by Vella Munn
With sound and brilliance and the need to live pushing him on, he strained against the sodden ropes. He felt the loops around his ankles give slightly, but although he rotated his feet in all directions, he couldn't free himself. After resting a moment, he did the same with his wrists. Ignoring the pain, he yanked and pulled, an animal driven half insane by helplessness. By defeat. He howled, the sound building and giving him strength until thunder abruptly cut it off. Osceola would understand; Osceola would howl with him.
"Panther?"
Gaitor. He opened his mouth, but rage and something else filled him, making it impossible for him to think beyond freeing himself.
"Panther? You live?"
Until Croon tires of me. Although his eyes remained open, he couldn't make himself focus on the rain-soaked world around him. Instead his mind's eye raced through the woods until he spotted his spirit lolling on a tree branch. Even though its dark body was at rest, the long, powerful claws and sharp fangs served as proof of the creature's power. Panther, his spirit, was free. While he—
Someone was coming. His nerves screaming the message, he once again pulled his shoulders off the ground and stared up into the rain. Croon wouldn't come out in this downpour; he'd be within his warm, dry new house, maybe drinking the white man's crazy-making drink, maybe yanking up his wife's skirt or the skirt of one of his female slaves.
Through the thick, gray cloud of rain slipped a small figure half bent against the storm. The woman's clothes clung to her frame as if she'd been sewn into them. Her long, wet hair lay along her neck and over her shoulders like a black stream. In her hand she carried a knife.
"Panther?"
"Quiet!" he ordered Gaitor. The woman stopped a few inches away, looked back over her shoulder at the house, then stared down at him. Water ran off her. For no more than two heartbeats he thought of nothing except her dark, dark eyes, saw nothing except the courage in them. Her flesh was nearly the same color as his, but she wasn't Seminole. A slave?
She crouched. Her hand holding the knife stabbed outward; he waited for the pain that would signal his end, but it didn't come. Instead, his legs suddenly straightened, causing his thigh and calf muscles to shriek in pain. His arms, although still caught behind him, no longer felt as if they were being torn from their sockets. He tried to roll over to his side so he could see what she was doing, but she placed a small, strong, wet hand on the back of his neck, holding him there with her silent message. Trusting as he'd never trusted in his life, he waited while she first cut through the leather around his wrists and then freed his ankles.
He sprang to his knees. She remained hunched beside him, her big, deep eyes warning him not to get any closer. "Go!" she said in English. She pointed her knife toward the wall of trees. "Go, now!"
"I can't. My friend—"
From his prison, Gaitor uttered a protest, but Panther paid him no mind. His body might now be free, but the woman still held him with the power in her eyes. "He will kill you." She indicated the great house. Her voice was deep for a woman's, quavering and yet determined. "And if he sees what I've done, he will kill me too."
"Panther!" Gaitor shouted. "The knife, I's been diggin'. This mud's makin' it easy. Just you gets outta here."
Already he could see that the space between earth and wood was greater than it had been earlier. Scrambling away from the woman, he stuck his hand through the enlarged hole. Gaitor grasped it.
"I don't want—"
"He'll spot ya fer sure! Run! I sees you back at the village."
Gaitor was right. He'd only jeopardize his honton, his friend, with his presence.
Willing his cramped muscles to hold him, he surged to his feet. His hand snaked out; he yanked the knife out of the woman's hand. She shrank away, eyes wide and frightened. Ignoring her, he sprinted toward the nearest tree. The palmetto seemed to reach out to embrace him, to cover him with darkness, and he breathed in the heady scent of freedom. Then, although the wilderness spirits called to him, he turned back toward the woman.
She hadn't moved. With the rain pelting down around her, she looked part of the earth. Still, her eyes were alive.
Don't ask, they said. Don't ask why I freed you.
Chapter 2
"Come here."
Pretending she hadn't been aware that he'd entered her mistress's bedroom, Calida forced herself to look up at Reddin Croon. Her master had on an odd mix of clothing: a pure white ruffled shirt, too-tight pants that strained over his slight belly, mud-caked boots. He hadn't shaved today, but she could still see the tiny spider veins over his cheeks. What remained of his hair was slicked back over his too-big head and drew attention to his bulging eyes and fat nose. Everything about him was big. Huge.
"Did you hear me? I said, come here."
Willing her legs to obey, Calida put down her mistress's dress with the torn side seam and stood. She pointed at the dress. "Mistress Liana will be wanting this mended by tonight. Her father—"
"I know her father's coming. She's gone to pick him up. Gone." Croon's oversized hands clenched into fists and pulled the flesh tight over his thick knuckles. "He doesn't know what it's like, the damnable Seminoles—starting a plantation from nothing; he just doesn't... Why the hell I ever quit..."
When his words fell away, Calida sucked in a deep breath, but it did no good. Fear and loathing for the man who owned her attacked her until she thought she might shatter. "He won't be here until evening," he said at length. "Both of them." Jerking his head, he indicated the back of the hollowed-out, dark, fragile-looking house where he had his separate living quarters.
"Mistress—"
"She ain't around, my little pretty. No one; just you and me's in here. I sent the rest of the house servants outside. Maybe, if I'm lucky, the Seminoles'll attack the carriage with both of them in it. Come. Now."
No!
When Croon took a step toward her, she first cringed, then slid quickly around him and started down the long, narrow hall leading to her master's bedchamber. Her heart cried out with every footstep, but what could she do? She wasn't a Seminole savage; she couldn't run free and nearly naked into the wilderness.
Lieutenant Reddin Croon was following her. Even if she couldn't hear his heavy boots on the warped wooden floor, she would still sense his presence. His inescapable presence.
The door to his room was closed. She stared at it, already seeing the high, massive bed with the feather mattress flattened by his weight. There was other furniture in the room. Hadn't she cleaned and polished the two ornate oak dressers and the heavy night table on which he placed his empty whisky glasses? Hadn't she stared out the small window looking in vain for a heron or egret or rose-colored spoonbill, anything to keep her mind off what was being done to her body?
"Get in there."
No! Teeth clamped around her lower lip, she turned the knob and stepped inside the airless room. She felt darkness surround her, black and gray and brown shadows mocking her desperate need for light. He was right; it was only the two of them.
Behind her, she heard the door close, then his heavy hands were on her hips. "Been a long time, Calida," he said. "Too long."
Only three days.
"What did you think of him?"
Him? The savage? No. Master Croon didn't know she'd freed his Seminole prisoner; surely he didn't know that.
"Major General Jesup. What did you think of him?"
He didn't care about her opinion of the man who'd vowed to rid Florida of all Indians, the man who spoke easily and intimately with her master while they drank from Master Croons precious liquor supply. "I barely saw him, Master," she said, her back still to him, her words clean and careful as Mistress Liana insisted. "He was only here overnight."
"He'll be back; he's damn glad I've settled in these parts. He's going to do it, mark my words. Accomplish what Major General Scott, Governor Call, even President Jackson haven't been able to. And I'm going to be right by his side advising him, reaping—Turn around."
; If she'd gone to St. Augustine with her mistress and Liana Croon had decided to take in one of the concerts given at the courthouse, she would have been free to walk along the shore. She'd let the ocean waves lap around her feet, watch for stingrays playing near one of the sandy shelves, laugh at the antics of the quick-moving, stick-legged shorebirds, study the awkward and yet oddly graceful way pelicans dove for fish. She'd be alone, untouched by anything except the breeze.
Her master turned her around, guiding her with fingers that pinched her hipbones and made the flesh over them quiver in discomfort. His breath smelled of whisky and pork fat. His teeth were yellowed, one of them gray. How Mistress Liana with her rich ways stood being married to him—
"I've been thinking about you," he said. "Wondering when I'd get my hands on you again. Wondering whether this'll be the time I'd put my brat in your belly." He laughed and released her hips so he could grind a fist into her stomach. She winced but refused to retreat. Showing fear or revulsion, she'd learned, only excited him more. It was better to simply submit, to take her mind to the shore or even deep into the unending, terrifying wilderness.
"It won't change anything, you know," he went on. "Your having my seed in you. Black babies are easy to get rid of. Just sell them; her none the wiser. Long as you don't get fat and sloppy, I'll go on bothering you. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" He laughed at his joke, then before she could ready herself, he clamped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her close. He smashed his hard lips against hers and forced them open with his probing tongue.
Warm water on her feet. Her dress caught up around her knees so she could wade out even farther. Looking for seashells. Collecting enough to bring back to her mother.
Her mother...
"You just going to stand there? You're no better than my wife. Dead from the neck down. Dead everywhere but her mouth, damn her. And Daddy's pocketbook; I can't ever forget that, can I?" He'd reared back in order to speak. Now he jutted his face toward her again, still holding her in place. She closed her eyes thinking—thinking of how it tickled when the tiny shore fish nibbled at her toes and the sea breeze dried sweat on even the hottest day.
He ran his hands up the sides of her neck and into her hair, then closed his fingers around the strands, immobilizing her. No matter that twice now cramps had forced her to her knees; she would again take tansy and spirit camphor, even the roots and seeds of the cotton plant if she could get her hands on some. Destroying her unborn babies haunted her day and night, but to never be allowed to hold her child—to have it ripped from her—to spend her life fearing for its safety...
When she felt him grip her neckline, she put her hands against his chest and pushed. They were still so close that he was little more than a blur. "If you rip my clothes, Mistress Liana is going to know what you've done."
His mouth thinned down and his eyes narrowed dangerously. For a heartbeat she thought he was going to hit her. Instead, he swore and released her dress. "You think I give a damn?" he hissed. "A man's got to have some release."
What Mistress Liana thought or didn't think of her husband's needs, Calida couldn't say, just that she took great pride in having married a decorated military man and an intimate of President Jackson. She displayed Reddin Croon as if he were a fine stallion, while he made no secret of his determination to control her money.
Stallion.
"I could get a king's ransom for you." He ran a rough-tipped finger down her forehead, over her nose. He stopped with his finger pressing against her closed mouth as if daring her to bite him. "Don't know about Jesup. That man's military through and through; maybe he never thinks of anything else. But his officers—three of them asked what I'd take for a night with you."
If only she still had the knife she'd used to free the naked savage! She'd once seen a slave woman spit in her lover's face, remembered the look of shock and humiliation in the man's eyes. But Croon wasn't her lover; he owned her.
"Aren't you going to ask why I didn't oblige them?"
No! Just the thought—But if she said nothing, he would only hound her, tease and shame her. "You should have," she said, head held high and proud although she knew how much her defiance excited him. How dangerous it was. "You could have used the coins to pay off some of your gambling debts."
"Damn you, Calida. Throwing your airs around. You're asking to get yourself beaten until your back's in tatters."
"Then—then no one would pay for a night with me."
"True." Another of his non-smiles split his lips. He'd taken his hands off her while they were talking; now he went back to exploring her face as if he'd never done it before. "I didn't call for you while they were here 'cause I don't want any of those officers thinking your services come cheap. Light color like this." He gave her cheek a possessive pat. "Narrow nose, white lady's mouth. Hair nearly as straight as one of those savages. And you don't speak like a nigger; that's one thing my wife's done right, training you the way she has. Let them lust after you awhile; it ups the coins they'd be willing to part with."
He leaned down, grabbed her long skirt, and in a single motion pulled her dress up and over her head. She didn't fight him because she knew better than to offer any resistance. Already his pants bulged; his need for her would be over in a matter of seconds and then she could escape the airless room.
"You're a piece, Calida. A regular piece. Whoever your father was, he was no darkie. Probably not your grandfather either." He cupped his hand around her breast and squeezed. Desperate for escape, she closed her eyes. Seashells under my feet, some crushed beyond recognition by the relentless surf Some perfect and new; their color anywhere from purest white to dusty red.
"Look at me."
No.
"Did you hear me? Look at me."
His hand still imprisoned her breast; his mouth hung slack, tongue half protruding. He was sweating. Dirty rivulets ran down from his temple to finally lose themselves in his shirt collar. His pig eyes had turned into dark shards capable of slicing off her flesh and exposing the bones and muscle and veins beneath. "You belong to me. Anything I want to do—Call me master."
"Master."
"Again."
"Master."
"You're damn right, Calida. Ought to take you to Orleans. Put you up against those fancy octoroons." When he released her breast, she struggled to keep her features immobile, knowing all too well the danger in letting him see any emotion. Couldn't he just get it over with? Let her put on her dress and go back to mending his wife's clothes?
"Undress me."
A small gasp escaped her before she could clamp it into submission. Although her master relished having her stand naked before him, except for dropping his pants, he'd always remained clothed. To have to look at all of him—"I've never—"
"I don't care what you've never done. If you're going to properly pleasure a man, you've got to be taught how it's done. That's it." Another of his non-smiles disturbed his war-aged features. "I've got to start educating you. Going to take a lot of time. A lot of time."
"Mistress Liana—"
"To hell with her! You heard me, undress me."
A necklace made of unblemished seashells carefully chosen and lovingly strung. Around her mother's neck they would serve as a constant reminder of love and beauty. Maybe two identical necklaces. Yes! One for each of them, a gift of love.
Her hands hadn't shaken when she sliced through the savages bonds; they didn't shake now. Not looking at the man who owned her, she concentrated on her fingers. Although she wished she had her mother's bulk or that of most of the other slave women, she'd always taken pride in her slender but strong limbs, been grateful for her broad hands. They would fit around this man's throat, were capable of wrenching the life from him. At least they were in her dreams.
When she pulled it off him, Croons shirt felt sticky with sweat; she couldn't stop herself from thinking about what he smelled and felt like, the hard and unthinking way he drove himself into her.
Seashell
s red with blood. With Master Croons blood.
No matter how hot the day, his chest and belly never felt the sun; she saw that now. Although his face and hands and arms were burned nearly the color of leather, the rest of him reminded her of a hairless pig. No wonder Mistress Liana had her own sleeping quarters.
Croon slapped his belly, laughing at the ripe watermelon sound. "It didn't always look like this, not when I was in the military, I'll tell you. But that swill the cook puts on the table'd fatten a dead man."
She'd seen the picture of Croon in his military uniform taken when he rode alongside President Andrew Jackson. It hung prominently in what Mistress Liana called the drawing room so there was no escaping it. But whenever Calida looked at it, she saw not this panting, aroused creature but shiny buttons and a starched collar clamped tightly around a thick neck. Sometimes she caught her mistress staring at it. Whatever Mistress Liana thought of the man her husband had turned into since he'd left the military and become a plantation owner she kept to herself. Still, Calida had heard her crying at night.
Croon took her hands and held them up as if studying them for the first time. "You ought to be a blacksmith, they're that strong. You've got big feet too, big for as little as the rest of you is. You ever wonder about him?"
"About who?" she asked because he would only keep after her until she said something.
"The man who sired you. Ever wonder if your mama came to him the way you come to me?"
I don't come to you; you order me. "She never said. I don't ask." It was a lie.
"How come? Ain't you curious?"
"He was white."
"Sure he was white." Croon laughed and placed her hands on his shoulders. "And that's all you cared to hear, that's what you're saying, isn't it?"
"Yes."