Tworivers
Copyright© 2025 by Harry Carton
Chapter 23: The Old Woman’s Map
Yellow Hair’s party took about three weeks to get through what would have been Oklahoma, Arkansas, and northern Louisiana in the time before the tornado, and got down to the swampy portions of that area. They had to dodge several small forts of the French invasion before they encountered the Chitimacha. Water Snake took them down to the river she called the ‘hachcha falaya’ — meaning the long river in the patois of the Chitimacha. It was easy for Yellow Hair to understand how that got translated by the white people into the Atchafalaya River.
It wasn’t really a river because it didn’t have a channel or it WAS a river in the sense that the water that covered the broad flat plain did flow in one direction — toward the Great River that would be called the Mississippi.
Water Snake gestured with her wrinkled hand as she led them through the swamp. “See how the trees grow out of the water? You will need a pirogue.” Yellow Hair was startled to hear her use almost the same word that his grandmother used to describe the ham and cheese dumplings from the part of Germany she came from. Now that he thought of it, the pierogi she made did — kinda — look like little canoes that Water Snake was pointing at.
There were several pirogues beached on a sand bar near the wood buildings plastered with mud and palmetto leaves that made up the little village she led them to. Between two of the pirogues was the dead body of a large alligator — about eight feet in length. Two teens were propping the mouth open with a stick and using a rough wooden hammer to knock out the teeth of the alligator.
The Chitimacha warriors didn’t rush to attack. Water Snake stood in plain sight, waving her stick and shouting in a mixture of French and her native language. One of the warriors answered — a much younger man who turned out to be her grandson. She dismounted, almost falling over.
Yellow Hair’s party waited warily, hands near weapons but not gripping them. The Chitimacha warriors emerged from the trees—lean men with cypress-root tattoos marking their cheeks, muskets slung across backs slick with sweat and swamp water. Their leader, a broad-shouldered man missing two fingers on his left hand, studied Yellow Hair’s Girardoni with narrowed eyes.
Water Snake hobbled forward, pressing her forehead against the warrior’s chest. He exhaled sharply through his nose before clasping her shoulders—his thumbs tracing the old slave brand seared into her collarbone. “You smell like gunpowder, grandmother,” he said in French-accented Comanche.
Comanche? Yellow Hair was surprised to hear that language this far south.
Water Snake chuckled, patting her grandson’s chest. “This one learned it from traders. We’re all mongrels now.” She turned, gesturing toward Yellow Hair’s party. “They fight the French. Like we should.”
The warrior’s gaze lingered on the Girardonis slung across a woman’s back. “Those shoot farther than muskets,” Water Snake added, tapping her temple. “And their bullets don’t care about wet powder.”
Yellow Hair stepped forward, palms open. “We’re headed to New Orleans. To cut the French snake’s head off.” He nodded toward the pirogues. “We need guides through the swamp.”
The warrior’s missing fingers twitched. “And what do the Chitimacha get?” His eyes flicked to the Girardonis again.
Yellow Hair unhooked his canteen – not to drink, but to tilt it slowly, letting the afternoon sun glint off its Spanish steel surface. “Five of these,” he said. “And French scalps. If your tribe can help us take the French city, there will be more than enough goods for the Chitimacha.”
The warrior snorted, crossing his arms. “Steel won’t feed children when the Spanish ships stop coming.”
Yellow Hair reached into his saddlebag and tossed a small leather pouch. It landed with a heavy thump at the warrior’s feet. “Spanish silver. From Santa Fe. Five pouches like that—now. More after New Orleans falls.”
Water Snake poked her grandson in his ribs with her fist which was holding her walking stick. “You grow soft, River Panther. Relying on the French to feed you. When I was a girl, we could feed ourselves out of the hachcha falaya. Now you like the taste of white bread and fancy meats. We thrived on antelope and alligators and gar fish quite nicely.”
River Panther didn’t look very soft to Yellow Hair. He looked broad shouldered and had a muscular build. But he flinched at Water Snake’s jab. “We will take your friends to the Big Teche meeting grounds. It will take about seven days. The French don’t like to come out into the Teche because they are afraid of alligators.” River Panther spoke disparagingly about the fear of alligators.
Yellow Hair cast a glance at the dead alligator between the two canoes. To him, it didn’t seem so cowardly to be afraid of alligators. The dead alligator had a spear protruding from its head.
Water Snake took a deep breath of the thick air, pungent with rotting vegetation and fish. “If the French are afraid of alligators, we’ll use that against them,” she muttered, nudging the carcass with her walking stick. River Panther signaled to his warriors—a series of clicks and hand signs—and within moments, pirogues were being slid into the brackish water.
“Where should we leave our horses?” The idea of trying to navigate through the swamp on horseback, with alligators in the swamp, didn’t appeal to Yellow Hair.
River Panther snorted. “You leave them with my people. We’ll feed them. And if you betray us, we’ll eat them.” His grin showed sharpened teeth—not filed like the Comanche, but stained dark from chewing tannic swamp roots.
Yellow Hair handed the reins of his spotted mare to a Chitimacha boy who couldn’t have been older than twelve, but whose forearms were already corded with muscle from poling pirogues. The boy sniffed the horse’s muzzle curiously before leading her away – horses being rare this deep in the wetlands.