In Sixteen Eighty-Two, La Salle had come down 
The Great River passage of local renown 
Tonti rode with him as soldier and friend
Destined to aid him well past his end.
They sailed to the Gulf out of the mouth 
Planted King's flag, securing the south
From their forts in the north and all the way down
They'd create a mercantile trade of renown.
Then back up the river, La Salle had a plan
He hoped to return to make a bold stand
In the place he had claimed as La Louisiane.

But the Fates have their own hidden intents
And La Salle ran afoul of others' laments
Jealousies rose at his bold assertions
His grandiose plans brought major desertions.
Tonti had been forced to abandon a fort
And La Salle, to save face, had to resort
To forging some maps to garner the monies
To return through the Gulf, establish colonies
But guided by maps drawn to mislead
Allowing ship captains time to misread
His ventures got lost and led to misdeed.

Renè-Robert Cavalier De La Lasalle
Sought great achievement but that was not all
He needed to repair his reputation
And to deserve his desired salutation
Into these desperate straits he sailed
And though the crews and colonists bewailed,
Determined to find the Mississippi River's crest
The miscalculations sent the flotilla West.
A shipwreck landing without a real port
La Salle's hopes were fading for his name at Court
His dwindling obstreperous crew built a fort.

This meager place found La Salle out of luck
The last of his ships sank in the muck
Assailed by the natives, losing command
La Salle and some crewmen ventured on land.
The first try a failure, they returned to the fort
The second was his last, as Tonti heard report.
Several companions had whitened their liver
As La Salle tried in vain to locate the river
Mutinous, murderous plans formed in heads
Several supporters were laid in permanent beds
And there in the wilderness, La Salle was shot dead.

A dozen years later we find ourselves here
In the colony for which La Salle paid so dear
Take note that his ventures yet made him great
When Tonti heard of La Salle's sad fate
He bravely set forth to find his lost friend
Only to discover his ignominous end
But yet as he traveled, Tonti left some clues
Which Iberville and company were able to use.
As we return now to the colony's life
We can appreciate La Salle's futile strife
As hopes and dreams dance on the edge of a knife.  

Henri de Tonti was a legend even then
A traveling warrior, a man among men
In a war gamely fought on another land
He'd come to a mishap and lost a hand
To replace it was a device made of steel
This hand made of iron gave him an appeal
Among the Indians, he carried a  power
His facility with their languages carried the hour
While searching the native tribes for La Salle's traces
Tonti's blue coat identified the places.
And one day 'Iron Hand' would gain Iberville's graces.

Iberville and Bienville had grown to men
Amidst the frontier life of the Algonquin
Their father was a New France pioneer
Braving the wilderness, strength without peer
Building a fort and making a stand
Creating wealth by exploiting the land
Trading with those who watched them arrive
Claiming their lands, intending to thrive
Bearing the banners and righteous crosses
Willing to suffer providential losses
To one day become the Algonquin’s bosses.

Let's also remember the times as they were
When all of the world clamored for fur
The skins of the beaver were greatly desired
By hatmakers whose business upwardly spired 
Material made from worn Indian coats
Bartered from natives and stacked upon boats
Was considered the finest for fashionable felts
Nothing so valuable as winter beaver pelts
This trade drove the engines of conflict and war
As the Indian sought to satisfy the quest for more
Hinterland tribes died for what Europeans wore.

Surely there were wars across the wide world
As oceans deep currents make waves crash and curl
One moment was peaceful, the next moment fraught
As regents and their agents chose sides and then fought
The colonists and traders were nothing but pawns
Through decades of court games where maps are redrawn.
To see it as gods would is to see it as folly
But in field or ocean is to see blood with each volley.
By the time of our story many thousands have died
Each a New World tale of one who has tried
To find a true home in which to abide.

Most important was to show great strength
And more, to show to what length
The French would go to establish a presence
In the New World, an Old World essence
Scented of gunpowder, leather and steel
Cramped dirty ship holds with no appeal
Save for those whose long distance dream 
Was land for the taking to make new gentlemen seem
As if their legacy was something quite noble.
Gaining a name required adventures global
Went the spoils to the men who made themselves mobile.

Into this crucible these two were born
Forging their spirits as those who don’t mourn
Lost youth or missed privilege, absence of ease
They thrived on the hunt for opportunities
They’d already fought naval battles with the British
You’d call them anything at all but skittish
Bienville was just nineteen years old
Never so young, never so bold
They’d learned to not be too ruminative
But by all means take the initiative
In order to rule over the Native.

They saw all around them the curious faces
Of Indians wondering at these new races
That rode in great ships from faraway lands
And worked with solemn industry building with hands
A village of substance hewn from the woods
Caring in no way for whether's or should's
They carried great guns with flashes of sound
That could in a moment bring bears or men down
Boldly they spoke and signaled great strength
Currying favor, always willing to sing
Along with the leaders wearing gifts that they’d bring.

But rank subjugation was always the goal
Supplant their traditions, capture their souls
The French became masters of the frontier
Braving the deep dark forests without fear
Trading their way through river and brook
Marrying tribes, whatever it took
To establish their King’s God-given rights
Over his kingdom’s numerous sites
This they achieved by forming alliances
Bringing to bear political sciences
Bolstered by the will to resort to violences.

Though Iberville had always made clear
To society's rules they had to adhere
When offered the company of Bayougoula women
He'd displayed colonial relations acumen
"We must not cross these racial divides
Mixing our bloods, ignoring our sides.
While the men here stand under my command
May chafe at the propriety I here demand
I must act to keep us racially pure
So that our colony's future is sure
And that the French race continues to endure."

Bienville, the younger one, struggled to see
How this order of purity could continue to be
As the men sought survival on this distant shore
And all saw the meagerness of their dwindling store
He knew they'd hunger for food and companion
And lust for much more than just a wild onion
Sauvole, as his friend, had proved the exception
Though hiding Lanmè and his son's conception
Their bond then was sealed in solemn understanding
Antoine's love did not deserve reprimanding!
Bienville guarded the secret when life became demanding.

As for Iberville he'd at last found a place
To plant the King's flag, save some face
The sea-legged colonists at last could stand 
On what they saw as virgin sand
Thus was begun with hammer and saw
A place to defend: Fort Maurepas
Two hundred souls set to their task
Unloading five ships of canvas and cask
This place would be the first of many
Survival towns in this land of plenty
Where life grew cheap as an English penny.

Just so this story does not seem pure fiction
It's worth pointing out ever mounting friction
The colony sought to more than survive
But the settlers fought to just stay alive
Relying on Natives for food and survival
The French people counted on each new arrival.
Ships of provisions were few and far between
And the colonists lives became meager and mean
As their country struggled just to maintain
The far flung interests in land and in cane
And oft times the task was just to remain.

When they first arrived upon this land
The French sought to offer a generous hand.
Iberville trained in the school of New France
Of Native language and diplomat dance
And thusly when faced with the gathering tribes
He knew right away the value of bribes
And so he made offers of trinkets and tools
Aware that his men saw the Natives as fools:
Their open-faced pleasure and earnest delight
Gained them the trinkets in lieu of a fight
But gunpowder blasts established French might.

As had been seen among the explorings
The goal was to gain extended moorings
To practice the empire where ever you land
To pray to your God and offer a hand
To create a friendly yet arrogant tone
For more than a century this New World had known
The landings of men whose ways just seemed curious
But sooner or later proved more injurious.
The Natives had no King, but many great leaders
Who sat upon deerskins and palms beneath cedars
If only they'd endeavored to be better readers.

The world would be different than what we now know
That offers of friendship were more often for show
But at the time everyone there thought it grand
To take up the measure of men as they stand
To accept the gifts without more beseeches
Mirrors and combs, kettles and breeches
Beads and vermillion*, hatchets and knives
Wonders they'd never known in their lives
The Natives held reverence toward these new men
Who sailed into sight and then out again
But always left behind their plans to remain.
                       *a red dye pigment

The Indians offered to match all the wonders
By showing their strength and numberless numbers
Once the word traveled of French generosity
Regardless of their evident pomposity
Or maybe because of it, the chiefs made a show
So that the visitors would ever know
That cloaks and hats, shirts and rings
Were not the world's most amazing things
They rode in canoes formed out of trees
Carrying baskets woven from reeds
Filled with fresh fruit and buccaneered* meats.
                             *smoked

The Natives matched words with eloquent speeches
Even while trying to wear the French breeches
They fed their guests bear, buffalo and deer
Peaches and prunes and pumpkins grown near
They boiled up the corns and beans sagamite
Served on wood plates up until night
When there was arranged elaborate celebrations
That soon included the surrounding nations
The chiefs of the five local tribes all met
To smoke a long pipe called a calumet
Adorned with the feathers of a native perroquet*
        *parrots were common to this area at the time

These great ceremonies lasted for days
To express great respect which everyone pays
The Biloxi's welcomed the chief of the Pensacolas
The Choctaws, Colapissa and nearby Pascagoulas 
They danced and they reveled and showed their good sport
By solemnly blessing the Frenchmen's new fort
They even endeavored to show some good will
With a ceremony recognizing "chief" Iberville.
The Frenchmen, then, enjoying the fun
Brought out the powder, lead and gun
With which one day, this country'd be won.

The heat and the flash, the violent sound
The rifle kicked shoulder, knocked to the ground
And always the laughing, the jolly demands
To go exploring all over the lands
Shooting at will at anything living
Turkeys and deer, not asking forgiving
This Eden they found was their's for the trade
Believing their God for them had thus made.
Asking their hosts to send them with guides
Never much caring about different sides
Challenging ancient established divides.

Of course Indian leaders were not at all fools
Regardless of differences, like fishes in schools.
They were wary of predators, watching for marks
Looking for advantages, avoiding the sharks.
The tribes knew the white man, most went away. 
None had arrived, intending to stay.
What was important were notions of power
Mutual connections were what won the hour.
And as they made sport with feasting and guns.
The Chiefs sought a trade with these brave ones
To help keep the Chickasaw from stealing their sons.

And thus was begun an expansion of history
The reasons for trading were not such a mystery
The ancient culture the French found in villages
Had recently endured attacks and pillages
The French heard the British were in the market for slaves.
Paying the Chickasaw for women and braves.
And so these peaceful tribes who offered their aid
Needed firepower to stop all the raids.
These hasty alliances were solemnly agreed.
As the colonists found they couldn't grow a seed.
And they'd trade some guns in order to feed.  

And so as this story continues unfolding
Don't think these Frenchmen don't deserve scolding
Yet try to perceive the lost human world
That fast disappeared when the French flag unfurled
And how these fine "savages", nakedly dressed
Had thrived in God's creation for centuries blessed
Until they encountered naked ambition 
And, dressed in fine clothes, naked aggression.
Trained in the art of hidden design
Which we all recognize and then resign
To believing the intentions were something benign.

As penance we fill museums with cracked pottery
Not recognizing that we only won the lottery
Fingering vestige of cloth and bone
Feeling a ghost whisper, "You're not alone."
Somewhere the sound of a million lost tales
In languages gone that no one bewails
Cries for a time now dim as a tomb
We feel a slight chill and exit the room
Look for a door that takes us back out
Where streets roar to life and peddlers shout
And quickly forget what that was about.

So began the long term relations 
Of the nascent colony and the native nations
The settlers realized as hunger set in
Their hopes to feed themselves couldn't begin
To fill the plates, empty as their dreams
Of gold and barrels bursting at seams
The weather relentless, the insects in droves
They wished in vain for larders and stoves
As they watched each other turn to skin and bones
They tired of eating the soups made of stones
And knew that they'd never make it alone.

Thus while the native tribes kept their distance
Iberville endeavored to project their insistence
That they brought the modern world along
The King who sent them ever strong
Agreements then had to be carefully made
Lest natives think they meant to invade
Which of course they were actually doing
But time they needed, help worth wooing
Carefully did Bienville thus approach the tribe
Bearing gifts he took pains to describe
And brought eau-de-vie* as a bribe.
           *French sort of brandy

Antoine and 'Marie,' as she was now known
Had to figure out how to make a home
Antoine as Governor, did what he could
To manage the settlement raised in the wood
His primary duties were to protect the stores
Mediate conflicts and settle old scores
He needed the people to work together
Realize that each to each was tethered
This never easy with competing intentions
And everyone holding to their own inventions
That there was discord, scant deserves mention.

The first season was spent planting some seed
But none were true farmers, with knowledge they'd need
But sailors and soldiers fully expecting
The others to feed them while they went prospecting
The men thought it proper to stay in the field
Hunting the riches that skins would yield
Bienville as well joined with his brother
Their pact from the start was to help each other
Iberville sought to prove out his boasts
The routes cross the lakes, along the calm coasts
Gathering furs while delivering toasts.

For certain, the English had been held at bay
When Bienville and Sauvole meandered one day
While scouting the river for good solid land
They met a flotilla rounding a bend
The ships raised their colors, of English hues
Bienville, alone, invented a ruse
He rowed along side and gave them a shout
Said "This is a French river you ought turnabout!"
Knowing Bienville's reputation well-earned 
They feared his bold threat and ships being burned
And choosing discretion, the English then turned.

The colony struggled when Ti Sainte was an infant
So much can happen in what seems an instant
But there on the ground, struggling for life
Hoping for deliverance from slow daily strife
The hours creep by like the creatures of the night
The snakes and alligators and bears that give fright.
But as so in story and as so in rhyme
We get through the days one step at a time.
Sunrises and sunsets take us along
And each day seems hopeful, rightly or wrong
And lifted by the wings of dancing and song.

As plans were made across the sea
Hoping for fortunes they never would see
The colony suffered terrible privation
Supply ships were scant, begetting starvation
Relying on natives for food and labor
Nature as enemy, soldier as neighbor
Sauvole and Marie tried to make best
Adjudicate troubles and help all the rest
But love at its strongest, a redoubt of pride
Is often not able to staunch a red tide
And in one hot season Antoine quickly died.

He'd been hale and hearty, running the settlement
Traveling the region always looking for betterment
While Lanmè worked a garden and watched their little child
Trying to keep him from getting lost in the wild
Then one day Antoine came home with a fever
His skin turned a yellow like the switch of a lever
His eyes blazed with heat and then started to fade
She ran to the Indians for medicines, afraid
He started to ranting, dreaming of fires
Then weakened to whispering regrets and desires
The French priest had only his prayers to inspire. 

Their love together was ever so brief
Lanmè could barely contain her grief
But as the fever took him away
Antoine asked her ever to stay
Raise their child in the land they claimed
Strive for the heights for which they'd aimed
Bienville promised to keep a close eye
To ensure that his friend would not in vain die
Lanmè knew now she would lose her position
From now she would have to raise her son's condition 
A former slave, she'd resist Fate's opposition

Antoine's legacy and quiet life history
Remain as a little known colonial mystery
And though he was held in great esteem
His origins are faded as yesterday's dream
So let us take liberties with what may have been
To create a story of where Ti Sainte begins.
For now we must shift from father to son
And let our full fancy get up and run
For here in this work, we create a mythical life
Lived midst the maelstrom of survival and strife
That triumphed through faith, and Lanmè's knife.  

So to our characters we must return
See them in living only to learn.
Bienville was chosen to replace Sauvole
He relished the chance to have some control
Iberville sailed to pursue larger fortune
An urge that would one day end his life's portion
Bienville chose the colony as his own path
Though facing down all of history's wrath
He, like his father, sought to create
A world of his own independent state
Young and hard-headed, he sought to be great.  

With Antoine now buried, Bienville assured
The grieving young widow who'd so well endured
This test of her strength she'd fully faced
That he would make sure she would be placed
Within his circle of empowered society
And subject to his devoted piety
"Sauvole was my friend and savior sometimes
His great sailing prowess displayed in all climes
T'was he found the entrance to the river that day
When all of the rest thought we'd lost our way.
To his great memory a debt I shall pay."

His loss we will feel in all that we do
His vision of our quest ever so true
Though we toil on these isles and beaches
I'll remember the inland route, further reaches.
Leagues from our current home he found a bend
A spot where the river turned he thought a God send
Close to the lake we've named Ponchartrain
A safer, more sensible broader terrain
But in order to create the city we deserve
For now we must remember the king that we serve
Biding our time and holding our nerve.

You and your son shall find a safe harbor
Even if we share but an oak arbor
I know my great friend named him for me
And prouder for that I could never be
Realize as well that I also know
The way to our survival you will also show
Together we'll succeed or else we shall fail
The pretense of rank causes much travail
Like me you have traveled in life quite far
As creoles we were born but we followed a star
'Marie' you are called but Lanmè you are."

Though, none of this sweep of world events
Would live in the minds of people in tents
Scratching out lives in their New France
Sewing squirrel furs to make their new pants!
Lanmè soon learned while looking about
That fort life within was living without
And so she returned to the Indians there
To ask for their favor in hopes they would share
The knowledge they carried of bayous and woods
Where they found their bounty of God-given goods
They saw her sad state and promised they would. 

Marie Sauvole was thus surely born
Allowing the strands of her life to be shorn
And yet she knew she had to remain
Hidden from view, the public domain
Bienville as Governor would be her protection
Her power would be known at the intersection
Of domestic concerns required of a society
That placed such a weight on outward propriety
Where letters carried weight much more than paper
As news and reports of every colonial caper
Could cut down a man as quick as a rapier.

The colony grew as briars make a tangle
With sweet fruits and thorns at every angle
Rank survival though, overtook orders
As French royal decrees recreated borders
Bienville at the center trying to hold
While advancing his interests, he had to be bold
Shiploads of migrants, a pastiche of souls
Arrived all needing the filling of bowls
Some had their land grants, proudly displayed
Others from prisons, a sad promenade
The cost of survival, all of them paid.

Known to the Pascagoula as one who was saved
She entered the village where all smiled and waved
She bartered for game and clothing and grain
She traded for labor hoping to gain
A good reputation and a noble regard
From all the others whose lives were so hard
In spite of their struggles, the colony grew
The seasoning ensured a fine hardy stew
Made up of people whose daydreaming stares
Rendered fine clothing and putting on airs
Imagined buildings of bricks filled with fine crystal wares.

The landed encampment became a small town
His mother created an honored renown
The finest cook in the whole colony
Bringing her knowledge from old San Domingue
She shared with all her soul's expertise
Creating sumptuous meals with apparent ease
A French Creole style combining ingredients 
That none had ever before experienced
Her African training, the natives' wide range
Their knowledge of herbs to her so strange
The French celebrated plus ça change!*
          *the more it changes (the more it's the same)

And always she traveled with little Ti-Jean
Who was ever so curious and not at all mean
As he grew and toddled, ran and then played
With all of the native kids, a motley parade
The earliest years were surely a struggle
Yet his mother always had time for a snuggle
The only other children with whom he could play
Were little Pascagoula's who taught him their way
Pretending to be whatever you're not
Working a little but playing a lot
Making the most of whatever you've got.

To aid in the quest came the soldier Tonti
A long-storied trader for the French colony
His work was to create safe operations
By negotiating peace with Indian nations
The natives were wary but Tonti was shrewd
An experienced diplomat at all latitudes
With a hook for a hand he lost in a war
The natives revered "Iron Hand" all the more.
On his way down he became King of Arkansas
Then joined with d'Iberville and the Choctaw
To arrange a truce with the Chickasaw.

He bonded with Iberville and his bold brother
Helping to secure the safety of each other
Arranging for trades, the provision of furs
The hunting for game, using his lures
To catch the prizes both animal and human
Desired by the soldiers, he used his acumen
He knew the game and all the end goals
The taking of land and the saving of souls
Free labor they wanted, native women too
By force or by nature they acquired the two
But Tonti's destiny was all but through.

Iberville struggled to find a safe harbor
Establish a fort, secure a stocked larder
The caprice of nature, the failing crops
The terrible winds, the heat without stop
What now is Biloxi, then to Mobile
Named for the tribes to whom they appealed
The man was possessed with finding a way
To plant the French flag, for it to stay
Before he was gone he plied the old river
Hoping to find a place to deliver
A promised land for the great 'Indian Giver.'

To take it all in is to be over full
To look for direction is to feel every pull
We must then stop seeing the mad kaleidoscopic 
And be satisfied with the close microscopic
For surely we know a smaller story can show
Larger truths of the world like flakes of snow.
More clearly we'll see the deeper meanings of life
If we look more closely at singular strife
For it has to be clear that the aim of this poet
Is to see Ti Sainte in his pirogue, watch him row it.
And to find a human heart and then get to know it.  

This time when the world of genius and greed
Was drawn and quartered by Descartes in deed
Such brilliance was born and raised of all kinds
Inventions and theories crowded their minds  
Leibniz calculated that God's greatest World 
Was found in the numbers of waves as they curled
The Universe reduced to monads* and thoughts
Rather than considering whethers and oughts.
For even great Leibniz suffered his vanity
And there, laughing Voltaire saw the insanity
His Candide believing God could create this inanity.
          *A term Leibniz coined implying a singular entity

So while thinkers thought the Universe as learnable
Ti Sainte found inside many things discernible
If they believed him a tabula rasa
Then how to explain the joy of the pasca*?
The feeling of warmth at the smile of his mother
The laughter that sprang from the antics of others
A welling of spirit, unbound exultation
A burden of sadness at a bird's expiration
Something in-born was part of the whole
He recognized innately his community role 
His friends beat their chests to honor his soul.
                    *Choctaw for bread

For Ti Sainte this world was the only one known
Nature the give-taker of all he would own
In spite of the hunger and struggle in adults' eyes
As a child he made use of his diminutive size
The berries in summer, the nuts in the fall
The maize breads made warm, enough for all
His Pascagoula playmates ran laughing through life
The blancs though, were not alone in their strife
The peaceful Pascagoula and Biloxi -- battle ready
Had been able to maintain respectful distances steady
But one day their differences would be more than petty.

Little John-Baptiste, Lanmè called him Ti-Sen 
Was part of this world from beginning to end.
He ran with the native boys, under the sun
Playing their games and having their fun
When one is a child, the world all around
Can seem in the worst times, more a playground
As he grew older, how could he be aware
Of the depths of privation, struggle, despair?
By the time he was ten, so much had occurred
And yet from his mother, nary a word
What she saw was stark, for him it was blurred. 

Several times over, the fort had been moved
When one place was flooded or otherwise proved
Unable to defend from a Spanish assault
Or failure of crops or disease was at fault
From Fort Maurepas to Mobile and then
They tried other places and Mobile again
Iberville left brother Bienville in charge
To traffic in skins and slaves while at large
Meanwhile, Bienville sought a safe place
Protected from disaster, providing some space
Then Iberville died while trying to save face.

To see Ti Sainte was to know he was not there
To hear his song was to hear it everywhere
For once came the crash of callithumpian noise
Next to follow was the whoops of the boys
Would he come first or follow 'til last?
Would he pass slowly or go by too fast?
The mystery held the gathered in thrall
When came the wild and impromptu ball
First was a silence of nature holding breath
Then was cacophony thumping in the breast
Then returned to silence of eternal breadth.

As a child amongst the Indians he never crawled
As a babe in the woods, he never bawled
Watchful and smiling he soon found his feet
Lightly and quick, his movements were fleet
Like a bird in the trees he sung well the chatter
A mimic of sound he mocked adults patter
So none were surprised when he watched basket weavers
And the crafting of wood by industrious beavers
That he wound tightly a stick to an old turtle shell
And strung it with deer skin and fibers as well
And played on this banjo new stories to tell.

As little Jean-Baptiste continued to grow
The tribe that surrounded taught him all he should know
How to listen for danger, taste what is good
Move with a purpose through bayou and wood
The games they played taught multiple skills
For hunting and sharing in necessary kills
But lessons of a different but internal power
Were learned by each other at quieter hours
When warm bodies gathered to remember the day
Soft summer singing, bodies that sway
And from the firelight, some wandered away. 

The freedom of youth filled many days
As ti Jean-Baptiste learned Pascagoula ways
As his mother tended the colony under Bienville's roof
Ti Jean sought acceptance and soon found proof
He joined with the boys in all of their games
But Ti Jean also watched the girls, just the same
One in particular soon caught his eye
A lass just his age, anything but shy
Her name was Otima, which meant "goes and goes"
In their sacred language, which no one now knows
As one day they vanished as legend now shows.  

When away from his mother and done with his chores
Ti Jean ran to the village along the bayou's dense shores
Heart thumping, snake jumping he ran all the way
To see if his newly found friend could come play
Otima lit up to see him arrive
When she grabbed his hand, he felt more alive
While exploring the woods and the bayous galore
One day the pair wandered to the gulf shore
Holding hands they shivered in the first winds of fall
The sunset and quiet waves held them in thrall.
'Twas there that he first felt Destiny's call.