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The Marin Family Chronicles--Volume 2-Book 1

The Avengers by Charles O. Goulet

Chapter One -- Pierre's Dilemma

    Pierre yawned and stretched his arms overhead.  A puff of steam issued from his mouth into the frigid air of the small log cabin.  He knew it must be very cold outside.
A stir beside him forced a smile as the young woman to his left wriggled further into the mass of fur blankets that was their bed.  He quickly brought his arms underneath the robes and snuggled into the warmth of the rabbit fur that covered them.  The woman nestled against his naked body and sighed contentedly.
    The luxury of the warm bed and the soft woman beside him filled  him with pleasure.  He rolled to his side and placed his arm around her soft, pliable body.
    The black haired child next to her moaned and moved closer to the sleeping woman.
    Pierre reached for the child.  His fingers caressed the soft shoulders and felt their smoothness.  This was his son, a sturdy boy, who would soon be five years old.
    He could still remember when the boy was born.  It was early spring, in this same abode.  Equoy, the woman, shooed him from the cabin with the admonition not to return until she came to get him.  That was in mid-March, almost five years ago.
    Within an hour, his young woman came for him and proudly presented him with the child, his son.  The boy's sharp-featured face  reminded him of a young kit fox and he exclaimed, "He's a beautiful little fox."
    Equoy smiled and pronounced, "His name shall be Assinbo!"
    Pierre smiled and said, "So be it.  That's a good name.  It has a nice sound."  Pierre knew that it was the Potawatomi word for "Fox".  So his son was "The Fox."
    The boy grabbed his hand and clung to it, holding it firmly against his warm chest.  The child breathed contentedly and slept peacefully.
    Pierre was at Fort Machilimackinac since he left Montreal in the spring of 1693 with the commandant, D'Argentueuil, and a brigade of about twenty-five canoes.  He could not remember the exact number, but it did not matter.  He came into the fur country with hope of making his fortune and then returning to New France and Montreal as a wealthy man; it did not happened.
    Now it was January 1, 1700 and he was still in the fur country, no richer than when he first arrived.
    Shortly after his arrival, like all his fellow coureurs-de-bois, he traded a bottle of brandy for the young Indian girl that lay beside him.  When a band of Potawatomi of the Chippewa tribe came to trade their furs with the commandant of the fort, he spotted the shapely young girl in her deerskin gown as she accompanied her mother down to the strait for a container of water.
    He was sitting on a log by the water watching the spring birds as they chattered and mated in the rushes and reeds that grew along the bank.  The Indian women attracted his attention as the young woman followed the older woman carrying a wooden bucket obtained at the fort through trade.
    Neither looked at him as he studied them.  The older women, her gray-streaked hair drawn back and tied with a leather thong, wore a loose calico dress that came to her calves and her feet were encased in dull moosehide moccasins with puckered seams.  Pierre learned that the puckered seams were a distinguishing trait of this particular tribe and their name, Potawatomi, meant exactly that, "the people of the puckered seams."  But he was more attracted by the woman who followed behind.  The loose drape of the deerskin robe could not hide the shapeliness of her breasts and thighs.  Then his eyes moved to her face.  Almond eyes glistened and sparkled as she sneaked a look at him.  Her face was delicately oval with smooth tawny cheeks and heart-shaped lips, full but pleasing.  Her nose was small and pert, unlike that of other Indian maidens that he had seen, which were usually long and aquiline.
    He smiled at her, and she turned away quickly.
    Two days later she was his.  He learned that her father was one of the principal men of the tribe, though not a chief.  The agreement was quickly negotiated, and Equoy came to live with him.
    His left hand cupped her left breast, and he felt it throb beneath his touch.  His pulse quickened.  But he did not pursue his passion.
    Although the past five years were pleasant in many ways, he had not accomplished his dream of becoming a wealthy fur-trader.  On the contrary, he still owed the fort commander for his last permission to trade among Equoy's people.
    For the past five years the trade in furs was difficult.  The king of France, Louis XIV, the great Sun King, decided that the fur trade should be abandoned.  Too many beaver pelts were on the market in France; the forts and the fur trade were too expensive to maintain.  As a result the trade was severely curtailed.  Only the commandants of the forts seemed to be able to make any money.
    He had not heard from his family on the seigniory of Longueuil near Montreal on the south shore of the St. Lawrence River.  He wondered how they were.  He heard that his father, Pierre Marin Sr., died, but he was not sure of that.  One of his fellow coureur-de-bois told him, but one could never be sure of these fellows.
    He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but the figures of his family filled his mind, and he turned away from the woman.  She turned with him, cuddled against his back, and sighed; then her breathing resumed its regular, smooth rhythm.
    He remembered the time before he left for the West.  He knew his father wanted him to take a concession on the Longueuil seigniory.  He knew his mother wanted him to court one of the young woman, a daughter of one of the other habitants of the seigniory.  He knew his brothers wanted him to spend more time helping improve the farm, but he was too restless.  He recalled the many quarrels that he had with them.  Jean, at sixteen, a man who resented that Pierre spent so much of his time in Montreal, in the taverns, listening to the coureur-de-bois who came from western fur country with tales of adventure among the Indians of the West, of the hunting and trapping, of the trading and drinking, of the wiles of the young Indian maidens, of the easy access to these pleasures.
    His youngest brother, Charles, at ten years old, was indifferent to the dissent between his parents, his brother Jean, and himself.  He remembered how Charles looked up to him, admired him, and emulated him.
    He wondered what his brothers were doing now.  Were they still at home with his parents, Pierre and Francoise Marin, or had they married and started farms of their own?
    Jean would be twenty-two on January 6, while Charles would be seventeen sometime in the spring.  He could not remember the exact date, and he felt guilty and annoyed.  No doubt Jean was married; he was old enough; that was if he could find a woman; they were scarce in the colony of New France.  He knew that Jean would not be satisfied with an Indian woman.  No, he would insist that his wife be a pure, virginal French girl.
    He smiled to himself.  Jean would never know the joys of the uninhibited love-making of an Indian maiden.  He glanced at the sleeping woman beside him.  She taught him a great deal about making love.  Her inhibitions stimulated him, and her own pleasure increased his.  Over the passed five years he enjoyed her body as he never enjoyed any other pleasure.  She moved and groped to embrace him.  The warmth of her body against his sent a pulse of pleasure through him and he caressed and stroked her smooth thigh.  Oh, what his brother missed!
    Then he frowned.  If his father died, he knew that his mother would suffer her loss grievously.  He recalled that his mother and father loved each other deeply.  He knew they had their quarrels, but they understood each other's weaknesses and faults.  He remembered how they looked at each other, love shining from their eyes.  Yes, if his father was dead, his mother would miss him greatly.  Who was looking after her?  To whom had his father left the farm?  To Jean?  To Charles?
    He should be in Longueuil, helping his parents to develop their farm.  He, as the eldest son, should see that they were taken care of in their old age.  But here he was at Fort Michilimackinac, with no possessions except an Indian women, and a mixed-blood son.  True, he built this small log cabin on the edge of the Straits of Michilimackinac, but he did not really own it.  It was on land that belonged to whom?  To the Indians?  To the fort?  To the commandant?  To the governor of New France?  To the king of France?  He did not know.  He knew that he owed the commandant of the fort 100 livres.  He knew that he had little influence with Equoy's tribe.  He knew that he could get few furs from his trade, and those that he got returned him little in the way of monetary gain.
    He grimaced and tried to shake these thoughts from his head.  He promised his father that he could make a fortune in the fur trade.  His father smiled.  Pierre knew that his father dabbled in the fur trade when they lived at Port Royal.  Ah, Port Royal.  Those were happy years.
    He recalled his life there.  He knew that his parents came to Acadia in 1670 and took a concession on the north shore of the Dauphin River opposite the fort at Port Royal.  Life was pleasant and his father was successful as a trader, as a farmer, and as a fisherman.  He prospered and built a large house on a high point overlooking the river.  He knew that it was destroyed in a disastrous fire shortly after they moved in.  Although his neighbours helped to rebuild it, his mother told him that life was never the same after that.
    Then the war came, and the English captured Port Royal.  Later the same year, 1690, pirates attacked the settlement and killed his father's best friend, Jacques Breton, as they raped his wife, Marguerite, and the oldest daughter, Genevieve.  It was then that his father decided to leave Port Royal and move to New France.
    That was a bad year, for as soon as they arrived in Quebec, a New England armada under Phips laid siege to the city.  Pierre, his father, was severely wounded in the defence although the English attackers were forced to withdraw.
    He was there with his father.  He remembered vividly the event.  Jacques Le Moyne was critically wounded, and he and his father rescued him, but shortly afterward Le Moyne died.
    The Le Moyne family, appreciative of his father's bravery, rewarded him by giving him a grant of land on their seigniory of Longueuil near Montreal on the south shore of the St. Lawrence River.
    Then he remembered the expedition against the Mohawks.  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to forget, but the face of the young Mohawk women still haunted him.  He remembered his lust and his possession of her, but mostly he remembered the young trooper who killed her unemotionally as if she was some vermin.  He shook his head in disgust, at himself, at his behaviour, at his cowardice for not attempting to stop the trooper.
    The orgy that followed also revolted him, particularly the brutal treatment of the women and young girls--the brutality, the bestiality, the rapacity, the lust, the violation, and the defilement.  Then the killing--wanton and unnecessary.  That he could never forget.  That was one reason he had left: to try to forget.
    But now he knew that he was fooling himself--he would never forget.
    Would his parents understand and forgive him?  If his father was dead--he felt a sharp pang of sorrow.  He remembered the last time he saw his father.  It was the morning he left for the West.  The family came to the departure point and wished him Godspeed and good luck.  His father  embraced him, but even then he tried to convince him to forget his foolishness and to stay on the farm.  He knew his father needed his help on the farm as he was still nagged by the injury he received in the defence of Quebec.  If his father was dead, as his informant said, then his mother needed him.
    By now his brothers would be able to take over the farm and look after his mother, but the past five years had to be difficult.
    The war between France and England was over; the Iroquois, without English backing, were ready for peace.  No doubt the colony was safer than it had been for years.
    He heard that Pierre Le Moyne d'Iberville, one of the illustrious Le Moyne family, lead a successful expedition against the English in Newfoundland.  He heard that he destroyed most of the English settlements but was unable to push them completely from the island.
    Shortly after that, the war ended.  That did not help the fur trade.  In fact, it destroyed it.  The government restricted the trade to fort commanders only.  Free traders were, for the most part, shut out as permits were no longer granted.  He was somewhat lucky because d'Argenteuil and his successor Tonti gave him permission to continue his trade with the Potawatomis, Equoy's people.
    He turned on his side toward his small family.  His dusky-skinned mate looked peaceful and contented.  She lay facing him, her small mouth slightly open, her full lips quivering slightly as she breathed.  Her closed eyelids fluttered slightly and her long black hair, still braided, shone in the brightening gloom of the early morning light.
    The boy lay on his back, his ruddy cheeks glowed with good health, and his short black hair, dishevelled and spiked, framed his face.  He, like his mother, slept peacefully.  The boy was his flesh and blood, but he did not feel the strong attachment to the child that he felt he should.  The boy seemed foreign, unrelated to him.  The woman seemed a temporary necessity.  He did not feel that she was a permanent part of his life; she was a commodity that he acquired.
    He shook his head.  He was confused by his thinking.  Why did he feel the way he did?  Why was he thinking this way?  What did it mean?
    He had a strong desire to see his mother, his father--if he was still alive--and his brothers.  He wanted to leave this and return to Canada.  He wanted to return to the life he left behind, the town of Montreal, the seigniory of Longueuil, the small concession that his father and mother worked so hard to improve.  He missed the times the family joined their neighbours in the small church for Mass, or a wedding, or a funeral.  He missed the hard work in the fields, the land clearing, the burning of brush and logs, the turning over of the soil, the seeding, the harvest, the preparation of the fruits for use in the cold winters.
    He remembered the social events, the feast days, when everyone joined together to prepare a great meal at the seigneur's house.  The smell of a roasting pig over an outdoor spit assailed his nostrils; the full odour of baking bread in the outdoor oven made his mouth water; the taste of milk cool from the icehouse tickled his palate;  the robust fragrance of beans baked in large crockery pots intrigued him.  Oh, how he missed those times.  The food, the laughter, the gaiety, the gossip, the giggles of the young girls, the aggressiveness of the young men as they flirted with any available young maiden.  His heartbeat quickened with excitement.
    Only one thing would satify him.  He must go back to his family.  He must ask their forgiveness.  He must beg them to accept him back.  He must leave the West and return to Canada.  He would start preparing immediately for his departure.  No brigades would be leaving for Canada at this time of year, but the next months would fly by.  He had many things to do; he had to settle his accounts at the fort; he had to get as many furs as he could; he did not want to return to Canada empty handed.
    He looked once more at his sleeping household.  What would he do with them?  He had to convince another coureur-de-bois to take the woman and boy.  She was still a pretty woman, and she was still young.  She was capable and willing.  That would be an asset.  Everyone at the fort knew that she took good care of Pierre.  She kept the small cabin neat and clean; she sewed clothes for the family, and decorated them with beads and porcupine quills.  Pierre's leggings and shirts and moccasins were always in good repair.  The child was well cared for, well-fed, well-clothed, and clean.
    Her person was always clean; she adopted habits that Pierre liked; she no longer greased her hair with oil; she washed regularly and looked clean because Pierre insisted on it.  He should have no trouble getting someone else to take her.  The boy might be a problem.  Not many coureurs-de-bois were interested in providing for someone else's offspring.  Equoy might have to send him back to her tribe.  Pierre knew that this happened regularly.  The tribe would accept the child and raise him as one of their own.  Children were considered a treasure by the Indian bands, especially boys, as they were future hunters and warriors.
    He lifted the rabbit robe that covered the sleeping woman.  He admired her body.  She was a beautiful woman with full breasts, firm and smooth-globed, slightly less tawny than her face and arms.  Her stomach was flat and tight and curved slightly to the dark recesses of her groin.  Her skin was smooth and clear, unblemished, lacking in the usual moles and discoloration which was common with most woman.  She stirred as a cool draft hit her uncovered body.  She drew her long slender legs up as she curled to keep warm.
    Pierre knew every curve and cranny of her body, and he sighed as he returned the robe to cover her.  He pictured her beneath another man's body, and he cursed softly.  She gave him joy; she was his.  It would be difficult to give that up.  No other woman satisfied him the way Equoy did.  He would miss her, but he had decided: he would return to Canada in the spring.
    Her eyes fluttered open and she gazed up at him, her dark brown eyes like deep, limpid pools.  Her lips curved in a tiny trace of a smile, and two shallow dimples creased her smooth cheeks.  She reached toward him with her right hand, daintily.  Pierre admired the smooth, tawny arm, slim and delicate, but strong and wholesome.  She stretched it toward him and arched her body beneath the snow white rabbit robe.  A long, smooth sigh escaped from her lips and she closed her eyes.
    She relaxed and slowly removed her left arm from beneath the covers, then she lifted both arms above her head, again stretching, yawning, and sighing deeply.
    She opened her eyes and gazed into Pierre's.  She turned toward him and reached up to his neck.  Her hands encircled it; they felt  warm and soft against his skin.  Her hands tighten around his neck and drew him toward her.  He resisted slightly, but she pulled his head firmly toward hers.  She moved her face toward his and her lips brushed his, warm and moist.  Her tongue flicked against his lips stirring him.  He held back, but he did not struggle.
    She moaned softly and tightened her arms about him.  He bent his head but twisted it sideways; her lips found his cheek, and he could feel them quivering against his face.
    Her right hand came to the side of his face and pushed it so his lips found hers.  She worked her lips against his, gently exploring and stirring.
    He tried to forget how delicious and effective her kisses could be.  He tried to forget how her passion aroused him.  He tried to forget the lust that rose within him as she prepared him to make love.  This morning he did not want to make love to her.  He had decided to abandon her, and yet he desired her more than he had ever desired another woman.
    The child beside her stirred.
    He whispered, "We'll wake the child."
    She smiled and whispered back, "That never bothered you before."
    He raised himself on his left elbow.  He looked down into her eyes.  They glistened and sparkled invitingly.
    Her hands slid from the back of his head to his ears which she grasped firmly and tugged strongly.  A tiny pain shot from each ear and he winced.
    "Come here, my darling," she purred and pulled his face toward hers.  Her mouth found his, her lips moved leisurely.  Her tongue flicked to his, entwining and wet.  She moaned softly.  Still holding his ears, she twisted beneath him, and her open mouth explored his lips, moving from the upper to the lower, nibbling.
    His arms encircled her waist, and his hands caressed her hips, her thighs, and her buttocks.  They felt smooth, and warm, and velvety beneath his callused hands.
    She raised her mouth from his.  "Pierre, oh, Pierre, I love you."
    He tried to answer her, but no words came.
    She raised her head and stared into his eyes.  He looked away.  He could not gazed into those loving, trusting eyes.
    Her lips crushed his.  He could feel the fire in her kiss.  He could feel the heat in her body.  She kissed his cheeks, his chin his neck, and she explored his chest.  He felt her urgency, her eagerness, but he did not respond.  Her hands massaged his torso, slowly, tenderly along his chest, in the fine hairs that grew there, around his nipples, along his ribcage to his navel.
    He felt their warmth, and his breath quickened with excitement.  He stiffened, trying to control his passion.
    He shrugged her from him.
    She looked at him, her face solemn and surprised.  "What's the matter, my brave man.  What have I done?  Why don't you want me?"
    He lay on his back, taut and rigid, staring upward to the ceiling, avoiding her eyes.  He said nothing.
    She leaned over him her breasts against his chest.  He could feel her nipples, hard and pointed, against him.  She raised herself forward so that her left breast came against his lips and she wriggled until her firm, strawberry-like nipple touched his mouth.  She sighed and moaned as she worked it into his mouth.
    He remained rigid.  How could she love him when he intended to dispose of her, to sell her to the highest bidder, to give her to another man?
    Her left hand caressed him and slid down his body over his torso, her fingers finding his navel and tracing around it.  Then her hand rubbed his stomach, her fingers moving slowly along down to his hair.  He tried to keep his mind off her ministrations, but he could not.
    Slowly his lips responded to the quivering nipple, and his tongue licked it, savoring the taste of her skin.  He felt the nipple grow larger as his wet lips bathed it.  He felt his mouth tingle from the taste of her body.
    He shook his head and found her right breast.  He kissed it wetly, his tongue exploring the roundness of its globe, then the roughness of the areola, and the sweetness of her rigid nipple.
    His hands grasped the firm roundness of her buttocks as she wriggled slowly against him.  He kneaded her mounded muscles and she moaned with pleasure.
    He tried to stop his lust and passion but he could not.  Her frenzied kisses that covered his chest and stomach, quickened his heartbeat and his emotions became difficult to control.
    She whispered crooning words. and her hand explored his manhood.  She straddled him and continued caressing and massaging him.
    He sighed as he succumbed to her ministrations.  He tried to restrain himself, as the last lingering thoughts of his decision to abandon her and leave this country flitted through his mind.  Her passion erased the last of these thoughts as he allowed himself to yield to his lust.
    She guided him into her.  The heat and moisture pleased him and he thrust firmly, craving her quivering body.
    She matched his thrusts.  They were oblivious to their surrounding.

    A calm and lassitude enveloped him as he lay beside the woman, their moist bodies touching and feeling as one.  She snuggled against him placing her head on his chest, her right hand caressing his left shoulder.  His right arm encircled her shoulders and his right hand patted her smooth back.
    He stared at the ceiling unseeing, his mind a blank as he savored the peace and fulfilment of the moment.  He listened as his heartbeat slowed within him, returning to normal.
    Each time he made love to this wild and uninhibited woman he lost all sense of time and reality.  The pleasure roared through his body like the waters in rapids, surging and roiling and leaving him sated and vulnerable.  How could he ever think of leaving such pleasure and joy to return to Canada?  How would he ever find the same sweetness and satisfaction?  How would he find another women, white or red, who would fulfil him as this tawny maid of the western wilderness did?
    He drew her close, her warmth and velvet smoothness sent shivers of pleasure streaming through his body almost as gratifying as the climax of minutes before.  He felt her smooth muscles ripple as she cuddled closer.
    She turned her head, resting her chin on his chest.  She smiled into his hazel eyes.  She moved her hand slowly upward to his face; her index finger traced the line of his bearded chin and followed it to his lips where it moved along to the corner of his mouth and then along his upper lip to the hairy ruffle beneath his nose.
    Her eyes twinkled.  "White men are not like Indians.  They have fur like the beaver in the winter."
    He was not sure whether she was taunting him or not.  He knew that his beard was much heavier than that of any red men, and he was never sure whether she liked that or not.
    He grabbed at her long plait of hair and pulled her beneath him.  "Indian woman have more hair than white women."  He smiled as he pinned her beneath him.  She struggled momentarily, and then surrendered as he grabbed her arms and stretched them above her head.  She looked up into his face, a smile lingering around her soft, pouty lips.
    He bent his head to kiss her lips, and she responded, her tongue searching for his.  His blood stirred, as she spread her legs apart to invite him to penetrate her once more.  She wriggled her hips and thrust her pelvis to meet his.
    Once again his passion came alive, and he entered her.  Slowly she enclosed him and slowly her movements increased and joined in unison with his.  He savored the sweetness of her flesh as his lips explored her ears, her neck, the dip at her throat, and the valley between her globular breasts.  His body was building to a crescendo, and he knew hers was too.  The suddenness and explosiveness of their passion surprised both of them, as they stiffened and relished each other.
    Pierre relaxed and rolled to one side.  His mind pictured him back in Montreal, back at Longueuil, back on a farm, back with a French women, back with white children.
    He glanced to where his child, his son, still slept peacefully, unaware of the passion that had taken place beside him.  He looked away.  He could not keep his eyes on the child, this child that he planned to leave behind, this woman that he planned to deal to someone else.  He grimaced, trying to push his thought to something else, something that did not pain him so.  He tried to think of something else, but he could not.
    He had just made love to this woman twice, and she had pleased him both times.  His body enjoyed her body, but his mind would not let him relish the pleasure.  He felt guilty and culpable, as if he had committed a crime, as if he had sinned grievously.
    She sensed his inquietude.  "What's the matter, Shemagonish?"  "Shemagonish" was her nickname for him.  It meant "brave man" in her Chippewa language.
    "Nothing," he answered, but he knew she did not believe him.
    She twisted toward him.  "Shemagonish, there is something troubling you.  What is it?"
    He turned toward her, his eyes searching her face.  Her eyes were large and wistful, showing her concern for him.  He smiled at her and the firm set of her mouth softened.
    He could not tell her why he was confused, why he was troubled, why he was miserable.  She would be hurt.  She would not understand that he had obtained her as a commodity to be used and to be discarded when he no longer needed her.  To the Indian way of thinking she was not a trade good; she was a present to show goodwill, to cement an agreement, one that would last forever.  To her, she was an inducement to bind a friendship, to seal a promise between two men--her father and this man to whom she now belonged.  To him, it had been a business arrangement, a contract that could be ended when either of the parties felt like it.
    He could not tell her that he wanted to end the deal, to sell the contract to someone else, or to cancel it and return her to her father and her tribe.
    True, the arrangement had been mutually satisfying to Equoy's tribe and him.  During the past four years, he traded with the tribe supplying them with pots and pans, knives and axes, powder and shot, and he received the benefit of her care and love.  He fulfilled his part of the bargain, and she more than satisfied him, but not now he wanted out.
    The trade did not worked out the way he hoped.  When Sieur d'Argenteuil was commandant at Michilimackinac'Pierre hoped to make a fortune in the fur trade, but in 1694, when Captain Antoine de Lamothe Cadillac arrived as commandant that hope was dashed.  He charged his traders high prices for their trade goods, yet he brought the furs at low prices under the pretext that he would be unable to sell them since the Minister in France would no longer buy beaver pelts.  When Cadillac returned to Canada in 1697, he left with the largest brigade of furs that Pierre ever saw--176,000 pounds of furs.
    Pierre gritted his teeth.  "No, I cannot leave!" he mumbled.
    He kissed her gently on the nose.

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