LIII.

Jeanne Dorvil didn't know what to think of her new half-blood Huron husband.  She thought she had a decent life living in the streets of La Rochelle, France.  She earned a living in thievery in the seaport underworld known as La Milieu, a runaway from abuse in the orphanage. She called this past life her Petits Doigts, and she forever kept the brassy ways of the streets about her.  She was no lady.  So it was unfortunate for her that she was caught and transported unceremoniously to the New World as a "King's Daughter." Worse, she was indignant at the prospect of being wedded to one of these starving, bereft settlers who looked worse off than any street beggar of La Rochelle. She was disembarked at a sickly waste of a settlement called La Mobile. It was at the edge of the King's empire in wild place they called Alabama. 

The appearance of these Casquette Girls had brought out the entire colony. They came out from their shacks and huts, some coughing and swaddled, for there had been an outbreak of malaria. They were all men. These women were disgusted, even terrified at this leering mob.  For her part, Jeanne Dorvil sneered contemptuously at their sunken, hungry eyes.  She snapped her teeth as they reached out to her.  At length there came the sound of a trumpet and drums that turned the heads of the crowd towards where a bizarre procession began to part them all.  It was led by a man in a robin egg doublet and a white waistcoat. Brilliant white curls fell out from beneath a wide brim hat plumed in the feathers of a Carolina parakeet. His stockings were bleached, and he moved lavishly with a polished cane, his fingers glittering with precious stones. Beside this lavish and contrary figure was a man in a black cassock with a thin face and concave cheeks. He was the priest. Jeanne Dorvil could also see that behind these two French men was an assemblage of savages.  

The gentleman and his entourage moved down to where the Casquette Girls seemed to huddle with uncertainty at the approach of the savages. These were Chocktaw, allies of the French, who seemed no more intrigued at the women than the white men of La Mobile, perhaps even less.  A few of the younger Choctaw braves guffawed when they saw Jeanne's blond hair, and babbled wildly with their arms.  They seemed to be resolving a bet. The French gentleman stood before the women and turned, raising his arms to silence the crowd.  When this had been done, he turned back to the frightened women with an opulent smile.  Then he removed his hat and, giving it a twirl, he bowed extravagantly.  

Ladies, may I present myself as your most gracious servant. I am Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne de Bienville. I am the Governor of Louisiana on behalf of his Most Beloved Majesty, King Louis XV of France.  I welcome you to Alabama! 

Seeing that his welcome had not lessened any hesitation on the behalf of the King's Daughters, he moved aside to introduce the priest, who seemed to hover forward beneath the hems of his long, black cassock.  

Ladies, may I also present to you Father Francis Le Moyne Boucher.  He will be ensuring you are properly coupled here in La Mobile, and with the most assuredly suitable husband.  

The priest nodded. The Governor continued.

You shall be bathed and quartered at my expense until the day of your wedding, which you need not worry shall last long.  For we are building a New World together!  And you shall ensure the blood of the Old World will course fresh in its veins.  Rejoice, my loves, and pray we all that you will multiply and bring fruit!  

And with this uncertain benediction, he beckoned over to the Choctaw to have a look themselves. These were terrifying men to behold.  Their skins were not noir, but tanned like a Barbary corsairs. But they were wildly painted. They mutilated themselves.  They wore buckskin over their loins.  Their eyes were alert, but moved with a childlike inquiry.  The women were terrified.  Jeanne Dorvil, on the other hand, remained instinctively keen in these uncertain moments. These poor souls, she thought. They are not going to survive out here.  I'm not sure I will, she thought. When the chief reached out to touch her blonde hair, she winced from him. The savages laughed. She glared back at them. The Governor continued to smile, and blinked to show his satisfaction. 

It was then she noticed one of the savages did not appear so deprived of clothing.  He wore a buckskin clothe still, but at least he wore breeches and a linen shirt. His eyes were dark, and though most of his hair was shaved leaving only a braided tail, the upper half of his face was painted ochre. He leaned on a long rifle. He did not laugh with the others, but this particular savage seemed to watch her. She had to believe this as she turned from him, and when she had turned back she saw him again watching her. Observing her.  His eyes never left her.  She was was even more indignant at this scrutiny, which seemed calculating to her.  Dangerous even, because behind the dark eyes of this red-faced savage there seemed at first determination, and then a decision. She watched him as he stepped forward to the Governor.  To her surprise, the Governor placed his arms around this man with an uncharacteristic familiarity and listened to him with great pragmatism. Jeanne Dorvil felt a sudden dread that her fate, the rest of her life, was being decided now at this moment, and in this wild place.  

And so it was, for the Governor nodded with affirmation, and the red-faced man stood aside and continued to watch her as Governor de Bienville approached her. He once again removed his hat with a twirl, placed it under his arm, and half-kneeling he extended his palm out to Jeanne Dorvil.  

Take my hand, love, he said. With no other option, she did so, and the Governor kissed it. The Choctaw observed this with great amusement. 

You, my Darling, you shall be the first of the King's Daughters to be wedded! Go with my blessing and with that of His Majesty, the King. And may God always go away with you! You are the fruit tree of the Empire!  

I'm not marrying that savage, Jeanne Dorvil growled.  

The Governor acted aback, pursing his lips, and smiling at her as though a father to a child.  

You do not understand, my Darling.  This savage of which you speak is my nephew, Emil.  And yes, he will call himself a savage, and that may be so when he must become one, but he is not like these Choctaw.  He is my blood, however, and you shall find yourself living a life of great purpose here in Alabama.  He said this rather matter-of-factly.  

Jeanne Dorvil growled again. You will have me marry a half-breed at that?  

The Governor blinked.  He leaned close to her. You are a woman of narrow-mind, he said quietly and without extravagance. You will come to know this New World and learn that survival here is but a narrow trail.  Marriage to my nephew is your best hope of surviving here in Alabama. He is of the opinion that your fate is worth more than just bearing fruit.  He has fantastic plans for you.  Rejoice! 

And with that, he withdrew from her and bowed lavishly to people gathered and dismissed them all.  This they did, and the Casquette Girls were led to their quarters. All except, Jeanne Dorvil, who was bid to remain with the savage to whom she would become bride. He stood staring her as the Governor returned by great ceremony the way he had came and the crowd disbursed rather disappointedly.  She stood staring back at him.  She thought about grabbing a nearby lathing tool and jamming it into the red man's neck and running. But where would she run too? And she had not the killer instinct unless it were brought forth by a threat to her own life. But if that time came, she would kill him for certain if necessary.  Even so, she dreaded having to go away with this man.  

When they were alone together in the public space besides the docks, this red savage they called Emil finally approached her.  She backed away, and she eyed the lathe beside a log pile, then took in a breathe as he came close to her.  He looked her over.  She might have felt violated at this encounter but for the words he said to her in perfect French.

You stink, woman.  What is your name?  Never mind.  It is not important right now. I'll learn it later. Let's get you cleaned up.  You must bathe.  The natives will not appreciate your odor.  That is why they were laughing at you.  

She was appalled!  How dare this moor, this half-blood, this Metis!  There was a fight in her eyes, and Emil looked into them again.  Then he smiled a half-smile.  

Let's go, woman.  We've got a long journey ahead of us.