Read Online Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 by Jennifer Blake - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jennifer Blake
Tags: Romance
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and what she was doing. And as he kept watch there grew inside him a combination of guilt, barely suppressed lust, and anticipation that curled inside his loins in white-hot heat.
By midafternoon, the sun had vanished behind a solid bank of clouds and the day had turned sultry. The peculiar feel of the air for that time of year was disturbing; regardless, the spirits of the group rose as the leagues dropped behind them with no sign that they were being pursued. They were tired, however, their footsteps lagging, the packs they carried growing so heavy that they might have been filled with rocks. Madame Doucet turned querulous, forgetting her terror enough to complain in a voice well above a whisper. Henri grumbled also at the chafing of his pack across his shoulders, and St. Amant had found a second forked limb and swung along on a pair of makeshift crutches. Elise was weary beyond thought. She had grown used to the smell of the bear grease, a scent that was not, in truth, unpleasant with its undertone of the herb spikenard. That it was effective she found not at all surprising, though she refused to give Reynaud the satisfaction of knowing it and slapped at a mosquito buzzing around her now and then as a matter of form.
Still, the half-breed led them onward. To Elise he began to seem less than human. He was seldom still, always on guard; even when they stopped to rest he often left them to scout to their rear or swung himself into the highest branches of a tree to scan the country before and behind them. He showed no impatience with their weakness as they flung themselves down on the ground to lie spent and panting, but if he felt any degree of that same fatigue, there was no sign of it. It was maddening and, at the same time, comforting.
It was an hour before dusk when they reached the river. It doubtless had a name on some map drawn by explorers sent out by the company of the Indies in their searches for mines of gold and silver, but what it was Elise neither knew nor cared. Smaller by far that the Father of Waters, the Mississippi, it was still a wide and deep stream. It would require a raft to cross it, and to build it would take more daylight than was left to them. They would make camp for the night and cross in the morning.
The packs were opened, disclosing bed furs of bear and fox, closely woven lengths of cloth, and short-handled axes, as well as sacks of cornmeal and mixed dry sagamite, that universal dish of cornmeal, and chips of dried meat and dried beans. There was a basket of some odd tubers and another of ripe persimmons and also a crock of bear grease, without herbs, for seasoning the food. Included, too, was a pair of sharp knives, an iron pot, and a set of six hand-carved wooden bowls and spoons. Reynaud had spent the time that he had left them alone before their departure well.
Henri gathered wood while they were unpacking and Reynaud kindled a small but hot cook fire. The half-breed leaned over to place at Elise’s side a pair of ducks that he had killed in the late afternoon using silent skill with bow and arrow. Detailing Henri to carry water for her, he set St. Amant as guard with the musket, gathered axes and Pascal, and went into the woods. Elise set Madame Doucet to cleaning the ducks while she mixed the sagamite with water and put it on to simmer in the iron pot. By the time the men had returned, the ducks, basted with bear grease, were roasting on spits that she had cut from stout limbs, the sagamite was sending its rich smell into the air, and the corn cakes lay baking on a pot lid placed among the coals. There had been no difficulty with the food. The French had long since learned to cook as the Indians did, though not all liked it by any means. Elise, tending the meal, watched from the corners of her eyes as Reynaud and Pascal made five tent-like enclosures using the saplings they had brought from the woods. They bent each sapling in a half circle, three per enclosure, then lashed three
By midafternoon, the sun had vanished behind a solid bank of clouds and the day had turned sultry. The peculiar feel of the air for that time of year was disturbing; regardless, the spirits of the group rose as the leagues dropped behind them with no sign that they were being pursued. They were tired, however, their footsteps lagging, the packs they carried growing so heavy that they might have been filled with rocks. Madame Doucet turned querulous, forgetting her terror enough to complain in a voice well above a whisper. Henri grumbled also at the chafing of his pack across his shoulders, and St. Amant had found a second forked limb and swung along on a pair of makeshift crutches. Elise was weary beyond thought. She had grown used to the smell of the bear grease, a scent that was not, in truth, unpleasant with its undertone of the herb spikenard. That it was effective she found not at all surprising, though she refused to give Reynaud the satisfaction of knowing it and slapped at a mosquito buzzing around her now and then as a matter of form.
Still, the half-breed led them onward. To Elise he began to seem less than human. He was seldom still, always on guard; even when they stopped to rest he often left them to scout to their rear or swung himself into the highest branches of a tree to scan the country before and behind them. He showed no impatience with their weakness as they flung themselves down on the ground to lie spent and panting, but if he felt any degree of that same fatigue, there was no sign of it. It was maddening and, at the same time, comforting.
It was an hour before dusk when they reached the river. It doubtless had a name on some map drawn by explorers sent out by the company of the Indies in their searches for mines of gold and silver, but what it was Elise neither knew nor cared. Smaller by far that the Father of Waters, the Mississippi, it was still a wide and deep stream. It would require a raft to cross it, and to build it would take more daylight than was left to them. They would make camp for the night and cross in the morning.
The packs were opened, disclosing bed furs of bear and fox, closely woven lengths of cloth, and short-handled axes, as well as sacks of cornmeal and mixed dry sagamite, that universal dish of cornmeal, and chips of dried meat and dried beans. There was a basket of some odd tubers and another of ripe persimmons and also a crock of bear grease, without herbs, for seasoning the food. Included, too, was a pair of sharp knives, an iron pot, and a set of six hand-carved wooden bowls and spoons. Reynaud had spent the time that he had left them alone before their departure well.
Henri gathered wood while they were unpacking and Reynaud kindled a small but hot cook fire. The half-breed leaned over to place at Elise’s side a pair of ducks that he had killed in the late afternoon using silent skill with bow and arrow. Detailing Henri to carry water for her, he set St. Amant as guard with the musket, gathered axes and Pascal, and went into the woods. Elise set Madame Doucet to cleaning the ducks while she mixed the sagamite with water and put it on to simmer in the iron pot. By the time the men had returned, the ducks, basted with bear grease, were roasting on spits that she had cut from stout limbs, the sagamite was sending its rich smell into the air, and the corn cakes lay baking on a pot lid placed among the coals. There had been no difficulty with the food. The French had long since learned to cook as the Indians did, though not all liked it by any means. Elise, tending the meal, watched from the corners of her eyes as Reynaud and Pascal made five tent-like enclosures using the saplings they had brought from the woods. They bent each sapling in a half circle, three per enclosure, then lashed three
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