Queen of Swords
Page 62
And so she took the opportunity to study the older man, taking in the graying hair that hung down from the rough linen turban he wore wrapped around his head like many of the others in the company. Juzan might be the man Jackson had appointed to lead these men into battle, but Hannah knew she was looking at a Choctaw war chief, the only man whose word would count with the warriors who waited quietly, watching the growing shadows and keeping track of every living being within hearing.
Finally he turned away from Ben and went directly to Dr. Rousseau. The two men were clearly acquainted but formal with each other, each reserved and respectful. They spoke a language that was mostly the local French but studded with words in other languages, Spanish and the Indian tongues. She had been favorably disposed toward Dr. Rousseau, and she saw that her instincts had been right. This was a man who could work side by side with Indians and Redbones.
When he finally turned to her, Hannah learned that the chief’s name was David Fairweather. He had a name in his own language as well, but that was not offered to her. Later she would have to ask Ben Savard what it meant that the war chief denied her his name. She feared it couldn’t be anything good, but then she saw no evidence of disapproval in his face, nor could she hear it in his voice.
David Fairweather was a full-blood Choctaw who wore tribal tattoos on his cheeks and forehead. His brow had been purposely flattened by means of a board pressed to his head when he was an infant, but his clothing was the usual mixture of native and white: doeskin and homespun. He wore a long, dull blue shirt without a collar, a scarf knotted around his neck, loose leggings and winter moccasins, everything embroidered and beaded. Across his chest was a broad wampum string with a pattern Hannah didn’t recognize, and he carried so many weapons—including war club, long rifle, and bow and arrows—that he might have been setting out to turn back the whole English army single-handed.
No doubt the Choctaw were divided, as was every other tribe, on the matter of traditions. There would still be Choctaw women who bound boards against the soft foreheads of their newborns to force their skulls into this particular version of beauty, just as there would be others who despised those mothers for their inability to leave the old ways behind.
The men talked among themselves for a while, Juzan explaining the orders they had been given. At one point she felt gazes shift toward her and away again, and she realized that they were talking about her. She heard healer and woman and friend. When Ben came over she saw relief and satisfaction in his expression.
She said, “They didn’t know you asked me to come?”
“Juzan knew.”
Later, Hannah told herself, she would ask more questions. There would be a lot of them.
Ben was saying, “Dr. Rousseau, you know the DuPré slave alley? Mose is waiting for you there; he’ll get you what you need.”
“I know it,” said Dr. Rousseau.
Hannah’s throat was very dry, but she made herself speak. “Watch out for yourself, Jean-Benoît Savard. And for my brother.”
He grinned at her, sure of himself. Sure of her. His easy smile was more comfort than any empty promise.
In the gathering dusk, Hannah studied the countryside and the plantations stacked along the river like layers of a cake. As large farms went, the plantations were not much different from their counterparts in the north. Main houses, some simple and single-storied, others ornate and sprawling; barns and stables, warehouses and outbuildings. Sugar-works. Chicken pens, cattle and sheep grazing, hayricks and cotton bales stacked in pyramids and covered over with tarpaulin. Ditches, fences, canals, and in the distance, the ciprière, a wall of shadows. Bats danced overhead, quick shapes against the darkening sky, and the smell of night rose out of the stubble in the fields as the color seeped out of the world.
They passed through a marshy half acre of reeds and cypress and came out on another plantation, this time directly among the cabins that housed the slaves. They were screened from the main house by a grove of pecan trees so that they seemed almost like a small and isolated village.
The cabins were arranged in two long lanes that intersected at a right angle. Between the cabins, small gardens had been dug under for the winter. A flock of geese waddled by, followed by two boys who looked more surprised than alarmed to see the strangers.
Women were coming to their doors to call to children and nod to Dr. Rousseau, though most of them did not meet his eye. Out of respect or fear it was impossible to say, and, Hannah told herself, unimportant.
“Where are the men?”
The doctor glanced at her. “Jackson’s engineers have put every male slave over the age of ten to work for the last three weeks, mostly digging ditches and blocking bayous.”
It had been a naïve question, just as it would be naïve to ask why these women and children had not been sent away to safety.
There was one older man left, at least. Mose met them at the door of the cabin they were to have as their field hospital. And with him was Père Tomaso. Hannah had last seen him at her bedside in the long days of her last illness, when she had been so badly beaten that she could hardly breathe for pain. He had come to sit beside her every afternoon for two weeks or more, often to tell her stories about Ben that made her laugh in spite of the pain. Sometimes he read to her aloud. What he had been reading—a newspaper or the Bible or poetry—that Hannah could not recall, but his voice had steadied her, something calm and soothing to focus on in the worst time.
Hannah wondered what other surprises Ben had waiting for them, even while she greeted the man. She was glad to see him; another pair of hands were always welcome in a field hospital.
Finally he turned away from Ben and went directly to Dr. Rousseau. The two men were clearly acquainted but formal with each other, each reserved and respectful. They spoke a language that was mostly the local French but studded with words in other languages, Spanish and the Indian tongues. She had been favorably disposed toward Dr. Rousseau, and she saw that her instincts had been right. This was a man who could work side by side with Indians and Redbones.
When he finally turned to her, Hannah learned that the chief’s name was David Fairweather. He had a name in his own language as well, but that was not offered to her. Later she would have to ask Ben Savard what it meant that the war chief denied her his name. She feared it couldn’t be anything good, but then she saw no evidence of disapproval in his face, nor could she hear it in his voice.
David Fairweather was a full-blood Choctaw who wore tribal tattoos on his cheeks and forehead. His brow had been purposely flattened by means of a board pressed to his head when he was an infant, but his clothing was the usual mixture of native and white: doeskin and homespun. He wore a long, dull blue shirt without a collar, a scarf knotted around his neck, loose leggings and winter moccasins, everything embroidered and beaded. Across his chest was a broad wampum string with a pattern Hannah didn’t recognize, and he carried so many weapons—including war club, long rifle, and bow and arrows—that he might have been setting out to turn back the whole English army single-handed.
No doubt the Choctaw were divided, as was every other tribe, on the matter of traditions. There would still be Choctaw women who bound boards against the soft foreheads of their newborns to force their skulls into this particular version of beauty, just as there would be others who despised those mothers for their inability to leave the old ways behind.
The men talked among themselves for a while, Juzan explaining the orders they had been given. At one point she felt gazes shift toward her and away again, and she realized that they were talking about her. She heard healer and woman and friend. When Ben came over she saw relief and satisfaction in his expression.
She said, “They didn’t know you asked me to come?”
“Juzan knew.”
Later, Hannah told herself, she would ask more questions. There would be a lot of them.
Ben was saying, “Dr. Rousseau, you know the DuPré slave alley? Mose is waiting for you there; he’ll get you what you need.”
“I know it,” said Dr. Rousseau.
Hannah’s throat was very dry, but she made herself speak. “Watch out for yourself, Jean-Benoît Savard. And for my brother.”
He grinned at her, sure of himself. Sure of her. His easy smile was more comfort than any empty promise.
In the gathering dusk, Hannah studied the countryside and the plantations stacked along the river like layers of a cake. As large farms went, the plantations were not much different from their counterparts in the north. Main houses, some simple and single-storied, others ornate and sprawling; barns and stables, warehouses and outbuildings. Sugar-works. Chicken pens, cattle and sheep grazing, hayricks and cotton bales stacked in pyramids and covered over with tarpaulin. Ditches, fences, canals, and in the distance, the ciprière, a wall of shadows. Bats danced overhead, quick shapes against the darkening sky, and the smell of night rose out of the stubble in the fields as the color seeped out of the world.
They passed through a marshy half acre of reeds and cypress and came out on another plantation, this time directly among the cabins that housed the slaves. They were screened from the main house by a grove of pecan trees so that they seemed almost like a small and isolated village.
The cabins were arranged in two long lanes that intersected at a right angle. Between the cabins, small gardens had been dug under for the winter. A flock of geese waddled by, followed by two boys who looked more surprised than alarmed to see the strangers.
Women were coming to their doors to call to children and nod to Dr. Rousseau, though most of them did not meet his eye. Out of respect or fear it was impossible to say, and, Hannah told herself, unimportant.
“Where are the men?”
The doctor glanced at her. “Jackson’s engineers have put every male slave over the age of ten to work for the last three weeks, mostly digging ditches and blocking bayous.”
It had been a naïve question, just as it would be naïve to ask why these women and children had not been sent away to safety.
There was one older man left, at least. Mose met them at the door of the cabin they were to have as their field hospital. And with him was Père Tomaso. Hannah had last seen him at her bedside in the long days of her last illness, when she had been so badly beaten that she could hardly breathe for pain. He had come to sit beside her every afternoon for two weeks or more, often to tell her stories about Ben that made her laugh in spite of the pain. Sometimes he read to her aloud. What he had been reading—a newspaper or the Bible or poetry—that Hannah could not recall, but his voice had steadied her, something calm and soothing to focus on in the worst time.
Hannah wondered what other surprises Ben had waiting for them, even while she greeted the man. She was glad to see him; another pair of hands were always welcome in a field hospital.
