Savage Surrender

by Natasha Peters

  "Jesus, what's happening?"

  "She's a goner now for sure, Captain."

  "Goddamn it! Find that bastard Hawthorne!" I could feel him standing over me, straddling me, hating me. "You're all to blame now, you swine," he cried. "You've killed her this time for certain."

  "What is all this?" A kneeling figure at my side. Comforting whiskey breath. "What have—oh, my God!"

  The broadsword twisted in my bowels. I heaved and screamed.

  "Take her below at once, now! Don't just stand there like a pack of fools. You're all responsible for this, God help you. Come on, hurry!"

  And then merciful oblivion.

  The ship rocked gently, a cradle in the deep. I slept. Then the rocking became a violent pitching. More heaving and spewing out my insides. Tears and sweat, but not, in spite of the pain, not Death. Had I cheated Death? Or had Death cheated me?

  "Doctor Hawthorne?" I groped for his hand.

  "Yes, child, I'm here."

  "What's happening?"

  "A storm, that's all. Some heavy winds and high water. The usual thing. It looks like a good blow this time. Just lie back now and rest. You'll be all right, Elise, just try and rest."

  Elise? I hardly recognized my Christian name. I hadn't heard it since—since Garth. It made me cry. "Dirty, I feel so dirty," I moaned. The Doctor moistened my lips with water. "Please—please tell me what happened. I know about the men—the pain was so terrible."

  His hand on my forehead was cool. "You lost your baby, Elise." I smothered a cry. "Didn't you know you were carrying a baby?"

  "No. No," I gasped, shaking my head slightly. "I thought it was seasickness. Seasick so much, and I'd never been—thought I was just upset." I choked back a sob. To lose a child before you even knew you had it. It was so awful, so sad. "I'm glad, Doctor Hawthorne. Glad. I wouldn't have wanted—his baby."

  The doctor was silent for a moment. "It was a large fetus, Elise. Almost four months along, I'd say. I think you may never be able to have another. I'm—I'm sorry."

  A new abyss of sorrow opened up. It had been Garth's. I had lost Garth's child. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I wept not for Garth or for our child, but for myself.

  The seas became calm again. The Doctor told me that we had been blown far off our course by the storm, but had sighted land. We were now anchored in a natural harbor, waiting for a party to return with casks of fresh water. The Captain, he said, was furious about the unforeseeable delay, for we had been within a few days' sail of Jamaica and these waters were alive with pirates.

  I smiled feebly. "Surely not pirates, Doctor. In this day and age?"

  "Oh, yes, indeed. In fact—"

  I heard the cabin door open and Captain Fowler came into the room. I shrank back. "Get out, Hawthorne," he ordered.

  The little man took a breath. "Captain, I should warn you that any further excitement—"

  "Out, goddamn it!"

  "—could have a serious effect on the patient, and if she dies, I promise you that you and you alone shall hang!"

  "Go to Hell, Hawthorne. You haven't the guts of a clam. Nobody's going to hang if you keep your goddamn mouth shut."

  I heard a shout and some scuffling and whining, then I knew I was alone with Josiah Fowler.

  "I should never have taken you aboard this ship," he said tightly. I turned my face away from him. He grabbed my chin and jerked it towards him. "You'll look at me when I'm talking to you, bitch!" he snarled. "You're not going to tell anybody anything, and neither is that idiot Hawthorne, because neither of you is going to live through the night."

  "Non amo te, Sabidi—" I chanted thickly.

  "Stop that, stop that, do you hear me!" He lifted his arm and struck me full across the face.

  "—nec possum dicere quare—"

  He would have killed me right then, I know, but one of the sailors suddenly burst in crying, "Pirates, Captain! Pirates!"

  Fowler ran out of the cabin. I laughed to myself. Cheating Death, cheating Death. Cheating Josiah Fowler. Then a pain shot through me, not as severe as before but bad enough, and I doubled up. Sweat was pouring off me, and I knew I was feverish. Perhaps I hadn't cheated Death at all. He was merely biding his time, waiting to take me in his own way. I lay in that stinking cabin, sick and alone, only dimly aware of the pounding of feet and the thunder of guns over my head.

  The next thing I heard was a voice close to me, speaking in French, and then another replying from far away.

  "Dear God, who is she? Is she dead, Pierre? She must be some octoroon, her skin is so light."

  I moaned and struggled to speak. It was like one of those nightmares when you know you're in danger and yet you can't move your feet or utter a sound. You struggle and strain to make yourself understood until you finally wake up and realize it was only a dream after all.

  Then I decided I must be back home. I heard my own voice saying in French, "But I want to marry him, Uncle Theo, and he can live with us at the Chateau and we shall have champagne every night."

  "Mother of God, Dominique, she's alive!"

  Then the voices began to fade away. I felt strong arms come down and carry me clear up to Heaven, and when I got there I passed out and knew no more.

  Chapter 6

  The Pirate Lafitte

  "Lily, your hands have more healing magic than all the doctors in New Orleans. You've finally banished Mademoiselle's fever."

  I floated in darkness, free of pain. I had no idea whether I was dead or alive, and I cared less. The half-mad face of Josiah Fowler danced around in my head, but my hate and my fear, so many feelings swirled numbly together, and I couldn't tell them apart. I must be dead, I thought. I had had nothing to live for. Men had destroyed my life, and if I had lived they would just have abused me and destroyed it again and again. I felt quite comfortable now. I basked in my death and the peace and warmth of my darkness.

  Voices reached me again and irritated me a little. How dare they speak in the presence of the dead. Why didn't they show more respect? Why didn't they go away?

  Someone laughed. A woman's warm laugh. "Oh, Mister Jean, she's comin' along jest fine. Ain't she a sorry lookin' little mite, though? It jest about tears my heart out lookin' at her! Jest like a little sick puppy!"

  Go away, I thought. I don't want you to look at me.

  "Yes, she's had a bad time of it, Lily. I hope she recovers. How old do you suppose she is?"

  "Old enough," said Lily grimly.

  "So it would appear." I could feel them flying around me in the darkness, web-winged bats with human voices. I could feel their wings beating against my face, and I wanted to brush them away. "She's getting restless, Lily. Do you think she's coming out of it?"

  "Wouldn't surprise me none. She's jest been lyin' there for the past week and a half. Her body's been restin' and healin' itself up, and now it's gettin' ready to wake up."

  I won't wake up. I won't. A week? How long is a week? Is it longer than a day or shorter? A year, a month, a minute, an hour, what are they? Not important. I want to sleep. The darkness rocked a little. Someone sat on the edge of the bed.

  "Bonjour, Mademoiselle." The man spoke. "Can you hear me? Do you want to awaken?"

  "Go away," I muttered.

  "Glory be, will you listen to her, Mister Jean. She's talkin'!" cried Lily.

  My eyes opened and the darkness melted away. A large white field and some posts and veils. What kind of nonsense was this? My brain worked fast. Of course, I was in bed and the white was the ceiling and the veils were some kind of netting. "Where am I?" I heard a voice from far away and then realized I had spoken.

  "You are quite safe, Mademoiselle." The voice was close, much closer than my own. I turned my head towards it and saw a man seated on the side of the bed. If I had been able to lift my hand I might have reached out and touched him. Then a shadow moved up behind him. A woman, a big chocolate-colored woman with a red scarf wrapped around her head. The man reached over and placed a cool hand on my forehead.
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  "Who are you?" I said. I couldn't make out the details of his face. My eyelids felt heavy and things were fuzzy, so fuzzy.

  "My name is Jean Lafitte. This is my house."

  "I see. I—I am sorry to be a trouble to you, Monsieur Lafitte. So sorry." I closed my eyes.

  I felt the weight of his hand on mine. "Please do not concern yourself, Mademoiselle. I assure you you are no trouble. You must concentrate on getting better."

  "No, no, too late. Too late—can't—rather sleep forever," I muttered drowsily.

  He laughed softly. "You have slept long enough, I think. When you—" The voices faded away and then another wave tossed the boat lightly. "—think she's asleep again. Let me know if there is anything I can do." I opened my eyes again and saw the man across the room now, at the door.

  "Yes, Mister Jean, I will." The woman's gentle hands smoothed the coverlets and stroked my face and hair.

  "I want—I want—" I began to breathe harder, and I struggled to sit up. The woman helped me and supported me. I clung to her and looked past her at the man, who had turned back and was looking at me, surprised. "I want—" I gasped brokenly. "Kill Josiah Fowler, and—and bring me his head on a platter, if you can!" I laughed weakly, crazily. "Kill him! For me!"

  "Hush, now, child, don't you go gettin' yourself all wrought up like that," said the woman. I fell back on my pillows, exhausted, and sleep overtook me almost immediately.

  But I heard the man say to the woman, "It's a good sign, that hate. It will keep her alive."

  I began to have longer periods of consciousness every day. Lily encouraged me and praised my progress, even going so far as to declare that I was getting pretty.

  "Oh, Missy, the swelling's about gone and your cuts are all healed up, and the bruises show just a teensy bit. You're going to be pretty as a picture again, jest you wait and see. You was pretty once, wasn't you? And you'll be pretty again, even prettier."

  I didn't believe her, but her words cheered me. I hadn't been able to eat for two weeks, even the smell of food had made me nauseous, but finally my appetite began to return and I swallowed small portions of Lily's tempting soups and stews, to her great delight.

  "Oh, you'll look jest fine when you get a little weight on you, Missy. I couldn't do much with your hair but cut the knots out and wash it, and it still looks kind of funny because of all the places where it was pulled out. My, what you must have been through!"

  "Perhaps we could cut it all off," I suggested. I didn't want to talk about how it got that way. "And then it would all grow back at the same rate and not look so strange."

  We debated the problem for a day or so, and finally Lily obliged and got to work with her scissors. She was thrilled with the result. "It looks jest fine, jest fine, and it's starting to curl up already in this heat. Why, maybe you'll start a new style, Missy, and be the talk of New Orleans. Do you want to see? I'll get the glass."

  "No, no," I said quickly. "Please don't bother, Lily. I—I don't want to look, ever again." I could still see the face in the mirror held by Captain Josiah Fowler.

  She shook her head sadly. "Aw, don't feel like that, Missy. You're alive, aren't you? And that's a lot more than you can say for some of those poor souls that come over on those ships, and you know that better than most."

  Just then Monsieur Lafitte came into the room. I smiled up at him, for I always looked forward to his visits. He was very polite, even a little distant, and I had to admit he was devastatingly handsome. Lafitte was not tall, well under six feet, but his slenderness and erect carriage, his proud bearing and the cut of his clothes made him seem taller. His reddish brown hair was thick and straight, and he wore a moustache the same color. His brown eyes were always filled with warmth and concern when he looked at me, and only later did I learn that they could flash with anger and glare so fiercely that men twice his age and size would tremble. His face was lean and hard, but smooth except for a slight scar along the jawline. His dress was always immaculate. His shirts were dazzling in their whiteness, and generously ruffled at the cuffs and neck. Some would have called him a dandy, but his taste was far too good and he wore his beautiful clothes with a complete lack of self-consciousness; he was elegant, the most elegant man I had ever met—and at the French court I had met a good many men who affected elegance.

  We spoke French, but he was fluent in English as well. I learned that he used both languages when dealing with his men and with merchants and business men in cosmopolitan New Orleans, and he also spoke the Cajun or Arcadian patois of the men who had grown up in the bayous of Louisiana with a language and customs that were uniquely their own.

  Jean Lafitte's manners were impeccable. They were so much a part of him that he never slipped, never forgot himself; I was sure he would remain a gentleman in any situation.

  When he approached my bed he took my hand and raised it to his lips. Then he stood back to study the effect of the thick short black curls that framed my white face.

  "Most becoming, Mademoiselle. You are far too pretty to keep hidden away like this."

  "You will turn my head with all your praise, Monsieur Lafitte," I said a little sadly. "I will grow vain as a peacock, like the king who didn't know he had ass's ears until it came to him in a whisper. I shall strut, and everyone will laugh at me."

  "They will not laugh, Mademoiselle," he said firmly. "Come, it is time for you to see a bit of the world. I have had chairs set on the veranda outside your room."

  "Oh, no! Please! I would much rather stay here. What if someone sees me? What if—"

  Laughing at my protestations, he picked me up and carried me out in his arms. I cringed as we neared the French windows that opened onto the second floor veranda, for I had not been out of the room since my arrival. I buried my face in the ruffles at his neck, and clung to him for dear life.

  He deposited me in a vast wicker chair, and wrapped me with blankets even though the breeze from the water was warm. "You must stay warmly wrapped. If you have a relapse Lily will be furious with me. She is very proud of your progress. I believe it is she who is strutting!"

  "She has been so kind. You have both been so kind." I looked around me. The house stood back on a flat beach, overlooking a wide expanse of blue water. "Is this New Orleans?" I asked.

  "No, Mademoiselle, we are on an island known as Grand Terre, in an area which the early French settlers named Barataria in honor of Sancho Panza's island kingdom in Don Quixote. He could not reach his island, and the French could not penetrate here because of the thick trees and the swampy terrain underfoot. In front of you you see the Gulf of Mexico; behind us lies Barataria Bay. We are to the south of New Orleans, the finest city in the territory of Louisiana. You have never been there? No? Then you shall see for yourself someday."

  "But why do you live here, Monsieur? Surely such swampland is not good for farming?"

  Lafitte smiled politely. "I am not a farmer, Mademoiselle. I am an outlaw. So far I have not been hunted like a criminal, but there is always that chance, and it pays to be safe, no? A good many people would like to destroy me and my business. Grand Terre is easy to defend, and therefore I find it an ideal headquarters for me."

  "Oh. And what is your business? Are you a pirate?" I asked wittily.

  "A pirate?" Looking out over the gulf, he leaned on the rail of the veranda and folded his arms. "Pirate is a fine romantic name. Scoundrel is one I have often heard. Buccaneer is, I think, the most popular. But smuggler is the most accurate. I am a smuggler, then, which to some minds is equivalent to being a thief. Indeed, the chair on which you sit, the coverlet in which I have wrapped you, the bed you sleep in and the carpets on the floors and the foods you eat—all are stolen goods or goods bought with the profits of smuggling. In short, Mademoiselle, you have fallen in with a band of ruthless thieves. I hope you are appropriately frightened." He turned and looked at me without smiling.

  "No, I'm not afraid of you," I confessed shyly. "I think that very little would frighten me now." But
I felt old terrors and hatreds tearing at my soul as I stared out across the water. Josiah Fowler's image loomed before me and I remembered my raving to Monsieur Lafitte on my first day of consciousness. Was my tormentor dead? I could not force myself to ask. Surely Hell could be nothing compared to what I had been through.

  "Perhaps, Mademoiselle," he said gently. "I think, however, that you are a little afraid of seeing other people?"

  I nodded. "Yes, I am. I still feel rather—raw, and—unclean."

  "Won't you tell me who you are and how you came to be on that ship?"

  For a moment I said nothing. I realized then that this elegant polite stranger had been telling the truth about his business. He must really be a pirate, incongruous as it seemed. His ship had stopped the Charleston Belle, had stayed Captain Josiah Fowler's hand from killing me. It all came rushing back to me, and I saw the stinking cabin and the filthy, rotten whore I had become. I heard again the voices of the pirates speaking in French before I fainted, and I knew how I came to be in his man's house. He had rescued me from my Hell, he had seen me in that Hell.

  "No. No, I couldn't. Please don't ask me. When I am well enough I shall go away and you must forget you ever saw me." I covered my face with my hands.

  After a while he said, "There is no need to fear the past, Mademoiselle. It is over and done with, and it cannot hurt you. You are safe here. No one will harm you. I promise you, Mademoiselle, if any man touches you without your leave, he will die by my hand."

  I looked up at him. "You—"

  Monsieur Lafitte understood my unspoken thoughts. "Captain Fowler met with an unfortunate accident. He had gone quite mad, I believe, and when I was in New Orleans, after we had relieved the Captain of his ship and his cargo, he came to my house one day, brandishing pistols, and began firing wildly at me. I was forced to repulse him with my sword."

  "So he is dead," I said slowly.

  "I had no intention of killing him—the wound was not serious—but I thought I had better bring him back here and keep him out of sight until I decided what to do with him. Unfortunately, you had not yet spoken or I promise you I would have tortured him slowly, until the life drained out of him drop by drop—perhaps I would have brought you his head—" he smiled fleetingly, "—but I locked him in the hold of his own ship out in the harbor, as he was too revolting to keep on the island. To my sorrow, I was not responsible for his death: I believe that his madness had progressed so far that he was bent on self-destruction.