Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 Read Free Page B

was possible, of course, that he would not work today since it was St. Andrew’s Eve. Tomorrow would be a holy day, and it was the habit of many to indulge in feasting and relaxation from their labors before such religious observances. Not that there would be much made of the occasion here where they had only a small church that was without a priest except when one chose to visit on his way up or down the river.
    The road that led from the fort to the Grand Village of the Natchez on St. Catherine Creek was little more than a muddy track rutted by the two-wheeled carts used by the French and flanked by a smooth path worn by the moccasin-clad feet of the Indians. It stretched the distance of a league and a half, winding uphill and down through woods that were duck with underbrush and hung with creepers, and was intersected here and there with trails that led to the lesser villages of the tribe. Now and then it passed a cleared area where the French held property. These open spaces contained neat houses, built of upright logs set in the ground, in the style of cabin derived from the Indians known as a maison de poteaux en terre, a house of posts set in the ground. The spaces between the log posts were packed with bousillage made of mud mixed with deer hair. These stout walls supported peaked roofs that spread out over surrounding galleries, protecting the windows closed only with contrevents, or shutters, from the wind and rain. In most cases, the floors were of earth packed and glazed by the tramp of feet. Spreading around the houses were fields with plowed rows lying fallow and cattle and sheep grazing in pastures still showing a little green among the brown grass of November.
    The sun reached higher and was more brilliant as Elise trotted her chestnut mare out of her own front yard and along the track. Her holdings were almost exactly halfway between the fort and the Indian village, so her ride would be no more than a pleasant jaunt. The air was crisp, but not overly cold; a brisk trot would keep her warm. There was a breeze drifting through the trees, bringing down showers of leaves in gold, scarlet, and brown. They carpeted the road, making a soft rustling sound as her mare trotted over them.
    Elise had not gone two hundred yards when she heard a call. She glanced back to see three Indians standing in the road, one of them holding up his arm in a gesture of greeting. A sense of disquiet moved over her, then she dismissed it. It was not at all unusual to see Indians abroad. They traded regularly at the fort and often brought game or fish to the French farmers to exchange for chickens or geese. Indeed, quite a number had passed the house already that morning, moving along in groups of three or four.
    Reining in her mount, she walked the mare back along the track to meet the Indians near her own outbuildings. She recognized one of them. He was the husband of Little Quail, an Indian woman who had been bought as a slave and used as a concubine by Elise’s husband. They had been friends, she and Little Quail, rather than enemies; their common hatred for Vincent Laffont had made them so. On his death, Elise had freed the Indian woman, allowing her to return to her village.
    Little Quail’s husband was a dark, taciturn man. Elise had never liked him and was by no means sure that he was an improvement over Little Quail’s last master. Now he stood back with a grim look on his face while another of the three men repeated his greeting.
    Elise had learned quite a few words of the Natchez language from Little Quail and also of Chickasaw, the lingua franca of the other tribes in the region that encompassed land on both sides of the Mississippi River: the Chickasaws themselves, the Choctaws, Tensas, Tunicas, Yazoos, Natchitoches, Caddo, Ouachita, and a half-dozen others. She returned the salutation with proper ceremony and asked their destination.
    They were on their way to visit her holdings, they replied. The Natchez planned a great