Bride of Thunder

by Jeanne Williams

  “Your preferences don’t interest me.”

  Mercy looked imploringly at the young man and Eric laughed. “Shall I say it for you, darling? You want to advise him to say he’ll commit the murder, but to take to his heels once he’s where I can’t touch him!” He put this in Mayan for Dionisio, who held his head even higher.

  “I will not lie to you. I will not kill Canul.”

  Rising, Eric pinioned Mercy’s wrist. He brought her along with him as he flung open the door and called out to Don Gerardo, “Fetch your most skillful whipper!”

  “Ah, señor, I’m that one,” cried the mayordomo, preening his moustache.

  McNulty cleared his throat. “Mr. Kensington! Such may be necessary, but I don’t agree with it. Let me take the lady along to the house.”

  “Take yourself off if you like, James, but Doña Mercy stays here.”

  “Sir …”

  “James,” said Eric in a cream-smooth tone, “you’re excused.”

  McNulty cast Mercy an unhappy look, but he wasn’t of the fiber to defy his employer, who could have smashed him to the ground with a single hand. He retreated from the village and was out of sight by the time Dionisio had been tied to the post by his wrists, his shirt torn off, forced to stand on tiptoes.

  “Please!” Mercy whispered to Eric. “Please! He won’t do what you want. You’ll have to kill him, and what good will that do?”

  As he scanned her, a smile dawned slowly on Eric’s face. “Why, this Indian may prove useful even if he won’t go against Canul! Begin, Don Gerardo. Flog him till he promises to obey.”

  Don Gerardo drew back and raised his arm. The plaited rawhide whip sang, then landed on the brown shoulders with a sound that wrung a cry from Mercy’s lips. The lash fell again. Again.

  Blood beaded the weals. The man’s shoulders began to quiver, though he had not cried out. Mercy was sobbing wildly, trying to get free of Eric and fling herself on the overseer, who was panting now, his eyes gleaming as he swung the whip.

  Beside herself, Mercy began to scream. Her helpers stood by the infirmary. She saw, hurrying to their houses, a few women she’d treated. But there was nothing they could do, nothing. Dionisio slumped. His head hung sideways. Blood trickled from his wounds. At a word from the mayordomo, a man tossed a pail of water over the fainting batab.

  He raised his head.

  “Will you go?” called Eric.

  No answer. Eric signaled the eager Don Gerardo to proceed. Mercy’s throat was raw. She flinched at each descent of the whip, her eyes shut.

  The lash halted. Dionisio had lost consciousness again. Eric raised Mercy’s chin and made her look at him. “So you hate me? But I treated you like a queen, and you aborted my child. Let us try again, my dear. Shall Don Gerardo finish off that Indian, or would you have him live?”

  “Let him live! Don’t beat him anymore!”

  “You would be grateful?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’d make every effort to hold my seed when it starts to make a child?”

  “You know it must be true that it’s hard for me to conceive.”

  “But you’ll try. For every month that proves you barren, this fellow shall be whipped again—and you’ll watch.”

  “And I’ll hate you!”

  “Till you have my child.”

  Wearily, Mercy said, “Please let them dress his cuts in the infirmary.”

  Don Gerardo looked disappointed, but at Eric’s order two men untied Dionisio and carried him to the infirmary. Mercy cast Francisca and Paco a pleading glance, but they watched her with closed eyes, then followed the beaten man inside.

  Mercy felt as beaten in spirit as the batab was in body. Eric had his method now, his way of taming her. She would go mad, she would scream herself into insanity, if she had to watch such a thing again. When Eric lifted her into the saddle, she felt like a puppet, a doll held together by pegs or wires, moved by Eric’s will.

  “I’m going to get that bastard Canul myself!” he vowed as they rode back to the house. “The militia’s been disbanded, and he’ll have sold my mahogany to that other blighter, God rot his soul, long before I could get the regular army after him.”

  “Are the logs that important?”

  “What’s important is that Canul’s decided to test me. If he gets away with this one cutting of logs, he’ll try to exact ‘rent’ on all my woodlands, maybe steal some cattle and mules. He’s got to be stopped—quickly.”

  “How?”

  “Most of the men can use guns, and they all have machetes. I’ll offer a bonus attractive enough to get them to risk their skins. As soon as they can be organized, we’ll go around through the jungle and hit the camp. My guess is that they’ll be grand and gloriously drunk from the camp supplies, and we could take them easily if they’re off guard.” He gave Mercy an unpleasant smile. “Are you worried about my safety, or, could it be, upon reflection, that you’d rather be raped by me than some savage?”

  Mercy didn’t answer. Whatever happened, her situation was desperate. But if Eric would be gone for a few days …

  As always, when she thought of escape, she remembered the river, the crocodile-infested swamps, and the jungle, where, if she encountered any humans, they would probably be white-hating Cruzob. She would be incredibly lucky to survive those dangers and make her way to La Quinta or any friendly haven. But if she stayed here, Eric was determined to make her pregnant. She couldn’t thwart him with the poinciana when that meant another beating for Dionisio, nor could she endure the floggings the batab would get till she conceived.

  It was intolerable. Eric had found the way to break her. Whatever the perils, she must try to escape. As they climbed the steps, Eric took her hands, standing several steps beneath her so that their eyes were level.

  “I don’t want you to feel nervous or unprotected while I’m gone,” he said. “So I’ll have one guard at your door and a watch on all the downstairs entrances. You’ll be perfectly safe. And now, my love, excuse me. I must get my expedition together.”

  With a light kiss, he went inside and Mercy stared toward the river. Guards or no guards, she had to get away.

  It was easier to resolve than to do. She’d spent that afternoon putting together a pack of her most valuable possessions and things necessary for survival. Celeste now paid in full for Mercy’s help. Enlisting the help of her mother and mother’s friends, Celeste amassed several weeks’ supply of dried meat and the sour cornmeal dough that could either be mixed with water to make a nourishing gruel or eaten as it was. There was honey in an oiled leather bag, matches pilfered from Pierre’s kitchen, a hammock, a lightweight poncho for sleeping, an extra pair of sandals, and a waterskin for the northern region, where streams or springs would be hard to find. She also brought from the infirmary Elkanah’s books and the Badianus translation. And, of course, she wore the black coral necklace.

  “But won’t Mr. Kensington suspect you?” Mercy asked worriedly.

  “But you aren’t running off!” Celeste laughed, shaking her head. “No! You died of the black vomit, the cholera, and, of course, had to be buried deep right away. Very sad.”

  “What a splendid idea!” cried Mercy, dazzled. No one would suffer for helping her. And there’d be no pursuit, for Eric would think her dead.

  Celeste nodded. “I talked to Francisca at the infirmary. She’ll be called up to nurse you the day after tomorrow. She and I will wrap up in sheets what’s supposed to be you. Everyone fears the black vomit; it’s very bad. No one will want to look.”

  Embracing her friend, Mercy began to feel more hopeful. The journey was as perilous as ever, but she was strengthened by the goodwill of the people who were helping her.

  “You have a headache tonight, and pretend your stomach is upset,” advised Celeste.

  The effects of the poinciana and flogging wouldn’t make that difficult. When Eric, appearing a little late for dinner, announced that he had eighty men ready to move at dawn, Mercy w
as glad that his excitement made him less likely to notice hers.

  They went to bed early. The march on his enemy seemed to serve as an aphrodisiac on Eric, and he took her repeatedly in spite of her complaints of headache and nausea. “Whatever you took to scour your womb made you ill,” he said roughly. “But you’ll have three or four days to cosset yourself and be fragile.”

  She gritted her teeth and told herself this should be the last time she ever slept with him, the last time he would spend in her the charged energy and force of that powerful body.

  Clever Celeste! Only if he thought her dead would Mercy be safe. Would Zane be home yet? She hoped so, yet she hated the certainty that if he was, he’d have read that letter and considered her a faint-hearted deserter.

  Whatever he thought, though, she could explain. If he were only alive and well! She lay sleepless, even after Eric had finally exhausted himself and slumbered heavily. She feared the journey. Chances were against her getting through to Zane. But at least she’d be trying. She was taking her fate in her hands and plunging, and in that, along with dread, was great exhilaration.

  It was still dark when Eric awoke and possessed her a last time, deeply, slowly. “Good-bye, love,” he said. “McNulty’s in charge while I’m gone. Tell him if you need anything.”

  “I’d go downstairs with you, but my head …”

  “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.” His hands strayed over her and he kissed her. “I’d rather think of you like this the few nights I’ll be stringing my hammock in the jungle.” He crossed the room and was gone.

  Out beyond the stable, there were voices and commotion, but within fifteen minutes the sounds faded away. Mercy dozed, for it had been agreed that Celeste would tell Pierre she wanted no breakfast. There’d be no luncheon, either, and by dinner time Celeste would begin to act frightened and ask the symptoms for the black vomit. Francisca would be fetched and confirm the terrible suspicion.

  After that, no one would want to see Mercy, and she’d leave before dawn. The young Indian whose arm had been putrefying when Mercy saved him would wait for her at a landing out of sight just down the river. He would take her across and put her on the trail going north, the Cruzob supply line.

  Compelled to stay in her room that day, Mercy dreamed of Zane, of being back at La Quinta with Chepa, Jolie, Salvador, and Mayel. It helped keep up her courage. Even if she were destined to die on the way or be captured by warriors of the Talking Cross, dwelling on those not-so-remote possibilities wouldn’t arm her for the effort.

  She asked about Dionisio. He was remarkably strong and resilient, according to Francisca. She had given him some of the healing ointment kept prepared in the infirmary and he was back at work. Mercy hoped that the batab would feel released from his work bond after the way Eric had treated him.

  Strange, he was the reason she could no longer endure life here, yet she’d probably never know what happened to him. Much as she hated to lose touch with her helpers at the infirmary and Celeste, Mercy took satisfaction in knowing that the medical care she’d begun would continue since it was something Eric knew was to the estate’s benefit.

  Mercy couldn’t bring herself to give up her treasured medical books, but she spent most of that day copying out treatments and directions for mixing medicines. None of the infirmary workers could read, but Celeste could, so it would be useful to leave behind as much information as possible.

  Pierre had insisted on sending up some custard and fruit juices. Mercy enjoyed these, though she felt a trifle guilty at the genial cook’s concern. However, she couldn’t think of any way Eric would blame his staff for her illness, and though Pierre and McNulty might feel sad over her untimely death, neither would mourn.

  When Celeste smuggled up healthy portions of food from the servants’ table, Mercy invited her to share them. Though she was diffident at first about sitting with her mistress, Celeste was soon talking about how happy she and Thomas were. Though both now lived in dormitories for unmarried servants, he was building them a house. All they needed was a clergyman.

  “And if one doesn’t come soon,” Celeste announced, “Thomas will ask the master to let us go to Belize. That would be grand! A real wedding trip!” She hugged her arms against herself. “I wish Thomas weren’t a good shot, wish he hadn’t had to go on this raid. But the master is sure to thrash that Canul, isn’t he, madame?”

  “He certainly seemed to think so,” Mercy reassured her. There were almost certain to be dead and wounded, but why talk of that?

  Mercy had a last luxurious bath and hair-washing that evening, lying with her face turned to the wall when the boys brought in the water. It was too bad that they’d have to worry for a while about catching the black vomit, but their stories would confirm Mercy’s illness.

  Upon hearing Celeste’s worried questions about the signs of the dreaded plague, Pierre had muttered numerous prayers and sent up broth. Mercy disposed of this while relishing rice and chicken with Celeste. Then Francisca was brought in.

  Her eyes glistened as she caressed the cures Mercy had written down. “You have been good to us. Go safely to your own place, but think of us sometimes.”

  Francisca pushed back a straggle of gray hair. “That young batab, that Dionisio, he asked who you were. Don Gerardo told him he’d be vulture’s meat except for you. Dionisio asked me to thank you.” She gave an amused cackle. “He also said you look like the Virgin before she was with child, but I was not, I think, supposed to say that.”

  Mercy blushed, but she was pleased that the hawk-handsome Maya had noticed her, and not just as a hated ladina. Francisca confirmed that Pablo, the young Indian of the artery wound, would meet her in the morning at the agreed-upon spot. Then, before Mercy could prevent it, the old woman kissed her hands, blessed her, and said good-bye.

  To ensure a sound night’s sleep, Mercy had a soothing cup of tea at bedtime and the potion worked, for Celeste, who’d slung her hammock in the room, had to shake her awake in the predawn darkness.

  While Mercy dressed, Celeste put out some fruit with juice and rolls she’d brought from the kitchen the night before, insisted they be consumed to the last drop and crumb, and then showed Mercy a back way out from upstairs, which avoided the guards. Carrying the pack, Celeste guided her along a path that turned, off the route to the village, leading to a small pier used by the villagers for fishing.

  Pablo greeted Mercy as if it were his regular morning habit to help his master’s mistresses escape. He put the pack in the middle of his dugout, a smaller version of the pitpan in which she’d been brought to the House of Quetzals two months before, months that even now seemed unreal, like a half-waking nightmare interspersed with the baroque ostentation of Pierre’s concoctions and the sanity-preserving hours at the infirmary.

  Mercy embraced Celeste. Then with Pablo’s help she got into the boat.

  The hand that had once looked useless and dead was now as facile as the other, but before they shoved off he pushed up his sleeve and showed her the scar, still slightly ridged. It was haard to believe the sound, firm brown flesh had once been a mass of poison. If those blood-strangulating cords had stayed in place a few more hours, another half a day … The body was subject to so many ills, yet wonderfully self-healing when given a chance. It was a benediction to cross the river by the grace of a man she had saved.

  Mercy waved to Celeste, who made an answering gesture and faded into the cypress and willows, festooned with passionflowers and morning glories just becoming visible in the pale light.

  The river was shallow here and Pablo poled more than he rowed, but they were soon on the other shore. Taking the pack, he led her for a little way across tangled bare roots and vines, then moved up the bank past a giant tree whose huge palmate leaves had a silvery underside. Pausing, the young man drew aside a mass of vines, disclosing a narrow trail through the dense growth.

  “This will take you to the trade route above Bacalar,” he said. “You’re not likely to meet Cruzob till then.
But if you hear anyone, leave the trail and hide. Don’t go far, though. You could get fatally lost half a stone’s throw from the path.”

  Mercy thanked him and took the pack, looping it over her shoulders with the wide straps she and Celeste had devised. When she glanced back, Pablo had vanished. Only slightly moving vines showed anyone had been there.

  The jungle pressed in on all sides and from the top, which almost touched her head in places, stifling, seeming to grasp at her with clinging, entrapping vines, hidden thorns, and protruding branches.

  It would take ten days, at least, probably two weeks, more if she wandered. How would she ever sleep? The hammock would lift her off the ground, but things could drop from above, or crawl along the woven strands. She remembered where the horses had mired in the swamps and shuddered to think she must travel that road, wade up to her knees, or worse, in that black slime.

  It was one thing to see crocodiles when mounted and protected by half a dozen rifles and men. She thought she would simply die of fright if she met one of the loathsome beasts while struggling through muck. She had a long knife sheathed at her waist, but she devoutly hoped she wouldn’t have to use it on anything but vines.

  You can go back, she told herself, now, before the story of your death gets out, now, while you can still shout to Pablo. But you must decide now. In an hour, Celeste will have lied for you, and to give that away would be unthinkable.

  So was going back. Again, Mercy weighed crocodiles, Cruzob, and the jungle against watching Dionisio being whipped and against bearing Eric’s child. She knew that only through the jungle trail did she have a chance for life, a chance to find her love. She begged her father’s spirit to be with her, sent her love and hope silently to Zane, and started on.

  18

  The sandals she wore were comfortable, but she was not used to steady walking. By the time the sun sent luminous shafts spiraling through the various layers of leaves so that the diffused glow reached her, she stopped by a seeping from the rocks to drink, rest, chew some dried meat, and rub into her feet the ointment she’d brought, a concoction of toloache and oils of turpentine and artemisia. The artemisia healed blisters and cracks, turpentine was an irritant and cleanser, and toloache dulled pain. She was likely to need a lot of it before this trip was over!