Savage Lands by Clare Clark Page B
Authors: Clare Clark
the cottage, she pulled the sack from its hiding place beneath the bed and ran what was left of the corn through her fingers, inhaling its old-barn smell before putting it back, pulling the deerskin tight over it as though she was tucking an infant into bed.
One night in March, Jean-Claude brought wine. They drank it in bed directly from the bottle, wiping their mouths on the backs of their hands. The wine was Spanish, thick with sunshine and the turned-earth sweetness of blackberries. The embers of the fire caught in the bottle and spilled jewels of dark red light on the sea-green silk of the feather quilt as he protested bitterly against the stifling confines of the settlement, the dull and narrow preoccupations of his fellows. He declared himself bored beyond the limits of reason by the political manoeuvrings of the garrison officers, their petty jostlings, their fixation with favour and with hierarchy.
‘They rot here with their seals and their promises, scouring the horizon for boats that might bring them a word of praise from the minister-in-waiting for this or the third undersecretary to the commissary of that. They are truly a pitiable lot, these Frenchmen of yours. The colony of Louisiana covers almost two thousand miles of bountiful St Louis River and they cluster here like timid children clutching at their mother’s skirts, waiting to lick the leftover smears from her baking bowl? No wonder their wives starve and their mewling infants too.’
‘The river is frozen solid,’ Elisabeth protested gently. ‘Even the hardiest of you hairy Québecois cannot travel when the river is impassable.’
‘Do you know what they do, these countrymen of yours?’ Jean-Claude frowned and took another gulp of wine. ‘They write angry letters to the Minister of the Marine accusing Sieur de Bienville of selling fifty barrels of the colony’s best gunpowder to the Spanish in exchange for gold. Perhaps he did so. Perhaps he did not. But the colony endures, though the same minister in his elegant house in Paris would not risk a fingernail to save it. The whole army of Louisiana numbers hardly more than one hundred, of which one quarter are not fit to fight, but somehow the commandant sees that we hold our position here against all the odds. In the Mediterranean we are at war with the Spanish, but the commandant maintains his own private peace with Pensacola. He has made us safe. Why should it concern me that the esteemed Bienville may or may not grow rich on the proceeds of gunpowder he has contrived, through a miracle, not to require?’
Elisabeth smiled. ‘You cannot expect the commissary to think as you do. I am as much an admirer of the commandant as you are but, whatever his abilities, the gunpowder is not his to sell.’
‘There, you see, you are as French as the rest of them. You all believe that you can bring the rules of Paris here. But this is not Paris. Look at your Frenchmen stamping their feet and dashing off their furious letters on the King’s paper. How will those letters reach France when there are no ships to take them?’
‘They are idiots, it is true.’
‘They would be better to sell the paper and the ink and be done with it. At least there would be profit in it.’
‘Your cynical posturing does not convince me. You are not half so much a Diogenes as you pretend.’
Elisabeth uncurled herself lazily, stretching her arms high above her head. Reaching out, Jean-Claude caught her wrists in one hand and pulled her towards him, his other hand seeking the hidden warmth beneath her skirts. Elisabeth sighed and leaned in to him.
‘You Parisians are all the same,’ he murmured. ‘I might defend myself against your accusations if I had the first idea what it was you were talking about.’
Elisabeth laughed and took his head between her hands, tipping his face up towards hers. He smiled at her and the miracle of him squeezed her heart like a fist.
‘My love,’ she whispered. ‘You shall never have
One night in March, Jean-Claude brought wine. They drank it in bed directly from the bottle, wiping their mouths on the backs of their hands. The wine was Spanish, thick with sunshine and the turned-earth sweetness of blackberries. The embers of the fire caught in the bottle and spilled jewels of dark red light on the sea-green silk of the feather quilt as he protested bitterly against the stifling confines of the settlement, the dull and narrow preoccupations of his fellows. He declared himself bored beyond the limits of reason by the political manoeuvrings of the garrison officers, their petty jostlings, their fixation with favour and with hierarchy.
‘They rot here with their seals and their promises, scouring the horizon for boats that might bring them a word of praise from the minister-in-waiting for this or the third undersecretary to the commissary of that. They are truly a pitiable lot, these Frenchmen of yours. The colony of Louisiana covers almost two thousand miles of bountiful St Louis River and they cluster here like timid children clutching at their mother’s skirts, waiting to lick the leftover smears from her baking bowl? No wonder their wives starve and their mewling infants too.’
‘The river is frozen solid,’ Elisabeth protested gently. ‘Even the hardiest of you hairy Québecois cannot travel when the river is impassable.’
‘Do you know what they do, these countrymen of yours?’ Jean-Claude frowned and took another gulp of wine. ‘They write angry letters to the Minister of the Marine accusing Sieur de Bienville of selling fifty barrels of the colony’s best gunpowder to the Spanish in exchange for gold. Perhaps he did so. Perhaps he did not. But the colony endures, though the same minister in his elegant house in Paris would not risk a fingernail to save it. The whole army of Louisiana numbers hardly more than one hundred, of which one quarter are not fit to fight, but somehow the commandant sees that we hold our position here against all the odds. In the Mediterranean we are at war with the Spanish, but the commandant maintains his own private peace with Pensacola. He has made us safe. Why should it concern me that the esteemed Bienville may or may not grow rich on the proceeds of gunpowder he has contrived, through a miracle, not to require?’
Elisabeth smiled. ‘You cannot expect the commissary to think as you do. I am as much an admirer of the commandant as you are but, whatever his abilities, the gunpowder is not his to sell.’
‘There, you see, you are as French as the rest of them. You all believe that you can bring the rules of Paris here. But this is not Paris. Look at your Frenchmen stamping their feet and dashing off their furious letters on the King’s paper. How will those letters reach France when there are no ships to take them?’
‘They are idiots, it is true.’
‘They would be better to sell the paper and the ink and be done with it. At least there would be profit in it.’
‘Your cynical posturing does not convince me. You are not half so much a Diogenes as you pretend.’
Elisabeth uncurled herself lazily, stretching her arms high above her head. Reaching out, Jean-Claude caught her wrists in one hand and pulled her towards him, his other hand seeking the hidden warmth beneath her skirts. Elisabeth sighed and leaned in to him.
‘You Parisians are all the same,’ he murmured. ‘I might defend myself against your accusations if I had the first idea what it was you were talking about.’
Elisabeth laughed and took his head between her hands, tipping his face up towards hers. He smiled at her and the miracle of him squeezed her heart like a fist.
‘My love,’ she whispered. ‘You shall never have