Legacy (19 page)

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.

Chapter 12

With a strong wind that came up behind them unexpectedly,
La Maribelle
sailed into port a few days early. The journey had taken a little less than eight weeks, and Wachiwi stood on deck, wondering what would happen when they came into port. She knew the name of his family’s château, he had mentioned it often, it bore his name, but she had no idea how to get there, or how to find his brother, or what he would do when he discovered Jean was dead. Perhaps he would send her away. And she had nowhere to go. She had given the captain Jean’s money for safekeeping, but she didn’t know how much it was, or how far it would get her. She knew nothing about white man’s money, all she knew about was trading for furs and horses. And that would do her no good here.

The captain was pondering the same thing as they docked the ship in Saint Malo. He wondered if someone would come for her, or if they would accept her without her husband. He had been thinking of making her an offer. He had lost his own wife ten years before, and had never remarried. He liked her and she was beautiful and alone
now. She had given away all of Jean’s possessions except herself. And the captain decided to wait discreetly to see what happened.

People on the quai watched
La Maribelle
come into port, and it took them a while to tie up at the dock. There were sandy beaches and rocky headlands stretched out on either side of the port. It was beautiful and rugged as Wachiwi looked around her while the freight they had carried was unloaded. The passengers anxiously got off the ship, hungry for land and unsteady on their feet after their long confinement at sea. Their trunks were taken off, and arrangements were made to take them to their final destinations. After looking through Jean’s papers, the captain sent one of his men to the Château de Margerac nearby on horseback, to tell the marquis that the ship had docked. The sailor came back two hours later without comment. He said he had informed one of the servants, they thanked him, and he left and came back. He never saw the marquis and they had no idea if he was coming. The sailor did not tell them that the marquis’s brother had died, the captain thought it better not to.

All the other passengers had left the ship by then, and the captain very kindly told Wachiwi that she was welcome to stay on board for the two weeks they would be in port, in case no one came for her. They were both beginning to think the marquis might not come. Perhaps there was some quarrel between the two brothers that Wachiwi didn’t know about. And the offer the captain made her to stay aboard was a prelude to any other offer he might make her before he left again. He didn’t want to speak of it prematurely.

Wachiwi was sitting quietly on deck, looking out to sea sadly, near the spot on the ship where they had slipped Jean’s body into the ocean, when the captain saw an enormous black carriage roll toward
them, pulled by four white horses, with liveried footmen front and back, and a crest emblazoned on the door. It was an impressive carriage, and the man who descended from it minutes later even more so. He was the image of his younger brother, only broader, taller, and visibly a decade older, but still a very handsome man, and he looked every inch the nobleman he was, although simply and inconspicuously dressed. He was wearing a dark blue coat much like his brother’s, which the captain was the proud owner of now. The captain immediately left the ship, went to the dock, and bowed low to the marquis.

“I’m honored, sir, by your presence,” the captain said humbly, his hat rapidly shoved under his arm, as the marquis looked over the ship, stunned by how small it was to make such a long trip. He knew it couldn’t have been pleasant for those aboard.

“I’m here to meet my brother. The Comte de Margerac,” he explained, but the captain already knew.

“I’m aware of that sir, your honor.” He bowed low again as he said it. It wasn’t often he saw noblemen like this one, of such obvious distinction. “I’m afraid I have unfortunate news for you. Your brother fell ill halfway through the trip. Quinsy, I believe it was, sir, a terrible illness of the throat. He succumbed a little more than two weeks ago, and we were obliged to bury him at sea.” The marquis froze where he stood and looked at the captain, as though he had been shot. The prodigal son, or brother in this case, had almost returned to him, and now he was gone, and never would. It was beyond thinking, and tears instantly blinded the older brother’s eyes. Without shame, he wiped them away. Although he hadn’t seen him in five years, he was deeply attached to Jean and loved him dearly.

“Oh my God, how awful. I just got the letter days ago that he was coming, and this morning your message that you’d docked. How terrible. Did others get the disease?”

“No, no one, sir. Not yet.” He didn’t say it, but his own throat had been sore for a few days, but he had no fever and felt otherwise healthy, so he had said nothing. It might have just been a cold, or a draft. He didn’t want to panic the passengers before they arrived, so he had kept silent about it. “I’m very sorry. He seemed like a good man.”

“He was.” Despite his years of absence, Tristan still loved him as he always had. Jean had almost been more like a son to him than a brother, or both, and now he was dead. Tristan was heartbroken at the thought. It was devastating news.

“His wife is still here, sir,” the captain said softly, as though mentioning a forgotten trunk a passenger had left, and he saw that the marquis looked startled, as though he didn’t know about her. All Jean had written was that he intended to marry the girl he was bringing home with him, not that he already had. Knowing him, Tristan wondered if what the captain said was true or not. He knew his brother well enough to suspect that he might have claimed to be married to her in order to preserve her reputation until they did marry in France.

“Where is she?” the marquis asked, still overwhelmed by the shocking news, as the captain pointed to the deck, to a solitary figure sitting there with her back to them as she stared out to sea, oblivious to the fact that Jean’s brother had arrived.

The marquis nodded, boarded the ship, and walked up a short
stairway to where she sat. He wasn’t sure what to say to her, except that he was sorry, and knew they both were. Her dark hair hung straight down her back, and he made a sound to warn her that he was behind her. She turned slowly and saw him, and there was no mistaking who he was. He looked so exactly like Jean, only larger, more serious, and more imposing, but he had warm eyes. She almost wanted to throw her arms around him, but didn’t dare. Instead she stood up and looked at him, and dropped the low curtsy Jean had taught her, as Tristan looked at her in amazement. Jean had not written to him that she was a Sioux. And the full force of it hit Tristan now. Jean had wanted to come home with an Indian girl, only she had arrived, and he hadn’t. He was speechless for a moment as he looked at her, stunned by both her origins and her beauty, and bowed low in answer to her curtsy.