness on the river. Though the water was kicked up around them and the black and acrid smoke of spent powder swirled out to meet them, they were not hit. The Indians had the dugout canoes called pirogues by the French, but those that were not beached somewhere up at St. Catherine Creek were being used to harry the two Frenchmen who had fled down the river. Standing on the bank, the Indians fired at nothing, howling in frustration and impotent rage.
    As she huddled in front of Reynaud, it came to Elise that his was the most exposed position, there in the stern, that he was in the greatest danger of being hit. As a member of the Sun class and the brother of their king, surely the Natchez would not shoot at him if they knew who he was, but they could not see him in the blackness of the night. He could have called to his Indian brothers and offered up the French settlers as his captives. In such a case, he could still have claimed her favors if that had been his object. That he did not, that he bent with tireless determination to pulling away from shore, served to indicate that he would live up to his sworn word. It only remained for her to live up to hers.
    But she had not sworn. Her word had been taken by force, accepted without direct agreement. Could there be any reason to consider herself bound in such a case? If there was some way to remove herself from this obligation, then she had every right to take it, and with honor. Every right.
    The Mississippi was wide, more than a mile across. As the boat scraped the mud of the west bank, Pascal hung over the side with his paddle trailing in the water and his breath rasping in his chest from the long strain of fighting the current. St. Amant dropped his paddle in the bottom of the boat and sat slumped, unmoving. It was Henri who scrambled to his feet and leaped out, dragging the heavy craft onto the shore. Reynaud stood, taking Elise’s arm and urging her forward. His breathing was deep, but far from labored.
    “Must … rest,” St. Amant said as Elise’s skirts brushed against him and he turned his head to see them waiting for him to move.
    “There’s no time. They may decide to come after us. We must leave no sign that we did not continue down the river.”
    St. Amant nodded his understanding of Reynaud’s words; still, it was a moment before he could find the strength to surge to a standing position and weave his way toward the shore. Pascal also heaved himself from the boat in time to remove himself from Reynaud and Elise’s path. The two men then stood to one side while the half-breed and Henri unloaded the supplies and stacked them in a pile. Reynaud pushed the heavy dugout back into the river’s flow, letting the current take it on downstream before he turned to face them.
    In an amazingly short span of time, the packs were sorted out and assigned and an order of march established. They all stood waiting a short distance into the encroaching woods while Reynaud obliterated the signs of their landing, then he hefted the heaviest, hide-wrapped load to his back along with his bow and a quiver of arrows and a musket slung from a braided leather strap. He took his place in the lead. In silence they set out, Pascal behind Reynaud as double protection from the front should they run into any trouble, Elise next, with Madame Doucet behind her, followed by St. Amant with his crutch, and Henri bringing up the rear. They had nothing to say and much to think about, all of them. In any case, they were well aware of the need to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the Natchez. If when morning came the Indians did not go chasing their boat down the Mississippi, if instead they searched the riverbank on this side, then it would be just as well if they were as far away as they could be. A party of Natchez warriors would move as swiftly as the flight of an arrow, far faster than their band, slowed by women and a wounded man. Time, then, was their