Legacy

Chapter 11

Just as Jean had decided the night before, after their disastrous visit to his cousins, and as he had told Wachiwi he would, he wrote to his brother Tristan in the morning. It was a long, careful letter that gave him the important points and left out some of the details. He didn’t tell him that he had murdered a Crow chief and absconded with the woman he intended to marry, who had been the chief’s slave. He said simply that he had met the woman of his life at last, that he was ready to come home and help his brother run their large estate. His wandering days were over now. It was time to settle down, and he had never felt that way before.

He was ten years younger than his brother, who was a widower with two young children, one of whom Jean had never met. When Jean had left Brittany, his brother Tristan had had a beautiful young wife and a year-old baby. A year later Tristan’s wife died when their second child was born. As far as Jean knew, his brother had been alone ever since. He hadn’t remarried, although Jean had no idea if he had a mistress of some sort, but Tristan was such a serious man that Jean doubted he would engage in anything but marriage and a respectable life.

They had the largest château in the district, and extensive lands. Tristan had always taken his responsibilities seriously, and Jean suspected he would be relieved that his younger brother was coming home to settle down too. At twenty-four, it had taken him time. He rhapsodized about Wachiwi in his letter, but gave Tristan few details, only that he loved her and that they were coming home to Brittany and planned to be married in the family church on their estate. Tristan had inherited the title and everything that went with it when he had been barely more than a boy himself, when their parents died in a terrible epidemic. Tristan had been eighteen, and Jean a child of eight. Tristan had been the head of the family ever since, and as much a father as a brother to Jean. The two men had been close before Jean left France, but he had felt a yearning in his soul to travel, something Tristan had never allowed himself. He had too much on his shoulders with all their properties, landholdings, and their vast estate. They had shipping interests, their parents’ enormous house in Paris that they seldom used, and Tristan was a regular presence at court. He was closely tied to the monarchy, and now Jean wanted to be too.

Jean had grown up, and the lovely Indian woman he was bringing home with him had helped him do it. He said everything that was important to him about her in the letter, except one detail. After the fiasco with his cousins, he didn’t want Tristan making judgments about Wachiwi before he met her, so he did not tell Tristan that she was a Sioux, nor her name. He wanted his older brother to love and accept her too, and Jean felt sure he would. He told his older brother how lovely she was, how brave and kind and gentle. She was a noble woman and a dignified human being, whatever her origin or race, and worthy of respect. Jean was sure that Tristan would see that immediately. He was that kind of person, and Jean had enormous admiration for him and all that he had carried without complaint for so many years. Everyone in the county adored him, and so did Jean. He could hardly wait to introduce him to Wachiwi now. And he was determined to teach her flawless French on their long journey, so that she could converse with his brother and all their friends in Brittany when they got back. She no longer had to learn English-their home and their life were going to be in France.

Wachiwi dressed herself carefully, and Jean smiled at her in approval as they left the boardinghouse and walked down to the port. It was a busy city, with a great deal of activity around the harbor. And Jean noticed with displeasure the disapproving glances cast at them as they walked along. He would have had no greater censure if he had been strolling through the port with a naked slave from one of the plantations. Men looked at her lasciviously since she was so beautiful, and women gave him a disgusted look and turned their gaze away. All women, particularly married ones, were aware of the things that men did when out of sight of respectable people, but parading publicly with an Indian woman, no matter how pretty she was, was beyond the pale. It was almost worse because Wachiwi was so lovely-the women who saw her with him seemed to loathe her all the more. Even Wachiwi, in her innocence and ignorance of the customs of his people, couldn’t miss the hostile stares. She asked him about it once when one particularly outraged matron gathered up her children around her, said something unpleasant to her husband, and forced them all to cross the street rather than be on the sidewalk with Jean and Wachiwi. People were clearly incensed that he acted as though Wachiwi were a respectable woman, and had dressed her like one, and treated her that way. If he had put his horse in a bonnet and a dress, they would have been less upset. And it was not just the women who ostracized him, the men obviously envied him but were blatant in their disapproval too. If they couldn’t do something like that, why could he? New Orleans was very definitely not the place for them, and Jean couldn’t wait to leave. He wanted to get Wachiwi away from their ugly stares, audible remarks, and their impression that she was no better than their slaves. He couldn’t wait to get back to France now, where he hoped she would be treated like a human being, and addressed with respect.

He spoke to two ship captains that morning, with Wachiwi standing next to him. He thought it best to say that they were married, and he explained that they wanted to book passage on the first ship back to France. The first captain took a long look at Wachiwi, recognized that she was an Indian, and a few minutes later said that all the cabins were booked. He said there was not a bit of room on the boat for them, which Jean did not believe. He felt certain that the captain didn’t want to deal with the complaints of other passengers on the ship, particularly the women, who might be outraged by the beautiful young Indian girl in their midst. And even more so that he was claiming she was his wife. Their fury would have been unpleasant for the captain to deal with for the seven or eight weeks it would take to get back to France. He didn’t want the headache.

The second captain was mellower and seemed more relaxed. He also recognized easily Wachiwi’s origins, but he didn’t seem to care. Jean could smell that he’d been drinking whiskey, but he booked their passage, took Jean’s money without questions, and said his ship was leaving for Saint Malo in Brittany in two weeks. He glanced at Jean’s traveling papers and didn’t care that Wachiwi had none. He didn’t have to account for the passengers on board nor even list them, and Jean’s money was good enough for him. She was neither a Spanish nor a French citizen and had no need of papers to enter France. The young French count said she was his wife, which was possible, although the captain considered it unlikely.

The captain estimated that the trip would take from six to eight weeks. It would be late September when they set sail, hurricane season would be almost over, and with luck and good weather, he hoped to reach the coast of France in November. The seas would be rough by then on the Atlantic, but there was nothing they could do. Jean didn’t want to wait a moment longer than he had to. He just hoped that the boardinghouse would let them keep their room until they sailed. If guests complained about Wachiwi’s presence, they might be asked to leave. But they had passage on a ship now, in the best cabin, and before they left the port, Jean gave his letter to his brother to another captain, who was sailing for France on a tiny, miserable-looking ship the next day. If the ship didn’t sink before it got there, his brother would have the letter announcing Jean’s return to France, shortly before they arrived.

Jean was more determined than ever to marry Wachiwi the moment they got back to France. He would have done it before he left, but he was certain that there wasn’t a priest or minister in all of New Orleans who would have performed the ceremony. They would have to wait until they reached France.

For the next two weeks, they stayed mostly in their room. They went for long walks at night, strolling through the busy city in the still-balmy night air. It was easier for them to go out at night than brave the disapproving stares of “respectable” people in the daytime. And in their confined daytime hours in the hotel room, he spent hours teaching Wachiwi French. She was doing surprisingly well, and knew the names for many things now. It was harder expressing abstract concepts and her feelings, but she was managing that too, although awkwardly at times. But they could actually have conversations, share ideas, and laugh a lot. Wachiwi seemed totally happy with him, and they spent a considerable amount of time in bed when they had nothing else to do. It was a universal language, and their passion and deep feelings for each other knew no bounds.

Jean’s cousin, Armand de Margerac, came to see him several days after their fateful visit to the plantation. He tried to talk Jean out of taking Wachiwi home with him to France. He said everyone there would be shocked as well, he would turn himself into a pariah, and cause his brother and family profound humiliation and shame.

“Thank you for your concern, cousin,” Jean said politely, disgusted by the opinions of the old man, but he was certainly not alone in what he thought. In New Orleans society they would have been outcasts overnight, and already were, just on the streets and in the hotel. Jean had contacted none of the people he knew there, and didn’t dare. He had already seen enough when he visited his cousins, and wherever he went out with Wachiwi. “I’m not sure I agree with you, however. Our monarch has been known for many years to have a great admiration for the Indian tribes in the West. He has invited several chiefs to court, not as curiosities, but as honored guests. My brother wrote me about it once or twice. It sounded quite amazing. They wear their headdresses and moccasins with court clothes that the king sent them so they wouldn’t feel out of place. Some even wore full native dress. I’ve never heard of Indian women at court, but there are certainly men from her tribe who have been to Louis’s court.” He was referring to the King of France at the time, Louis XVI, who was known to be fascinated by the Indians from the New World, and the account Jean related to him was true and had been reported by his brother several years before. There was no reason to think that had changed.

“And you’re planning to take her to court?” Armand looked horrified at the suggestion. In his mind, it would have been like taking one of their slaves. An unthinkable scandal. There were several women in the slave quarters he had consorted with for years, and two generations of his natural children there, quite a number of them, but he wouldn’t have considered for an instant taking any of them out in public, being seen with them in polite society, and he would have died before taking them to court. They were good enough to lie with him and have his babies, but nothing else. What Jean was doing was beyond unthinkable, and Armand could only explain it to himself as the folly of youth. Jean was still a very young man, and he had obviously been living away from “civilization” for far too long.

“I might take her to court,” Jean said blithely, beginning to enjoy his cousin’s obvious discomfort. It was becoming amusing to shock him, since he was so appalled by the elder’s hypocritical ideas. “I don’t go very often myself. My brother goes far more frequently than I do. But then, he’s more respectable, and he and the king and some of the ministers are rather close. Perhaps I’ll go with him someday and take Wachiwi. I’m sure our revered king will be fascinated by her. She might even meet some of her relatives there. I hear that several have stayed in Brittany, and integrated into society there, rather than going back. It’s where they land when they arrive, and where many want to stay.”

“How appalling,” Armand said with a pained look, as though talking about an infestation of some kind, of rodents perhaps. The idea of Indians blending into French society made him feel ill. It only confirmed the decadence of his countrymen to him. At least in the New World, they knew where to keep their slaves. Out of sight, and out of the drawing room certainly, unless they were serving their owners and their guests. “I think you’re making a terrible mistake taking her back to France. You should leave her here where she belongs. She’s uneducated, uncivilized, she doesn’t speak the language. Think of the embarrassment for your brother. It’s one thing to bring savages over as a curiosity if you’re the king. What will you do with her when you get tired of her? Then what will you do?” Armand couldn’t imagine anything worse than what his young cousin was doing.

“I’m going to marry her, cousin,” Jean said quietly. “The uncivilized savage you’re referring to will be my wife. She will be the Comtesse de Margerac just like your wife.” Jean delivered the blow with a gracious smile, and knew it would hit his cousin hard. The idea of comparing Wachiwi to Angélique was more than the older man could bear. He left a few minutes later, still fuming, offended beyond words. The two men bade goodbye to each other, bowed formally, and Jean doubted he would see him again before he left. He didn’t want to anyway, and went back to Wachiwi in their room afterward, and continued their lessons. He was confident that by the time they landed in Brittany, she would speak credible French.

They were on the dock with her trunks and his luggage several hours before the boat was scheduled to leave. The weather had been stormy for several days, but hurricane season seemed to have ended. The other passengers were gathering on the dock.

People were setting sail on La Maribelle, a small merchant vessel that looked as though it had seen better days. And the captain looked as though he’d had a rough life.

Jean hoped the trip wouldn’t be too hard for Wachiwi, and he had a feeling he wouldn’t be returning to the New World again himself. His five years there had served him well, but he felt entirely ready to go home as they settled into their cabin, and the rest of the passengers boarded the ship. There were four other couples, and two men traveling alone. All but two of the passengers were French, as was the captain and all of the crew. Wachiwi would have plenty of opportunity to practice her French. The other women had given her quizzical looks, but Jean had sensed none of the hostility they had experienced on the streets of New Orleans or at the hotel. The rest of the passengers seemed intrigued by her, and their relationship, and wondered how he’d met her, but no one made unpleasant comments when he referred to her as his wife. And the captain politely referred to her as Madame La Comtesse. Jean’s traveling papers were in order, although the captain didn’t care about them, and Jean had vouched for Wachiwi himself, just in case, with a letter he had provided the captain, sealed with his crest, as Comte de Margerac. He had referred to Wachiwi in the letter as Wachiwi de Margerac. Their destination was Saint Malo, Brittany. Some of the other passengers were going to Paris or other provinces afterward, but Jean and Wachiwi were going home to his family’s château, only a short distance from the port in the Breton countryside.

They stood on the deck with the other passengers when they set sail, and watched New Orleans slowly disappear behind them. Jean was relieved to leave the city. It had made such a bad impression on him during this last trip that he would be perfectly happy to never see it again. But there were other things he knew he would miss in the New World, the beautiful countryside, the forests, the terrain he had covered in Canada and out west, the majestic mountains, the incredible plains that went on forever with buffalo grazing, and animals running free in the territory where Wachiwi came from. And he suspected she would miss it too. He put an arm around her as America disappeared on the horizon, and they set out on a rolling sea. Some of the other women had already taken to their cabins, feeling unwell, and one or two of the men, but Wachiwi told Jean in sign language, not knowing the words for it yet, that she liked the movement of the ship. He taught her how to say it in French. She was smiling broadly, her long black hair whipping in the wind, a heavy shawl around her shoulders, and a look of freedom in her eyes. To her, being on the boat felt a little like galloping across the plain. She felt wonderfully free being on the ocean, and she loved being with him. She trusted him completely, and wherever he chose to take her. She was looking forward to the days ahead, and so was he, especially once they got back to France. He was planning to buy horses for her to add to their stables at the château. She was such an extraordinary rider, that he wanted to buy her the finest horses he could find. His brother was an excellent horseman too, and Jean knew he would be impressed by Wachiwi’s skill.

By nightfall, the boat was pitching heavily, but Wachiwi wasn’t sick. She was proving to be a sturdy sailor, and Jean was relieved. It would be a long two months otherwise. And after a light dinner in the cramped dining room, they went to bed. Wachiwi said the ship felt like a cradle, and it lulled both of them to sleep.

The next day they walked around the small deck. About half of the passengers had remained in their cabins and were feeling sick. Wachiwi stayed out on the deck all day, and Jean sat with her in a sheltered corner. He read, and she did some embroidery with things they’d bought in New Orleans. She was embroidering a shirt for him, with what looked like tiny Indian beads. She explained to him that it was for their wedding day, and he looked pleased. They spent another quiet night, and the next days went well.

They had been at sea for three weeks when Jean began feeling sick, and said he had a sore throat. Wachiwi was feeling fine and brought him some hot tea from the galley. She wished she had the right herbs to put in it, but they had nothing on the ship. She put her blanket around Jean’s shoulders. They were outdoors so much of the day that Jean said he had caught a chill. But that night he was worse.

By the next day he had a raging fever, and for the next week he was frighteningly sick, and delirious most of the time. Wachiwi sat beside him quietly and never moved. The captain came to see Jean in his cabin, and said he needed to be bled, but they had no doctor on board. The captain said he had seen something like it before and told Jean he thought he had “inflammatory quinsy,” which was a severe infection of the throat. Within a week of coming down with it, Jean’s throat was so sore and swollen that he could no longer swallow. Wachiwi tried for hours to get him to take a few sips of water or tea, but his throat was almost closed and he could hardly breathe.

He looked worse day by day, and after two weeks of it, Wachiwi sat beside him, chanting softly to the Great Spirits she had prayed to all her life. She begged them to come to him and make him well. She knew that a sweat lodge would have helped him to break the fever, but there was nothing like it on the damp, drafty ship. She covered his shivering form with everything they had to keep him warm, and when he felt chilled to the bone, she lay on him to share her body heat with him. Nothing helped. And she held him in her arms all through the night.

They had been at sea for almost six weeks by then, and the captain estimated that they were another two weeks from shore as Jean continued to get steadily worse. He looked ravaged by whatever disease he had. Wachiwi had a dream about the white buffalo one night as she held him, and thought it was a sign of some kind. But she had no one to tell her what the sign meant, nor any of the herbs or potions or berries that she might have used to help him, or that a medicine man would have given him in her tribe. They were at sea as he got sicker and sicker. She lay holding him and crying seventeen days after he fell ill, and when she fell asleep that night, he died quietly in her arms. She woke and found him, his eyes open, staring at her, as though he had been watching her when he died, his jaw slack, and his arms around her. He already felt cold and stiff. She wrapped him tightly in her blanket and held him gently on their bed. She was thunderstruck by what had happened. It had never occurred to her that he would die and leave her alone. He was so young and strong. She had been sure he would recover, even though he was very, very sick. She silently closed the door of the cabin and went to tell the captain, who looked instantly distressed. He had been worried that there might be an epidemic of quinsy on the ship. He didn’t know how contagious it was, and so far no one else had it, so it clearly wasn’t as contagious as other diseases that had gone like wildfire through other ships. But there was no question in his mind that they had to bury Jean at sea. He didn’t want the body kept on board.

The captain explained that to Wachiwi after they left the cabin where Jean lay wrapped in her blanket and looked like he was asleep. He told her that they couldn’t keep his remains on board, they would have to bury him at sea. She nodded, still trying to absorb what had happened. She looked as though she was in shock, and what he described to her was not in her customs, but she was ready to do what he felt best, and they agreed to hold the burial that afternoon. The captain wanted to give her some time with him till then, and she sat next to Jean in the cabin, kissing his cold face and stroking his silky hair. He looked totally at peace. She knew then that that had been the meaning of the white buffalo she had dreamed of. He had come to carry Jean away, and she began a low chant as she sat next to him, praying to the Great Spirits to welcome him and keep him safe.

Wachiwi looked devastated when four sailors came to take his body and put him on a litter, and she followed them upstairs to the deck. All the other passengers were there except two women who had scarcely left their cabins and had been sick for the entire trip. Everyone looked solemn, and one of the male passengers had volunteered to read a passage from the Bible and say a prayer. The captain had offered to wrap Jean in a French flag, but Wachiwi wanted him left in her blanket. She wanted Jean to take it with him, to keep him warm. She looked into the dark, deep waves, and it frightened her to leave him there, but she understood that there was no other choice. She covered her mouth to stifle a cry when two of the sailors tipped the litter, and Jean’s body wrapped in her blanket slipped silently into the sea. He disappeared almost instantly, and Wachiwi gave a mournful cry that was the sound of grieving in her tribe.

She stood for a long time at the back of the ship, looking out at the ocean as silent tears poured down her cheeks. Everyone on the ship left her alone, and at nightfall she went back to the cabin where he had died, and lay on the spot where he had lain in the bed, and she cried all night. She had no idea what would happen to her now, and she no longer cared. She knew without a doubt that he had been the only man she would ever love. What happened to her now no longer mattered to her. She would have jumped into the ocean after him, to follow him, but she hadn’t dared. It was the first time in her life that her courage had failed.

In the morning, she came back on deck, carrying armloads of his belongings, and she explained in her halting French that in her village, one must give away a dead man’s things, because he cannot take them with him. And since she had observed none of the other Sioux rites for him, she wanted to honor this one. She gave the sailors his shirts because they were about his size. One of the passengers was grateful for his buckskin pants. The captain took the fine dark blue coat although it was tight for him. There was a musket they could use on board. Another passenger took his boots, and his wife was grateful for Jean’s books. One by one they all took something, and the only thing Wachiwi kept was the wedding shirt she was making for him. She would have liked to bury him in it, but there wasn’t time. She was going to finish it anyway and put it away, as a memory of him. But the real memories she had of him were far more vivid, of meeting him near the waterfall, their daily encounters at the lake, startled, excited, fascinated by each other, their terrible battle with Napayshni, and riding for days together to escape… his kindness to her… his gentleness… their passion and the way they made love… the words he had taught her… the beautiful dresses he gave her in St. Louis… the way he looked at her with tenderness and love and respect… his promises to her of their life in France… it had all left with him when he slipped into the sea, but Wachiwi knew that as long as she lived, she would love him and never forget him.