The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [8]
“Ah. Yes.” Franklin licked his dry lips. “Well, I suppose they know we're here already. Robert, put away your weapon. It's useless anyway.”
“They don't know that.”
“They know you can kill no more than one of them, and probably not that at this range with that popper. Put it away.”
Robert did so reluctantly.
Ben stood a little straighter, showing his empty hands.
“Hello there!” he called. “Who do I have the pleasure of addressing? I am Benjamin Franklin, appointed representative of South Carolina, and I am on a mission of peace and diplomacy.”
There followed a nerve-racking pause but finally a shout came back from the thicket.
“Parlez-vous français? Je ne parle pas anglais.”
“Oui, un petit peu,” Franklin replied. “Je m'appelle Benjamin Franklin, de Carolina Sud—”
“You are in Louisiana,” the fellow replied, still in French. “That is very far from Carolina.”
“I've come to treat with the French king,” Franklin replied. “I have the papers to prove it.”
Another hesitation, and then the voice said, “Come forward, you.” Franklin could see the man now, gesturing with his hand. He wore a blue French coat, but his features looked Indian.
“I'm coming,” Franklin replied.
“Hold there, Señor Franklin!”
Another man had emerged from behind them—also an Indian—a silver crucifix bobbing at his throat, a rapier hanging jauntily at his side, and barbaric tattoos decorating his exposed flesh.
“Don Pedro!” Franklin exclaimed gladly.
“The same,” the Apalachee chieftain replied. He jerked his head toward the Indians in the brush. “What do those skulking scoundrels want?”
“I'm not sure,” Franklin admitted. “They speak French.”
“Yes?” The Apalachee cleared his throat and called out in that language. “I am Don Pedro Salazar de Ivitachuca, prince and Nikowatka of Apalachee. Stop hiding, you rascals, and face me like a man.”
“There are but four of you,” the man in the woods replied. “Lay your arms on the ground or suffer the consequences.”
“You should take your own advice,” Don Pedro replied, and snapped his fingers.
Suddenly, on all sides, the forest began to move as Apalachee warriors seemed to appear magically from behind every tree.
“Much as we despise it,” Don Pedro called, “the Apalachee, too, can skulk. And now, my friend, it is you who are surrounded and outnumbered.”
Another long pause, and then the French-speaker stood. “The French king will mislike this behavior on his own lands.”
“Take us to him, then,” Franklin called back. “That is all we ever desired. Won't you come shake my hand and let us have peace between us? What sense for this warlike behavior, when we are not at war?”
“In these days, everyone is at war,” the man replied. “But I am coming.”
He emerged from the forest a moment later. Seeing him more closely, Franklin guessed he was half Indian, for his features owed strongly to the European. He wore a silver gorget at his throat and carried an officer's smallsword. Beneath his blue coat, his flesh was bare, save for the flap of a loincloth.
“I am Henri Koy Penigault,” he said, when he drew near, “captain of the king's march guard and war captain of the Mobila. Stand your men down, and I will escort you to New Paris.”
Franklin clasped his hand. “Captain Penigault, it is a great pleasure. We feared you were Coweta, for they have been trying to murder us since before the last new moon.”
“Well, we have that in common at least.” Penigault grinned. “An enemy of the Coweta might be a friend of mine. Shall we meet and smoke together?”
Franklin remembered the last time he had smoked the pipe of peace, how near he had come to losing the meal in his belly. But at the moment, his belly was quite empty.
“I would be delighted,” he lied.
After the smoke, however, there was brandy and freshly slain venison, and most fingers came off triggers and sword hilts. Franklin and Voltaire sat around a fire, along with Don Pedro and James McPherson, the rugged captain of the Southern Rangers, regarding Penigault and his chief men across the wavering flames. They were a mixed bunch, French