Ice Princess

by Judith B. Glad

  "You hear me, boy? I asked what you want."

  William forced himself to bob his head. "My Mist'ess, she need a boat ride to Oregon City. Sent me down here to buy her one."

  "Your mistress, eh? What's her name? Where is she?"

  "Mist'ess Jones. She mighty shy lady, so she waitin' back in the hills wit' the rest of 'em." He didn't reckon it would hurt for folks hereabout to think Flower traveled with a crowd.

  Tossing the toothpick aside, the scrawny man came toward William. "That's my boat there. Can she pay for passage?"

  "She give me a coin, tol' me it oughta' buy her boat rides, for her and me." He slipped his hand in his pocket, as if to reassure himself the coin was still there. Under his britches, his long knife was tied securely against his thigh. Sure hope I don't need it, he thought. Gettin' to it won't be easy.

  "Let's see your money."

  William dug out the single gold coin he'd bought. The others were hidden with his gear. He held it on the flat of his hand.

  The boatman whistled. He reached for the coin.

  William closed his fist around it. "My mist'ess, she say don't give it to nobody, not 'til we on the boat. She say, show 'em you got the money, Weeyum, but don't give nobody that coin."

  The boatman nodded. "She's right. There's some would take it right out of your hand." He scratched his bewhiskered jaw. "How much gear does your mistress have? Cargo? Livestock?"

  "She wants to bring a horse and a mule, that's all. And her dog."

  "That ain't a full boat load. Would she care if I took a load downriver along with her?"

  William considered. "I don't reckon she would."

  "Then we got a deal. You bring your mistress down here tomorrow morning, along about dawn. We'll launch at full daylight."

  Again William bobbed his head. "We be here." He turned to go, wondering why he'd been scared.

  "Wait a minute," the boatman called when he'd gone no more than two steps. "Let me see that coin again."

  Fear coiled in William's belly once more.

  He pulled the coin out and showed the boatman.

  "Your mistress got any more like this?" he said.

  Thinking rapidly, William fixed a blank look on his face.

  "Answer me, boy! Does your mistress have any more coins just like this one?"

  "I never saw none," William lied. "She got this one from somebody wantin' cows." He hoped he could remember everything he'd said, so he could tell Flower. Makin' him out a liar might be dangerous.

  "Git then. And mind you be here at daybreak."

  "We be here, sho' 'nuff." He hurried back the way he'd come.

  He'd gone no more than ten paces when a rough voice called, "Hold on there! You! Nigger!"

  William kept moving. Heavy footsteps sounded behind him. He wanted to break into a run, but knew it was the worse thing he could do.

  "You stop right there, Nigger, else I shoot you where you stand."

  William halted, stood without turning. 'Member what you learned a long time ago about bein' meek. Flower depends on you gettin' back to her.

  The big man who'd stood behind the boatman stepped in front of him. He was a mite taller than William, and beefy, like he'd once done a good day's work, but had been settin' around for a spell. He smelled like a pigpen knee deep in manure. Some women might have thought him handsome, William reckoned, but they'd not be looking at the cruel twist to his mouth, or the meanness in his pale blue eyes.

  "Let me see that coin," he demanded.

  "I can't do that, boss. My mist'ess she say not to give it to nobody, till we on the boat."

  "Don't talk back to me, boy! Dig out that gold piece, or I'll take it away from you. No Nigger's going to tell me nay."

  William pulled it free of his pocket, held it between thumb and fingers.

  The big man snatched it away. He held it up to eye level, examined it closely. "You say your mistress got this from someone wanting cattle. When? Where?"

  His mam had one time told him that lyin' was the quickest way to dig a grave. William believed it. "I don't recollect, 'zackly," he stammered, and only part of it was feigned. "Back in the winter, maybe. This old feller come past the place, his cows had all died on him. Did we have some we'd sell, he asked, and my mist'ess, she sell him three cows and a bull calf."

  "An old fellow, you say?" Fingering the coin, the big man watched William closely. "What'd he look like?"

  "He was big like you, boss, and wearin' a fancy suit with fringes all over it," William said, describing the old man who had given him his buckskins. And his pride. "Made out of leather of some kind, they was. And his hair was near white, and long, way past his shoulders."

  "You're lying!"

  "Nossir, I ain't. That's the man who give my mist'ess the coin. Honest it is."

  "Bah." He spat into the dust. "You better be telling me the truth."

  "I is, boss." One more bob of the head. "Can I have my coin back?"

  The man's hand slipped into his pocket. "Coin? What coin? No Nigger's got a right to coins."

  "Give him back his gold piece, Muller," the boatman said, from behind William. "I contracted to take his mistress to Oregon City and I want my pay for it."

  Once more the big man spat. But he pulled the coin from his pocket and flipped it into the dirt at William's feet. "Be damned to you," he said, and walked away.

  "You get on out of town quick, boy, and don't show that black face of yours 'til dawn tomorrow," the boatman said. "This ain't no place for the likes of you."

  William bent and picked up the coin. "Thankee," he said to the boatman. Although he kept his voice mild, he was burning up with rage. Yet the big man had treated him no different that any white man would have, back when he was a slave.

  The street seemed longer than when he'd gone down toward the river. With each step he took, William felt the weight of danger lifting, yet he still had a feeling that something was wrong. He wanted to run, forced himself to walk no faster than he'd done coming into town.

  Rather than go toward the Injun village, he took a trail that went up past the mission. It was well worn, and even showed shallow wagon ruts. Was this the road they'd built across the mountains?

  He wasn't much more than out of sight of the mission when the big man--the boatman had called him Muller--stepped out from behind a tree next the trail. "Hold it right there, boy," he said. "You ain't going nowhere."

  Mouth dry, William halted. Why had he put the knife inside his clothes? He'd never get it out in time to fight. "What you want, boss?" he said, hoping to get a chance to defend himself.

  "I got some more questions for you. You answer me polite, and I'll let you go."

  William didn't believe a word he said. But he stood still and waited.

  "Where's your mistress live?"

  Waving a hand back toward the east, William said, "Back in the hills. A long way from here."

  Deftly Muller flipped a knife from his belt. "Which hills? How far?"

  "They calls 'em the Blues." William forced a quaver into his voice. "They back a ways. We come a long way since then."

  "And why's your mistress going to Oregon City?"

  "Lawsy, boss, I don't know. She don't tell me why she do things. She just do 'em."

  A hard palm slapped his head sideways. "Don't lie to me! Why's she going to Oregon City?"

  "I don't know," William insisted. He couldn't think of a good reason for a woman to be traveling to someplace he knew nothing about.

  "How many men has she got with her?"

  "Three...no more'n that--"

  This time the blow knocked him down. "You're still lying!"

  If I had my knife...William forced his body to go limp. When the boot caught him over the kidney, he bit back a sharp yip of pain. Then he thought, Go ahead and yell. You would if you was a slave.

  "Take off your clothes!"

  William lay still, knowing, fearing what came next.

  Another kick, this one less violent, and to his ri
bs, so it didn't hurt as much either. "Take 'em off or I'll cut 'em off!"

  Slowly he sat up, knowing he was giving up every bit of pride he'd won the past four years. It won't help Flower none if you get yourself killed. He took off his shirt slowly. When Muller saw his back, he cackled.

  "Beat you good, they did. I'll wager you're a stubborn bastard."

  I was a sick boy. They kept beatin' me just because they wanted to hear me scream. He had been too young to shave, the first time he was whupped, and so sick he'd puked up everything he'd eaten for two days afterward. But the cotton was ripe and every hand was needed in the fields. That was the first time he'd felt the red rage come over him. The first time he'd stuffed it back down, deep inside, and held it there. As he held it still, this long since.

  It had been easier then.

  "Now the britches."

  William stood, keeping his right side away from Muller. Slowly he untied the rope that held his britches up. Carefully he pushed them down, sliding his thumb under the thongs that held his knife to his thigh. When he was sure that the knife would be hid in the folds of canvas, he dropped the britches to the ground.

  He'd been naked many times, but never had he felt so helpless. So exposed.

  The rage surged against his hold, but he kept it in check.

  "Where's your brand?"

  "Here." William turned so Muller could see the brand running down his left thigh. The thick scar stood up in ridges, crooked letters that William realized he could read now. 'H-L-Y.' His first marse had been Mist' Yates.

  He remembered the pain when the letters had been burned there. Pain that went on and on, and never seemed to stop, like his whole leg was on fire. He'd still been little enough to walk under a mule's belly standin' straight.

  "You said your mistress' name was Jones," Muller said, after examining the brand. "This don't say 'Jones.'"

  "She buy me a long time ago, 'fore I grow big."

  Muller stooped and picked up the britches. The knife fell out. "You black bastard!"

  Knowing anything else would get him killed for sure, William stood still. I did my best, Flower. I love you.

  Chapter Eight

  A sharp prick on his backside brought cold sweat to William's face.

  "Move! Back to town"

  Another prod. From the corner of his eye, William saw Muller pick up his shirt. He pushed the rage back where it lived again. It wasn't easy. But Flower needed him, and he had to stay alive. "What you gonna do wit' me, boss?"

  "You'll see." At the point of William's own knife, he forced William to walk naked back into town and halfway down the dusty, rutted street. On both sides men came to doors to watch and William felt shamed.

  "In there." Muller shoved him sideways, toward a windowless log building maybe a man-length on a side. It looked sturdy, like it'd take a yoke of oxen to pull apart. He stumbled when Muller shoved him through the open door, got his feet under him just in time to be knocked against the wall.

  Dizzily, he tried to stand, and another blow took him to his knees. Before he could pull himself upright, the door slammed and he heard the solid thunk of a bar falling across it.

  Only a narrow crack in the flat log roof let in light. He could barely see his hand before his face.

  Well, hell! Now what am I gonna do? Maybe he should have fought, instead of acting like a puny, simple slave. He might have got himself killed, but he'd have hurt Muller real good doin' it.

  Flower needs you he told himself again. You got to do what you can to stay alive.

  He felt his way around the dirt-floored room, learning that it was solidly built and tied together with notches on the ends of the logs. The gaps between logs were filled with a dried, almost rock-hard stuff that felt--and tasted--like plain old mud, mixed with something spongy and bitter. Once his exploring was done, and he'd found nothing but his ragged britches, he hunkered down against the wall, shivering slightly as his naked back touched the cool logs. The day was warm enough, but the thick walls still held the chill of last night, when it was cold enough to put frost on the ground.

  How long he sat there, William wasn't sure. He'd come into town sometime in the middle of the morning, and now the sun was all but gone. The little sliver of sky he could see was darkening.

  His belly rumbled. "Getting' too used to regular meals," he told himself. "A man can go a long time without food. You know that."

  Water, though was a different matter. He was thirsty.

  At last he heard voices outside his prison. The door opened. Muller stood there with a torch in his hand, and beside him was another man, older and smaller. But there was something about him that chilled the blood in William's veins.

  "That's him, Turner. The Nigger that pulled a knife on me," Muller said, as if giving the other man a present.

  "You say his brand ain't been cancelled?" The man Muller named Turner spoke in a thick, syrupy drawl, the same drawl William had heard all his life from white overseers and sharecroppers. He's from somewheres around the Marse's plantation. I sure hope he's never seen me before.

  "Nope. He claims he was sold to some woman, but I've seen field brands before, and his is one for certain. What's a woman going to want with a field hand?"

  "If he's big and strong and ain't been cut, there's only one thing she's apt to want," Turner said, a sneer in his voice. "Some women like bein' fucked by a big black buck."

  In an instant William was on his feet, hands outstretched. He would shove those words--

  A whip snaked out and wrapped itself around him. "Watch it, Turner. Like I told you he's vicious." Muller twitched the whip free, but it left behind a belt of fire just below William's waist. "Show him your brand, boy," he told William, making the whip whisper across the dirt floor.

  Turner took the torch and leaned closer. "Yep, I do recognize that brand. Hiram Leander Yates. He owns practically a whole county. And he always cancels his brands when he sells a slave." The smile on Turner's face told William he believed Yates liked to hear his slaves scream when the red-hot iron seared their flesh.

  Most of his slaves had been sure of it.

  Turner looked over his shoulder at Muller. "You say there's a hook on the wall?"

  "Half a dozen of them. They used to hang pelts in here and the hooks kept them off the floor and dry."

  "Let's string him up, then."

  William forgot how much Flower needed him, forgot everything except what it felt like to be whupped. When Turner clamped a hand on his arm, he exploded into a frenzy of punches and kicks, wanting to hurt. To kill.

  But there were two of them, both strong, and neither afraid to use a club on him. He was soon overcome.

  His arms stretched above him, his bloodied face pushed against the rough surface of the half-stripped logs, he forced himself to breathe deeply. He knew what was coming, knew it would be pain beyond bearing.

  He would scream and beg and sob.

  He did.

  They took turns. At one point William thought the rhythm of the whip strokes changed, slowed. But he was beyond caring. His entire attention was focussed on the pain in his back, the anticipation of the next stroke.

  He wanted to faint, but could not.

  He wanted to die, but knew he must not.

  After a while, he wondered why he must not die. Nothing could be so important that he had to stay alive.

  When at last they cut him down, he fell like a dead thing into the blood-soaked dirt.

  The voices went away. A door slammed and the dark came down.

  * * * *

  William never came.

  Flower waited until full dark, an absolute darkness with no promise of a moon. Low clouds had obscured the sky all day, and now they hid the stars. She should go back to Therese's lodge. But what if he comes and I am not here?

  She hunkered down, arms wrapped around her body, for the night was chill. It is so dark! He is waiting for dawn.

  At last she curled herself in a ball and tried to sleep. Each time
she closed her eyes, memories intruded, of William tied hand and foot, herself helpless in the hands of six vicious men. They had talked of keeping her, of selling William and the boy, Silas, to the Blackfeet for slaves.

  She would have chosen slavery over what they did to her.

  Was he once again captive of men who would enslave him? And if he was, it was her fault?

  The night grew colder. Flower moved downhill to the scant shelter of a stunted cedar. She must have slept then, for when something tugged at her skirt, she awoke with a start.

  "Aieee!" She scrabbled for her knife, never far from her hand while she slept. But before her fingers closed on its haft, a rough tongue swiped across her mouth and a furry body weighed her to the ground. With small yips and whines, the pup told her how happy he was to have found her.

  She caught him around the neck, held him still. He smelled of woodsmoke and spoiled food, so he must have been scavenging in the town. "Where is he?" she asked, knowing he could not answer. "Did you run ahead?"

  The pup caught her hand between his jaws, held it, though his teeth did not penetrate the skin. He tugged, whining again.

  "What? Where is William?" She worked her hand free and crawled from beneath the tree. Shivering, she rubbed her upper arms briskly. Immediately the dog caught at her skirt and once more tugged, pulling hard.

  "Stop! You will tear--You are trying to tell me something! Where is William!"

  The pup barked sharply. He ran away a short distance, came back. "Whuff!" He grabbed at her skirt again. Tugged even harder.

  As realization struck, Flower found her belly roiling. William had been captured. The pup, useless as he had been, was intelligent enough to have come for her. "Good dog," she said, catching the thick ruff at his neck. "But we cannot go now. It is too dark." She reached for the broken leash, trailing behind him. Quickly she tied it to the tree trunk.

  The pup tested his restraint, and when it held him, he turned and began gnawing on it.

  Flower watched for a moment, considering. "I cannot let you free," she told him, "for I need you. I would not know where to look for him." She pulled the pup into her arms and lay back down.