Once down on the beach, the terrified women milled about like frightened deer. Waiting to be loaded in to the war canoes, they were poked and prodded by the laughing victors. Men stood around the captives, holding up the grisly heads and gesturing obscenely at the women. Some of the warriors took great delight in mauling those women standing at the fringe of the crowd.
Sarita, clutching her blanket tightly around her, was crowded into the middle. She was protected from grabbing hands but could feel many eyes upon her.
Suddenly the women around her were pushed to both sides, leaving a wide path. Fighting Wolf strode forward, stopping in front of her. He stood, grinning down at her, his piercing black eyes staring straight into hers. His hard gaze disconcerted her, but she would not let him know it.
He stood there, arrogant, looking at her for a long moment. At his belt hung several daggers and his beautiful sea otter robe was smeared with blood—Hesquiat blood. She clutched her blanket closer and stared up at him with angry, hate-filled golden eyes. “Murderer!” she hissed.
He laughed, his deep voice echoing in the stillness and sending a shiver down her spine. He reached out one strong hand and took her shoulder. Spinning her around, he pushed her roughly towards his canoe. Stubbornly, she dug her heels into the sand. Anything to thwart him. There was a long pause, then she thought she heard a low chuckle.
Suddenly, she was seized and thrown over one hard shoulder. She struggled and kicked, but the blue cape she wore interfered with her movements. A massive hand swatted her buttocks, and a deep voice ordered, “Stop struggling, woman!”
Fighting Wolf took several strides through the water, then dumped her ignominiously into a canoe. Glad to pull away from him, she crawled to a seat in the canoe. Drawing her blue cloak closer, she glowered at him before haughtily turning her head.
Once seated in the middle of his war canoe, she stoically watched the scene on the beach.
Fighting Wolf chuckled to himself at the girl’s rebellion. Later he would have time for taming her, he thought with anticipation. Surveying the beach, he urged his men to load the captives into the canoes quickly. Most of his men were standing by the canoes, ready to jump aboard after the women were loaded. A few last Ahousats hurried down the beach, clutching booty.
A slumped, brown body dressed in slave rags caught the war chief’s eye. The man lay draped over the bow of Comes-from-Salish’s canoe. Fighting Wolf raised an eyebrow interrogatively. Comes-from-Salish looked sheepish.
“Caught him hanging around the canoes. Thought it best to take no chances. We hit him over the head. Didn’t want to kill him since he’s a strong-looking slave,” the former slave muttered gruffly.
Fighting Wolf recognized Comes-from-Salish’s pity for the unconscious slave and, feeling magnanimous in his victory, answered casually, “Well, well. I’ll consider him my bridal repayment gift.” He chuckled. “Just make sure the man stays out of my way. Any trouble from him and you’ll be held responsible.”
“Yes, noble chief,” answered Comes-from-Salish solemnly. Then he grinned. “There’s lots of work for this slave to do. He’ll earn his keep, don’t worry.” He gave Rottenwood a hard kick in the ribs. The captive lay still, unconscious. He felt nothing even when he was lifted and tossed in the bottom of the canoe.
Ten of Fighting Wolf’s men still stood on the beach. They were armed with muskets and were covering the others’ retreat. A few straggling Hesquiats chased the Ahousats to the beach, only to be scared off by scattered shots.
Finally, all the canoes were loaded with captives and warriors. The remaining ten warriors pushed the laden craft into deeper water, jumped in, then whirled to aim their weapons at any would-be rescuers.
A few brave survivors managed to race for their canoes, avidly pursuing the raiders.
Fighting Wolf grinned, watching them. It was soon clear to his men why he was so amused.
The Hesquiats stopped at the waterline, milling in confusion. Out in deep water lay the Hesquiat war canoes, half-sunk. Paddles and equipment floated on the outgoing tide. One or two hardy men splashed into the water, frantically trying to retrieve the submerged dugouts. The rest stood on shore, shouting foul curses at the rapidly disappearing Ahousats.
Fighting Wolf laughed exultantly. His strategy was a success! His revenge was complete! Turning to his men, he grinned broadly, his eyes touching briefly, triumphantly, on Sarita who was huddled in the center of the canoe.
“A good day’s work!” he yelled, holding up a bloody, dripping head by the hair. His victory yell echoed across the water to the warriors in the other canoes. With a resounding answering shout, his men bent to their paddles with a will and raced swiftly for home as full darkness descended.
Chapter Five
Stiff and chilled, Sarita sat huddled in Fighting Wolf’s war canoe. She stared straight ahead, unseeing, at Fighting Wolf’s broad back as he sat in the prow of the boat.
Despair overwhelmed her. She felt numb and dazed, barely able to comprehend the enormous change in her life in such a short time. Her mind crowded with images of the marriage feast, and she could concentrate on little else. Again and again she saw her father and brother tied and helpless, heard the cruel words Fighting Wolf spoke, saw the headless bodies of her father’s warriors.
Once she briefly glanced over at the other canoes to the bundled shapes of the captured Hesquiat women. They looked as broken and listless as she herself felt.
Desperately she tried to focus her mind on her present danger, but scenes from the slaughter kept intruding. At last her awful visions were interrupted by a fitful sleep.
* * * *
In another canoe, Rottenwood groggily shook his head. The hammering on the back of his skull would not go away. Shaking his head again, he moaned and tried to sit up, feeling sick. Gradually, the nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach disappeared. He became aware of the gentle rocking motion of the canoe.
At last able to sit up, he looked around, squinting into the darkness. The shadowy coastline they were passing was unfamiliar territory. Noting a big, dark land mass to the east, he realized the Ahousats were pursuing a southerly course. He glanced about repeatedly to memorize landmarks.
One of the Ahousats, seeing he was awake, thrust a long, carved oar into his hand and harshly ordered him to paddle.
Realizing his life hung in the balance with these ruthless new captors, he obeyed with alacrity. As he paddled, his strength began to return. He followed the rhythm set by the Ahousats. Many times his eyes darted surreptitiously to the coastline as he paddled. Should he escape, he must be able to find his way back to Hesquiat…and Spring Fern.
* * * *
Thoughts of escape were far from Sarita’s mind. Scrunched up against the cold, she shifted uneasily as she dozed. Her cape had fallen to one side and she shivered in the cold night air.
Fighting Wolf moved cautiously to where she slumped, asleep. Lifting her cape, he gently covered her shoulders. The tender gesture surprised him. Why should he care if the daughter of his enemy was cold? Setting his jaw, he ignored the astonished glances of his men and moved back to his position at the bow. Keeping his back to the sleeping woman, he refused to examine his bewildering actions too closely.
Hours passed in silent paddling. The dark of night gave way to pink streaks of light at dawn. The sky behind the shadowy land mass soon glowed with mauve and orange clouds as the sun rose to herald a clear day. Sea gulls wheeled overhead, their raucous cries greeting the brilliant orb.
Fighting Wolf stretched his long limbs as he yawned. He straightened himself from his cramped position in the canoe. It had been a long night. He could see the Ahousat village in the distance. As they paddled closer, he spotted his longhouse, off to one side. A few children played in front, despite the early hour. He stretched again, languorously, like a tawny cougar. Ah, yes, it was good to be arriving home after a successful raid.
* * * *
Sarita awakened gradually. Looking at the strange m
en through sleep-ridden eyes, feeling the gentle rocking of the canoe, hazy memories of the previous night leapt into sharp focus. She straightened as gruesome scenes flooded her mind with painful clarity.
But her body’s clamoring interrupted the rush of thoughts. Her back ached from sleeping hunched over. Her bladder was full. She was cold and hungry and still tired. Desperately she tried to ignore her bodily complaints and rally her defenses for the upcoming ordeal. She would soon walk through the village of her hated enemies.
Glancing across the water at a nearby war canoe, she noticed Rottenwood for the first time. He looked vaguely familiar. Hadn’t she seen him in her own village? She wondered what he was doing with the dreaded Ahousats.
Casting a peek at her fellow captives, she noticed the women looked even worse than they did last night. Many were sobbing openly and clinging to each other, their worst fears surfacing as they came closer to the enemy’s village. Their hysteria was contagious and Sarita felt a surge of panic well up inside her. Taking several deep breaths, she fought down the treacherous feeling. These despicable Ahousats would never see her fear!
Clenching her hands tightly into fists, her nails dug painfully into soft palms. She stared straight ahead, showing no hint of turmoil, but inside she was seething with apprehension. As a prisoner of the Ahousats, she could expect little kindness and much hard work. But what she really dreaded were the advances she was sure the men would make. She’d seen how the men of her village treated newly captured, pretty slave women and she was terrified and angry at the same time. She would not, absolutely would not, tolerate such treatment of her person, she resolved. After all, she was a chief’s daughter. Her admonitions served to quell the fears threatening to engulf her.
She would prove herself worthy as her father’s daughter and not degrade her family’s name. She choked back a sob as she realized anew that her family’s name was already degraded—foully degraded—for she was a slave.
The word echoed through her mind as she struggled to come to terms with her horrendous situation. Spring Fern was a slave; Cedar Bundle was a slave; Rottenwood, too, but Sarita?
Never, ever had she ever imagined herself in such circumstances, though she’d heard tales of slavery ever since childhood. Somehow it had never touched her personally, though. Oh, she knew that noblewomen were sometimes captured and forced into slavery, but it had always happened to someone else. Not her. The image of Cedar Bundle crept into her mind. Hadn’t she been a noblewoman at one time? Sarita shook her head. Now was not the time for such disturbing thoughts. Surrounded as she was by enemies, she needed her wits.
She glanced about quickly. The tight, tired faces of the warriors could not hide the triumphant grins they slyly cast at the women.
The cutthroats, she thought bitterly, gloating at our humiliation. Her chin lifted higher. The sooner these dogs realized she would brook no abuse, the sooner they would leave her alone. Determined, she set her beautiful mouth in a grim line.
Her gaze came to rest on Fighting Wolf’s broad back. Here, here was the man responsible for her predicament! Hot anger welled up inside her and she longed to jump at him, to rip him apart with her bare hands. She hated him passionately. Fury at her humiliating losses washed over her and she was blinded to all else. She clenched her jaw, and closed her eyes. She must control her fury. Her very life depended on it. But later, later, she would seek revenge against this vicious animal who had destroyed her family and name.
Suddenly Fighting Wolf turned, as if feeling the heat of her gaze on his back. Their eyes met and he was startled at the fury he saw in her golden eyes.
Looking into the depths of those jet black eyes, she wanted to snarl curses at him, but some primitive instinct for survival stopped her.
“Just you wait,” she whispered to herself instead. “I’ll escape your clutches and return with my father’s warriors to kill you!”
As if he’d heard her, he smirked insolently, and leaned forward to touch her face. She jerked her head away and looked off to the side in stony, seething silence.
“Looks like this Hesquiat slave has a temper,” he sneered to his men.
Coarse chuckles greeted this remark before everyone’s attention turned to the village they were rapidly approaching.
Welcoming songs and chants congratulating their triumphant return echoed through the early morning air. Women and children rushed into their small canoes and paddled out eagerly to meet the returning victorious heroes.
Sarita watched as an attractive, sloe-eyed young woman approached Fighting Wolf’s war canoe and reached out to grasp his arm. She whispered intimately to him in a low voice. Sarita glanced away, but not before she met the woman’s darkly speculative gaze. Through her lashes, Sarita watched as the woman reached up with both arms to hug Fighting Wolf.
Such a display lacked breeding, thought Sarita with distaste, turning away before she could see the war chief disengage the woman’s arms from around his neck.
Why should Sarita care if he already had a wife? She should have known he’d have other wives, she snorted to herself. Now that she knew what he was really like, she could see he deserved such a fawning, low-class woman as this one appeared to be. How very common, she sniffed to herself.
Shifting her gaze to encompass the village, she saw that it was much bigger than her home village. A wide, swiftly running river bordered one side.
The village itself was nestled in a lovely setting. Tall mountains rose in the distance and stood over the village as if they were alert sentinels. Had she been coming here under other circumstances, she might have learned to love such a beautiful spot, she thought wistfully. Then she hardened her heart. It would do no good to dwell on what might have been, she warned herself. She must now deal with reality, and the reality was that she was coming to this place as a slave. But not for long, she vowed to herself silently. This place—beautiful or not—would not hold her for long!
The entire Ahousat village turned out to witness the return of the warriors. Many did not realize their war chief had been raiding until victory chants rang in the still morning air. Most of the crowd remained on shore, leaving only the more zealous to paddle out and greet the raiders.
The group amassed onshore numbered about two thousand souls, of which one-quarter were slaves. The nobility owned the slaves. Of the slave population, one hundred and fifty-three belonged to Fighting Wolf. Most he had won in raids and warfare, some he’d purchased in trading. A large part of his wealth was measured in these slaves, and by Ahousat standards he was a very successful man. He had several excellent canoe makers, and some slaves who were soldiers. They accompanied him on raids and added greatly to his prowess in war. The remainder hunted, fished, or picked berries for him—doing whatever was necessary at any given season. Their surplus labor added to his wealth.
Management of this small army of captives fell to Fishtrap, and his wife Periwinkle. Fishtrap, a commoner, was a distant relative of Fighting Wolf’s, and lived permanently under the war chief’s roof. A middle-aged man, he had lost an eye years ago and despaired of ever being able to make a decent living for his family. What had begun as a charitable gesture on Fighting Wolf’s part had turned into a very satisfactory arrangement for both when it was discovered that Fishtrap was a natural organizer. He was able to deal fairly with the people around him and to assign tasks to the slaves in a manner that brought out the best in each one. Fishtrap’s thoughtful management, combined with his wife’s firm authority, made Fighting Wolf’s household of slaves run very smoothly indeed. Also, Fishtrap’s loyalty to Fighting Wolf was unquestioned, a fact the war chief appreciated as he was often away for long periods of time on warring raids or whale hunts.
Fighting Wolf’s slaves resided in his longhouse, a circumstance usual in Nootka villages. A few villages had separate quarters for slaves, but Ahousat was not such a one.
The slaves lived midway along both sides of the house. Rather crowded conditions existed, but by slave standards th
ey were well-treated with good food to eat, and adequate clothing. Some were even married or cohabiting, but most were single men or mothers with small children. Such were the conditions the unsuspecting Sarita could expect to live in.
As the returning war party approached the beach in front of Ahousat village, the volume of the chanting increased. The warriors enthusiastically sang their victory songs as they neared the beach, allowing the incoming waves to push them to shore. Sarita, sitting in the middle of the war canoe, watched the large crowd warily.
Her first view of the villagers showed little different from her own people. Surveying the crowd, she noted hair coloring ranging from dark blond to midnight black. Everyone wore cedar kutsacks, as did her own people. Some of the men were naked, again typical of the men in her own town.
A sudden lurch of the canoe as it scrunched into the gravel threw her off balance. A strong hand on her shoulder steadied her. She looked up to see Fighting Wolf looming over her. Before she could push his hand away, he had removed it and was jumping out of the canoe.
He reached into the canoe and grabbed a bloody head in each hand. Dangling them by the hair, he held them up to the gathered crowd. People pressed around him, anxious to see and touch the trophies. Several of his men followed his example, cockily displaying the grisly prizes. Singing their triumph, they told the eager crowd of the victorious revenge over the low, sneaky Hesquiats.
Listening to the chanted story of the raid and betrayal, Sarita was not surprised to hear her father and brother maligned. They were described as horrible villains to the listeners.
At last, after the story had been told and retold, with several embellishments and outright lies in her opinion, the crowd began to get restive. Realizing they would lose their audience if they didn’t do something else entertaining, the warriors began to prod the captive women from the canoes. The women had been sitting, huddled into small, tight balls so as to draw as little attention to themselves as possible. Sarita could hear their moans and cries of fear as they were pushed and herded onto the beach. Surprisingly, no one approached her, so she continued to sit, watching and waiting nervously.
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