Savage Lands Read Online Free PDF Page A

hats and stockings. The stockings were red.
    Without rising from their haunches, the savages shuffled closer to the array of gifts, reaching out to touch with one finger the teeth of a tortoiseshell comb, the silvered handle of a mirror. The commandant placed a string of beads in the chief’s lap. The chief held it up to the sky, blinking as the glass flashed darts of green light. The boy thought of his sister, then. There was a dress that she had had once that she had always said would look fine with a string of green beads. He could not remember the dress or whether it too had been green.
    Marguerite had been the kindest of his sisters. She would be married by now and living with the butcher on the rue d’Armagnac. Only the baby Jeanne would be left at home. The boy thought of his mother, nudging the cradle with one foot as she bent over her darning. She had cried sometimes from the bruises, the tears little shards of ice in the rough wool. He blinked, shaking his head clear as the chief laid down the green necklace and stood to inspect the remainder of the presents. Several of them he picked up and examined more closely. The largest kettle had a dent in its belly.
    One of the savages, bolder than the rest, suddenly took up a hat and placed it upon his head. Then he stood. Apart from the hat he was quite naked, his coppery skin glossy and almost hairless. The commandant nodded gravely and clapped his hands and, when the savage tipped the hat over his eyes and stamped his feet by way of dancing, some of the men clapped too.
    The boy bit his lip. The hat was unexceptional, even plain, its modest brim trimmed only with dull silver braid. There were hundreds of such hats pressed onto bent heads in the crowded streets and wharves of La Rochelle, which, together with black coat and downcast eyes, made up the livery of the careful and the conservative. A hat of that kind was as ordinary as bread, inviting not the faintest attention or curiosity. And yet, set jauntily atop the savage’s oiled black hair, as the Indian leaped and spun, jabbering in his frenzied tongue, it made no sense at all.
    When the dance was finished, the savages rolled their gifts up in the deerskins and carried them away. The chief waited, still seated, his hands set lightly upon his thighs. The commandant said something to him in his language. The chief inclined his head and his eyes narrowed. Raising his hand to his men, the commandant nodded.
    This time four of them were required to bring the two wooden crates that had sat so low in the pirogue as it inched its way upriver. The commandant had the men set the crates before the chief. There were smears of red on the carpenter’s breeches; in the damp air the iron fastenings that secured the chests had already rusted. The commandant clicked open the first crate. The chief watched intently, without blinking.
    Slowly, the men lifted a large bundle of sailcloth from the crate and set it on the ground. It was tied all around with twine, like a corpse. The knots were obstinate, and it took a moment or two for the carpenter to fumble them loose. Stripping the twine away, he knelt and unrolled the bundle. Inside were four French muskets, their barrels oiled and glossy. The chief’s face twitched, his lips peeling from his brown teeth like a fox scenting a chicken coop. From the second chest the men took another bundle and spread it out, revealing a considerable supply of lead and powder.
    The commandant placed his hands together as though in prayer and bowed to the chief. Then he gestured at the guns. The chief nodded. The commandant gestured to one of the men, whose name was Doré. If he had a trade, the boy did not know it, but Doré had come to Louisiana from New France with the commandant and he was well accustomed to the unnatural ways of the savages. Cracking his knuckles, the Canadian pulled an apostle from his belt before hoisting a musket and upending it.
    The squatting savages shuffled closer, their