Life of Being a Crown Prince in France

Chapter 1129: Chapter 1035: Creek Tribe Alliance

“Wait a moment.” Chekilie raised his hand to interrupt Father Vigne, “Are you saying we should attack West Orleans Port?”

He exchanged glances with the tribal elders beside him, and they all burst into laughter.

A muscular middle-aged man, covered in concentric circle tattoos, stared coldly at Vigne: “You were sent by the Spaniards, right?

“I know your trick—no sooner do our warriors set foot on Biloxi than your ambush troops will spring out. Hmph, this is a ploy the Americans have used long ago.”

Vigne hurriedly waved his hand: “No, no, you won’t encounter any soldiers, I guarantee it.

“Once you reach New Orleans Port, you can freely loot, particularly the American ships.

“Everything you plunder is yours. But try not to kill anyone.”

Chekilie laughed even louder: “You guarantee? Do you think I’ll believe you?”

Vigne gestured to the six priests behind him: “We will stay here until your people safely return to the tribe. If anything goes wrong, you can kill us at any time.

“You can even receive half of the weapons in advance.”

Chekilie and the others immediately stifled their laughter.

Not to mention these French people willing to be hostages, just the 150 flintlock guns plus ammunition were enough to make them take the risk once.

Bear in mind, their entire tribe would struggle for a month of hunting to exchange furs at most for 10 guns. Ammunition needs to be calculated separately. Cunning white men sell gunpowder at a price higher than the guns themselves.

This deal is equivalent to a year and a half of their toil.

Besides, they often pillage Spaniards, which they are familiar with.

Chekilie signaled the tribesmen to put away their guns and began to take things seriously: “What is your true purpose?”

“You know, the American army is threatening New Orleans.”

The chieftain sneered: “So, when we get there, we can help you attract the Americans’ attention?”

“No, Chieftain, quite the opposite, the Spanish army will block the Americans at Baton Rouge. Even if the defense line is breached, it will give you enough time to retreat. I need you for this…”

Baton Rouge is a crucial town northwest of New Orleans, east of Lake Pontchartrain, together forming the barrier leading from land to New Orleans.

After Father explained the task requirements, Chekilie nodded slightly: “I can send 300 warriors to attack the port, after I see those weapons.”

“That’s far from enough, Chieftain.” Vigne said, “At least 1000 people are needed to panic the Americans.”

“We don’t have that many men.”

“You can seek alliance from the Kovita and Casita tribes. Of course, I’ll offer them enough compensation.”

The muscular man next to him immediately waved his hand: “That’s impossible, we’re rivals.”

Vigne looked at Chekilie: “You should be aware that the most deadly enemy for Indian tribes is the Americans. Of course, also the Spaniards.

“The main reason you are repeatedly defeated by the Americans is the lack of unity among you tribes.

“The tribes in Ohio formed an alliance, defeating the Americans to the point of flight; Little Turtle’s name strikes fear into every American soldier.

“If you can put aside grudges with the Kovita and Casita tribes, the Americans will no longer dare to set foot on Creek easily. There’s even hope of reclaiming Ortamahe tribe’s land.”

Back when the American Army’s Quasi-General Wayne took advantage of the opportunity to eradicate the Booker Rebellion Army, he obliterated Ortamahe tribe, expanding Georgia’s area by one-third.

After Ortamahe was occupied, Georgia bordered the Indian tribes in the Alabama region. Consequently, American harassment of these three tribes became frequent.

“Cooperation…” Chekilie frowned and shook his head, “I’m afraid it’ll be very difficult.”

“This is precisely an opportunity.” Vigne said, “You can use the weapons I provide as gifts to seek peace with those two tribes.

“And attacking New Orleans together will earn you considerable spoils, enhancing your prestige among the three tribes. I’ll also continue to support you.”

He made his intentions clear. If the three tribes could form an alliance, he would support Chekilie as the alliance leader.

Chekilie was finally moved by the possibility of becoming a leader akin to Little Turtle and nodded, “I’ll give it a try.”

The next day, a ship transported over 450 flintlock guns via the Alabama River to the Creek tribe—all allocated from Spanish warehouses.

Chekilie loaded these weapons onto a carriage and headed to the Kovita tribe with Vigne.

Negotiations weren’t going smoothly.

The Kovita and Creek tribes have had longstanding conflicts, often engaging in secret attacks and scheming against each other. Although the Kovita chieftain Harjo kept Chekilie from being chased away, courtesy of hundreds of flintlock guns, he was reluctant regarding cooperation.

After a day of fruitless negotiations, Chekilie decided to give up and turned to the Casita tribe for another try.

Just as they left Harjo’s room, an unexpected turn of events occurred.

A twenty-year-old strong Indian man with three black eagle feathers on his head stopped Vigne, saluted him with a standard French chest gesture, and spoke in English: “Honorable Father, I am Hartky. I hear you come from France?”

The priest courteously returned the salute; someone so young wearing eagle feathers must hold a significant position in the tribe.

He also used English: “Yes, Mr. Hartky. I am French.”

The robust young man appeared somewhat excited and took out a note inscribed in French to show him: “Do you know this place?”

“210 Chalon Street. Yes, I know it, in the Saint Antoine District.”

“Great!” Hartky immediately fished out a 20 US Dollar gold coin from his person, “When you return home, could you deliver this money to Miss Anna Sorel de Frey and thank her for saving me and my sister? She lives at this address.”

Without waiting for Vigne’s response, he took out another 5 dollars: “Although holy men like you might not be concerned with finances, I still wish to offer you some recompense, please do not refuse.”

Vigne didn’t take the money but was startled: “You mean, Miss Anna Sorel de Frey?”

He repeated the name in French.

Hartky nodded forcefully: “Yes, precisely her. It seems you know her, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.” Father Vigne nodded, thinking to himself, who wouldn’t know the Crown Prince’s rumored lover?

“I will certainly deliver this money to her properly.”

“Thank you very much!” Hartky, like a European, bowed in appreciation, and asked, “By the way, what brings you here?”