Savage Surrender

by Colleen French

  His brother spat on the hearth. "You see nothing but what you want to see." He slapped his bare chest. "You forget, I, too, am the son of a shaman, and I see victory, I see the English-manake blood run red over this land until they are no more."

  Storm Dancer shook his head venomously. "False dreams, false hopes. You listen too much to the Senecas across the river. The French are not with us. We are but instruments in their fight with the English. We can be sacrificed."

  Broken Horn slipped his blade from his belt. "Any man who crosses me will die painfully."

  Storm Dancer looked away. He knew this was a useless conversation. How many times had he had it in the last year with his brother? And always the same conclusion. Broken Horn hated the English and was not only willing to die, but to sacrifice his entire nation to drive the white men off. Storm Dancer couldn't convince him that it was useless battle. Though he'd been to the cities and seen the expansion, he still believed the Iroquois could beat the English. He didn't realize that sheer numbers made such a feat impossible.

  Storm Dancer stood. "I ask you again to release the prisoners. All of them. They are innocents."

  "They are white," Broken Horn reached for a flask of whiskey from a basket on the floor and popped the cork, "so they are guilty."

  "I will go to the council."

  "So go. You know what they will say. They will say Storm Dancer, son of a shaman, is a coward. They will say he is not man enough to do what must be done to defend his people. They will say he is not fit to be a Mohawk with a stomach so weak."

  "It is wrong to kidnap, to torture, to kill, to sell human beings."

  "They are not human beings," Broken Horn shrugged as he took a deep sip from the bottle and then grinned, "so no wrong has been committed."

  "This is not the end of it, Brother. I have sat by long enough and watched you lead our people astray."

  Broken Horn gave a wave of his hand. "You call me brother, but you forget, we are only half-brothers. Your mother, She-Who-Weeps is Lenni Lenape." He chuckled. "So that makes you only half-human, half-brother."

  Without another word, Storm Dancer ducked out of the longhouse and into the night air. He stood for a moment in the shadows of the structure, his hands clenched at his sides as he tried to control his anger. What was he going to do? How was he going to convince his people that Broken Horn was wrong? How could he make them see the annihilation of his people he saw in his dreams? How could he make them understand that if they did not cease this warring and try to live beside the white men, that they would all die?

  A soft, feminine sigh caught Storm Dancer's attention and he turned toward the place where the captives were kept. He could see the young woman who had just been brought in. She was tied to a pole, slumped over in restless sleep. Her head rolled to and fro as she murmured something.

  Storm Dancer knew he should not go to her. He should not look at her or speak to her. She would die or be carried off like the rest and he was powerless to stop it. He himself walked too narrow a line between life and death among the Mohawks to dare try to save even one life.

  But something drew him toward her, perhaps the fine line bones of her face or the soft sweep of hair that fell over her shoulders. As he drew closer he could hear her. Water. She was asking for water. It had probably been hours since she last drank and Pretty Woman certainly would not have bothered to give prisoners food or water.

  Storm Dancer made a sharp turn and went to his own lodge. A moment later he came out carrying a gourd of cool water. Without bothering to look to see if anyone else watched him, he went to the woman captive and squatted. He touched her cheek gently and then lifted the gourd to her lips.

  Rachael's eyes fluttered. Water . . . she was so thirsty. Half asleep, she didn't know where it came from or even if she was dreaming. She didn't care. Perhaps if she dreamed her thirst was quenched, she would sleep better.

  Taking several gulps, Rachael breathed deeply. Someone was there. She forced her eyes open and was met by the same compassionate gaze that had followed her across the compound earlier in the evening.

  "Thank you," she whispered, offering the barest smile.

  "More?" the red man asked in strange, lilting English.

  Rachael's smile broadened. Her angel of mercy was a handsome man with high cheekbones and sensuous lips. His skin, it was a most perfect shade of red, like new-turned soil. He smelled of pine and the forest just after dusk. He seemed so gentle.

  "No more," she whispered, "but Gifford, please." Her eyelids fell as she struggled to remain conscious.

  "Gif-ford?"

  She lifted a hand, pointing toward the man she had intended on marrying. "Please, give him the rest."

  On impulse, Storm Dancer tenderly brushed her cheek with his fingertips. The thought occurred to him that he could cut this white woman free and carry her off. He could save them from the tragedy that he knew lay ahead for them both. But his duty kept him here. His love for his mother, his responsibility to the children of the village held him back. He knew he had to stay and try to save his people.

  Storm Dancer rose and walked toward the other captive with the gourd of water still in his trembling hand.

  Chapter Three

  Rachael woke slowly to the unfamiliar morning sounds of the Mohawk camp. Voices filled the air as women and children went about their first-light chores. Firepits crackled and men murmured greetings to one another as they gathered outside their lodges to break the fast.

  Even before Rachael opened her eyes she could feel the May sun shining down on her. Its bright light invaded her thoughts, casting swirls of patterns inside her eyelids. Already her head ached. Slowly lifting her lashes, Rachael took in the sights that surrounded her.

  By the light of day she could see that the Indian camp was large, with perhaps twenty longhouses arranged in three rows. Several small lodges stood at the ends of the rows. There were redskinned Mohawks everywhere. Children ran across the compound carrying bark buckets of water while half-naked women hurried about tending to meals at their individual family fires.

  Men with heads shaved save for long scalp locks sat cross-legged, some busying themselves, others idle, while they waited for sweetened mush and the bread Rachael could smell cooking.

  Her gaze strayed closer. A few feet away Gifford lay sleeping, his head awkwardly propped against the wooden post he was confined to. She couldn't see the woman tied behind her, but there were several female captives: a blond-haired woman in a yellow shift; a young Indian girl, her naked body barely covered by a dirty pelt; a brunette with a bloodied head, part of her hair and scalp obviously missing. Rachael swallowed against the bile that rose in her throat. The captives looked half dead. She couldn't help wondering how long it would be before she looked like them . . . or worse.

  Rachael licked her dry lips, thinking how thirsty she was. An image flashed in her mind. A man, an Indian with haunting obsidian eyes. Had he really come to her last night, or had she imagined it all?

  Rachael squeezed her eyes shut. She had dreamed so many strange things last night. She had been a bird soaring in the sky. A thunderstorm had come. She'd flown through the clouds looking down on the Indian village. She saw death everywhere and her heart had ached for her captors. She gave a grunt, opening her eyes again. How she could have felt anything for these people, even in a dream, she didn't know.

  "Rachael?"

  She immediately glanced across the space between her and Gifford. "Gifford?"

  "It's morning? They haven't killed us yet?" he said in disbelief.

  "Not yet," she murmured afraid to speak too loudly for fear she would draw one of her captor's attention.

  "Well thank God that heathen brought me water last night or I'd have never lived until morning."

  Rachael stared at Gifford. So she hadn't imagined him . . . . "Someone brought you water last night?"

  "At least one of these beasts had the good sense to realize that I'll be worth naught as ransom if I'm a dead man." H
e brushed his mouth against the tattered cloth at his shoulder. "You think we dare call to someone for food and water."

  Rachael chewed her lower lip thoughtfully as she glanced out at the Indian camp. She wanted to ask Gifford about the man who had brought him the water, but something made her keep silent. "I think we'd best keep quiet, Gifford."

  "Like hell! I'm thirsty and I need use of the privy." He looked toward the busy camp. "Excuse me! Say there, could someone come here. We've needs to be taken care of."

  A young boy passing with a bucket of water picked up a stick and hurled it at Gifford, striking the post he was tied to just above his head. There was an echo of laughter as Gifford cringed.

  "You'd best tell that boy to hush 'is tater-trap else we'll all be in the stew pot . . .," a voice said softly from behind Rachael.

  A moment of silence hung in the air. "What did you say?" Rachael whispered.

  "You heard me. I said hush 'im up before they make us all into supper. They do that you know. Eat people."

  A shiver of fear crept up Rachael's spine. "My name's Rachael, Rachael Moreover. Who are you?"

  "The name's Dory. My mam named me Doreen but I decided it just wasn't a name fittin' for a slattern like myself so it's just Dory."

  Two weeks ago Rachael would have been shocked by such talk. But she was so anxious for human contact that she didn't care who Dory was. This woman obviously knew something of these redskins; perhaps she could be of some help. "I'm glad to meet you, Dory. Across the way is . . . is my fiancé, Gifford Langston."

  "Langston, eh, well you'd best tell your fancy man that if he doesn't keep quiet them Mohawks'll cut off his possibles and roast 'em on a spit. These is bad ones, this bunch. That Broken Horn bastard, he's got everyone all stirred up. Got the Injuns riled for a hundred miles. See, the way I understand most of the Mohawks goes with the English, but them Senecas across the St. Lawrence River, they's with the Frenchies. Broken Horn's somehow convinced the whole village to go that a way. The fool," Rachael heard her hock and spit on the dusty ground, "thinks he and the Frenchies are gonna wipe out every Englishman in the northern colonies."

  "How . . . how long have you been a captive?"

  "Of this bunch, or the last?"

  "Broken Horn didn't kidnap you?"

  "Won me on the dice. It was a gaggle of Senecas that done stole me nigh on a year ago. They weren't bad. Didn't beat on me too hard and they were a hell of a lot kinder than old Jesop I was bonded to."

  "You were a bond woman?" Rachael urged with morbid fascination. Dory's will to live was obviously strong and Rachael admired her for it.

  "Was sold in London three years ago for stealin' to feed my dyin' babe. Instead of hangin' me or throwin' me into Newgate to rot, I was sold into indenture for seven years. Old Jesop bought me in Connecticut. I hated the winters and his stinkin' fish hands all over me every night, bleedin' or not. Didn't care for his wife much, I suppose . . . " She chuckled. "So when the Senecas stole me, I figured I was movin' up in the world."

  "But then these other Indians lost you to Broken Horn?"

  "Sad tale, ain't it?"

  "So what now? What will Broken Horn do with us?"

  "Women he sells to the Frenchies for muskets and sech."

  Rachael hesitated for a moment before lowering her voice to be certain Gifford didn't hear her. "And men?"

  "Be tortured and killed most likely." Her voice was matter-of-fact.

  Rachael leaned back against her post, closing her eyes. Damnation! This was all her fault. She had told Gifford they would be better off to come peacefully with Broken Horn. Now what was she going to do . . . what were they going to do? She couldn't let Gifford die at the hands of the heinous creatures!

  When Rachael didn't speak again, Dory twisted her hands until she could touch Rachael's bare arm. "Rachael-honey."

  Rachael took a deep breath. This wasn't a time to feel sorry for herself. If they were going to get out of here alive she had to be able to think with a clear head. She smiled. The woman Dory's touch was comforting.

  "That were mean of me to spit it right out. But it's the plain truth. These Mohawks are a foul pod a peas. A week ago I seen 'em kill a man and eat his flesh right off the bone."

  "We have to escape then."

  "Ain't no escapin', 'cept by dyin'."

  "I don't believe that. Not for a minute. My brother, Thomas, he's coming for us. I know he is. I just have to hang on. Thomas will rescue me and Gifford and you too, Dory."

  "You're a lady, ain't you? Money? Papa titled?"

  "He's an earl of little importance. Why?" she asked, not seeing the point to Dory's questioning.

  "You just sound like a person who's always got what she wanted. Believe in fairy tales I'd guess."

  "I believe in the Father Almighty and His protection," she said firmly.

  "So where was His protection when Broken Horn was thievin' you? Use your head, girl. You got no one to protect you; you got nothin' but your wits."

  "God hasn't and will not abandon me—"

  "Shht!" Dory interrupted. "Here comes that harelipped bitch. She's a mean one. The Mohawks call her Pretty Woman on account she's so ugly. First wife to Broken Horn. He's got four, you know. Don't cross 'er. She'd cut out your tongue soon as look at you."

  Rachael's gaze went to Gifford. She shook her head ever so slightly in warning. She knew he intended to confront the Mohawk. She could see the arrogant glimmer in his eyes.

  Gifford ignored her warning. "About time someone came," he said haughtily. "My fiancée and I, we need water, food, and time to get up and stretch our legs. We're not beasts to be tied to a tree!"

  "Water?" Pretty Woman approached Gifford with a bark bucket hung on one arm and a gourd ladle in her hand. "Here water." She dipped a generous portion and threw it in Gifford's face.

  Rachael gasped.

  Pretty Woman turned to Rachael. "You water?" she asked, grinning.

  Rachael lowered her gaze. "Please," she said, trying to sound meek. She knew when to challenge and when to keep silent. Years in the home of her strong-willed father taught her that much.

  Begrudgingly, Pretty Woman dipped another portion of water and raised it to Rachael's lips.

  Rachael drank greedily, not knowing when she would drink again. When Pretty Woman pulled away, Rachael wiped her mouth on the tattered sleeve of her gown and stretching her neck she was able to dampen her face with the cool wet cloth. She listened to Dory drinking thirstily. Then Pretty Woman moved on.

  "She's in charge of the captives," Dory whispered when the Mohawk woman walked away. "You want anything, it has to come from her."

  "There . . . " Rachael chose her words carefully. "There was a man who came last night. Black eyes," she said quietly.

  "Black eyes! You're talkin' about every redskin in the colonies, Rachael honey."

  "I would know him if I saw him again. He brought me water in the middle of the night. He . . . he was kind to me."

  "Must have been dreamin'," Dory scoffed. "Ain't no kindness in this village. White-haters they are. All Indians hate us, I guess, but these people, they got a grudge. Seems there was a raid a few years back when the men were out hunting. Everyone slaughtered. Women and children. Even the dogs and horses."

  "No. No, I wasn't dreaming. He came to me. He took water to Gifford too. Gifford said so."

  "Strange thing. I been here two maybe three months and no redskinned angel of mercy came my way."

  An image of the savage who had brought her the water flashed in the back of Rachael's mind. Then, as if she had conjured him from her own imagination, she spotted him, walking across the compound.

  Her breath caught in her throat. It was the color of his skin that fascinated her. And his hair . . . Unlike most of the men who had those inhuman-looking scalp locks, he wore his like a woman in a thick blue-black blanket down his back. He was the most provocatively masculine man she had ever laid eyes on.

  As if sensing her attention, the Indian turned.
His bare bronze chest was broad and planed with muscles, his arms and shoulders corded with strength. Against all reason, Rachael's gaze strayed to the small loincloth that barely covered his groin. She swallowed hard, both frightened and fascinated at the same time by the man's obvious virility. Slowly she lifted her lashes until their gazes met. For the briefest moment she sensed compassion in his face . . . interest, perhaps even lust. A warmth in the pit of her stomach began to radiate outward. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lower lip.

  The Mohawk frowned and suddenly walked away.

  Rachael's face reddened in shame. What was wrong with her! These people had captured her and now held her prisoner! That man was a godforsaken heathen! A savage! How could she allow her thoughts, her body to betray her like this?

  Against her will, she glanced back to the place where he had stood only a moment before, wishing he was still there.

  "All of this work and no servant, Husband. It is not fair," Pretty Woman complained in her native tongue as she knelt before her husband and began to remove his moccasins. The longhouse was empty save for Pretty Woman and Broken Horn and their baby daughter who lay sleeping on a pile of furs against the back wall. "You have given that second wife Gull with the crippled wing a servant, why not me?"

  Broken Horn watched his wife as she tugged off his moccasin and rubbed his foot between her palms. "Gull deserves servants; she takes good care of them. The last two I brought you both died unnaturally. I heard whispers that you drowned the little Shawnee girl, and that it was you, Wife, who fed the white woman the poison berries."

  Pretty Woman laughed as she ran her fingernail across the sole of his foot. "They had eyes for you and you them."

  Broken Horn's eyes narrowed. "Then you do not deny you had a hand in their deaths?"

  "Give me another servant to carry water and chew your hides," she lifted his foot, brushing it against her sagging breast, "and I will have more time to care for my husband as he should be cared for."

  He flexed his toes, pinching her brown nipple. "I could give you one of the captives . . . "