The air that autumn morning held a deceptive peace across our settlement, the one established high on the bluffs to command the great river's passage. The local tribe, those who call their paramount chief the 'Great Sun' and worship at a temple mound where a sacred fire, they say, never dies, had been among us more often of late. An uneasy quiet had followed our Commandant's ill-advised demand for the very land where their most ancient and revered village stood—the one closest to their sacred temple of the eternal flame—all for his own grand plantation. Many of us feared such arrogance would reap a bitter harvest.
That morning, their warriors, including some of their lesser Suns, mingled within our palisades and homes, offering game or feigning trade. I was tending my small patch of winter greens when the first terrible war-cries shattered the calm – a sound utterly different from their usual calls. It was swift, brutal. From my hiding place, I saw our neighbors fall, the Commandant himself meeting a quick, violent end for his provocations. They turned our own muskets against us. Smoke soon rose, thick and black, from the fort, from the storehouses, from our very homes. The 'Great Sun' had indeed shown his displeasure.
Few of our fellow Frenchmen were spared. The women, the children, and our African laborers were taken captive. By nightfall, our foothold for the King, this vital post on the great river, was a smoldering ruin, its promise extinguished. The great river flowed on, but for us, the sun had truly set on that devastating day.
