Savage Surrender

by Colleen French

  Still, the hours of hard, unfamiliar labor had given Rachael time to think. Her relative freedom to move about the camp had given her a chance to keep track of the number of sentries and the pattern of their rounds at night, the best time she thought for her and Gifford to make their escape.

  The thought of Gifford made her lift her head and stare out across the camp from where she kneeled cutting up squash for the evening meal. Gifford wasn't doing well. He refused to eat what was offered. He drank only because after dark when Rachael was returned to the place where the captives were tied, she insisted.

  Pretty Woman came out of the longhouse with a metal pot and several wooden utensils in a wide woven basket and dropped them in front of Rachael. "Wash."

  "I'm cutting the squash you told me—"

  "Wash now," the Mohawk insisted.

  Slowly Rachael rose. Thank goodness the day was nearly over, because she was ready to drop. "Wash, now," she mumbled. "Yes, I'll wash now."

  "You find way?" Pretty Woman asked, her lips pursed in annoyance.

  "Yes, yes, I can find my way to the river and back." Rachael tried to sound too tired to care, but inside her heart was pounding. For the first time, Pretty Woman was going to let her out of her sight! This might be a chance to get a better look at how the horses were hobbled.

  Pretty Woman caught Rachael's arm and forced her back around. "You no run."

  Rachael shook her head. "Run? Run where?"

  The woman stared malevolently. "You try to run, I kill."

  "I know, I know," Rachael muttered, too tired to care if Pretty Woman slapped her for insolence. "You'll kill me and eat me, that or feed me to the dogs."

  Pretty Woman scowled but released her. "Come back fast."

  With a nod of understanding, Rachael headed down the neat row of longhouses and toward the river. Passing through the briar wall she had entered through the first night in the village, Rachael followed a narrow path toward the small river which she understood joined farther upstream with the St. Lawrence. She passed one of Broken Horn's lesser wives on the way and obediently lowered her gaze. It had taken her several days to realize that the women of Broken Horn's longhouse were slapping her for making eye contact with them.

  Reaching the river, Rachael took her basket of dirty cooking utensils and walked down the slick bank to a favorite rock. There was no one to be seen save for three teenage boys fishing a quarter of a mile down the river. Good, she thought. A little time to myself. Rachael hadn't realized how much she had once enjoyed her private time until it had been taken away. Now it seemed as if prying eyes were always upon her. People were always watching her, waiting for her to do or say something wrong. Even Gifford.

  Squatting on the rock as she had seen the other women do, Rachael pulled out a dirty stirring spoon and began to rinse it. The clear, cool water felt so good on her hands that she wished she could dive right in. She was so hot and sticky that her skin felt grimy. With the few moments of time that Pretty Woman gave her to get ready in the morning, she barely had time to wash her face and run her fingers through her hopelessly gnarled hair before the woman was commanding her to get to work.

  As Rachael raised the clean spoon from the water, she splashed herself. The water felt so wonderful against her heat-prickled skin that she cupped a handful and poured it down the front of her dress. With a giggle, she reached for another handful, splashing it on her face, then her arms, then her bare legs. Before Rachael realized what she was doing, she had slipped off the rock and was standing in the waist-deep water, laughing and splashing.

  She didn't know what made her look up, but suddenly he was there, standing on the opposite bank, smiling . . . smiling at her. She froze, her blue-eyed gaze meeting his.

  Storm Dancer didn't know what had made him follow his brother's white slave down to the river. Storm Dancer was not generally a man of impulses, nor a man to seek out the company of others. He was a loner who enjoyed the solace of his days. He didn't know what he had come looking for either, but his reward had been great. He was amazed by this woman called Rachael, who had splashed in the water with such carefree abandon, for despite the overwhelming odds against her, she had somehow managed to find a bit of light in the darkness of her desperation. Despite the fact that she was a prisoner held in a strange land by strange people, she had found the barest moment in time to pluck a bloom from the thorns of her fate.

  By the Gods, but she was beautiful, even with her pale white man's skin. Her face was the most perfect shape, and her hair, all dripping wet was like a dark curtain of satin silk. His gaze met hers and for a moment she held him spellbound. Though he'd seen blue eyes before at the St. Regis Mission where the Jesuit priests had taught him of their language and their God, Storm Dancer still wondered how anyone could see out of sky-eyes. Brown was the proper color for eyes, everyone knew that.

  Rachael crossed her hands around her waist as if to protect herself, yet she made no move to back away. There was something about this man that drew her to him, that made her think terrible, lustful thoughts.

  Storm Dancer walked slowly down the bank and into the water and still Rachael didn't move. He cupped the water with his hands and splashed it over his broad bronze chest, his muscles rippling with each movement. He watched her watch him. "The mother river is cool today," he said in lilting English.

  She tried to ignore the way the water ran in rivulets down one of his sinewy arms. "Yes," she answered, not knowing what else to say.

  He took a step forward; she took one back. He offered her his hand. "I would not hurt you."

  "Would . . . Would you help me escape?" she dared.

  Storm Dancer smiled. Bold she was, and clever. She could look at the enemy, see his weak spot, and strike for it. "Would that I could, but I cannot. You belong to Broken Horn. I cannot interfere. It is the law of the People."

  She lowered her head, confused by the tears that suddenly clouded her eyes. "I understand." She tried to hide the hurt in her voice. What had made her think the savage would help her? What had made her for that instant feel as if her life depended on him, the enemy?

  "You don't," he said softly, losing himself in the depths of her sky-eyes, "but I wish that I could make you understand. I wish that I could take you in my arms and carry you from this place. I wish that I could hold you, love you, make love to you on a bed of moss." Storm Dancer didn't know what had made him say such a foolish thing, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  Rachael watched a stick float by her, Storm Dancer's words echoing in her head. I wish that I could hold you, love you, make love to you on a bed of moss, he had said. Rachael waited for the feelings of shock, of resentment, of utter disbelief, yet they didn't come. If an Englishman had said such a thing to her she'd have slapped him flat across the face for the insult, yet from this savage, she felt no affront. His words made her flush with . . . with what she didn't know.

  Rachael turned and began to walk back up the bank where she climbed up on the rock. He followed.

  "I have to go," she said more for her own benefit than his. "Pretty Woman will be angry. I've been here too long." She began to quickly wash the other utensils in the basket, water still streaming from her wet hair.

  Storm Dancer came up the bank toward her. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn't know how. He looked away, fighting his anger. He was angry with his brother for doing this to this beautiful woman, but he was even angrier with himself for being unable to help her. If he helped the slave escape, the other captives would be tortured and killed. Storm Dancer would be brought before the council for disobeying the laws of the People. He would be punished, perhaps even cast out, and then how could he be here to help his people?

  "Another time, another place . . . "

  His voice was a whisper on the wind to her ears. She looked up. "Another time, another place, what?"

  "Another time, another place and I—"

  The shouts of men and the barking of dogs interrupted h
im. Suddenly the camp sounded alive with excitement. There was laughter and the sound male voices . . . French voices.

  Rachael looked up at Storm Dancer. "The French, they've come to buy us, haven't they?"

  Storm Dancer turned away so that the woman would not see his face. "Kahiila," he murmured in his mother's native tongue. "Yes, little one, they have come for you."

  Chapter Five

  From the shadows of the doorway of Broken Horn's longhouse, Rachael watched the Mohawks. The pounding of the ominous hollow drums were wearing her nerves raw. Though it was long past the time that the village normally retired for the night, the adults had gathered at the community campfire and were caught up in some sort of welcoming celebration that was growing more frenzied by the hour. Intoxicated by French whiskey, the villagers seemed to be losing control by the hour. Men were fighting hand to hand, rolling in the dirt. Shots were fired continually as braves handled French weapons. Only an hour earlier, a brave with patchy skin had been accidently shot in the stomach and now suffered, moaning in a nearby lodge.

  The Frenchman, Rouville, who had come into the camp earlier in the evening, seemed to be responsible for the festivities. He was an officer with the French army, but Rachael suspected he had broken off from the legalities of his government. Surely France didn't allow its soldiers to participate in the buying and selling of human beings!

  By the time Rachael had finished washing Pretty Woman's cooking utensils and had returned to the longhouse, the Frenchman was deep in conversation with Broken Horn. Rouville was a tall, wiry man with a thinning hairline and a pointed red beard. He wore a uniform, stiffly starched and adorned with metals of valor that glistened in the firelight. He and Broken Horn had passed a bottle of whiskey back and forth as they spoke.

  Pretty Woman had ordered Rachael to serve Rouville's men, who waited outside, but Broken Horn had intervened. "No, Wife," he'd said with a wave of his hand. "Leave the English-equiwa to serve my guest. You care for the soldiers."

  Pretty Woman had lashed out rapidly in Iroquois, but Broken Horn had ignored her, making some comment in French about a woman's anatomy to Rouville, and waved her away. Rachael had then been forced to bring Broken Horn and the Frenchmen plates of rich venison stew and corn bread sweetened with clover honey.

  She had served the men quickly and then retreated to the far end of the longhouse. She had no sooner stepped back when Rouville had made an offer to buy her. Rachael's mind had spun in anger as she had listened to the two men argue in French as if they were talking about a horse! She'd also heard them refer to Gifford, then laugh, but she hadn't been able to hear them clearly enough to know what it was they intended to do with him.

  With the coming of darkness the drums had begun to sound. Pretty Woman came into the longhouse and ushered her husband and his guest outside, ordering Rachael to remain and clean up after the meal. The woman had tucked her infant daughter into bed and then gone out to join the other Mohawks who were gathering in front of the community longhouse.

  Once the leftover food was stored and the wooden trenchers, utensils, and pots were rinsed, Rachael sat down to wait for Pretty Woman to return for her. But the music had become more erratic, the laughter louder. White soldiers and Mohawk men and women alike became drunker as they passed the whiskey flasks provided by the French around and around.

  Rachael hung in the doorway of the longhouse watching the Mohawks dance and sing. It had been at least two hours since Pretty Woman had left her to finish her duties in the longhouse. She's forgotten me! Rachael thought. A ripple of excitement coursed through her. This could be it, she realized. This could be our chance to escape! Her first instinct was to run to where the captives were taken and untie Gifford—and Dory, too, if she was willing to go along. But Rachael knew she needed a definite plan; she also surmised that if her captors were drunk now, they'd be drunker later. She didn't want to take any unnecessary chances. When they escaped, they would have only one chance. If the Mohawks caught them, they would all be tortured and killed.

  From the doorway of the longhouse, Rachael watched the savages. No one took any notice of her as she stepped outside into the moonlight. Rouville was seated beside Broken Horn, laughing, as a drunken Pretty Woman thrust her fleshy, sagging breasts into the Frenchman's face.

  Taking care not to draw any attention to herself, Rachael crossed the compound to where Gifford, Dory, and the others were tied. Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground at her pole and tucked her hands behind her back. Let them think I'm tied up, she thought as she turned to get a better view of the camp. She had to count on Pretty Woman being too drunk to remember whether or not she'd retied her captive. As for the other Mohawks, they would just assume she'd been tied up for the night.

  "Good God, Rachael, what are you doing?" Gifford's voice came through the darkness.

  "Shhh," she answered. "Pretend you're asleep."

  "Rachael, you're loose. Come untie me! Quickly!"

  "Not yet," she whispered as she glanced into the light the huge community fire cast. Men were dancing around and around the flaming tower they'd built, wearing hideous wooden masks painted with leering faces and jester grins. The men sang as they danced intricate patterns into the powdery dirt with their moccasins. The French soldiers and Indian women sat in an outer circle clapping and hollering. Flask after flask of whiskey was still being passed. Several soldiers had cornered women and were fondling them roughly. No one seemed to notice the soldiers' behavior, or at least care.

  "Let's wait a little longer," Rachael told Gifford. "If they're drunk now, they'll be drunker in an hour. We'll have a better chance of getting away."

  "Rachael! Have you lost your senses? Untie me this moment!"

  Rachael looked up through the darkness at Gifford, hurt by the tone in his voice. She considered untying him, but he wasn't thinking clearly! If she let him go now, he might jeopardize their successful escape.

  "Rachael!"

  "Just a little longer, Gifford, and then I'll come. I'll untie you and I'll get the horse and we can ride right out from under their noses."

  "No . . . " he whispered, then paused. "No . . . I'll get the horse. You'd better sit back down like you're still tied just in case someone comes this way."

  "Gifford, I—" Rachael clamped her mouth shut. Someone was coming toward them—a soldier and a brave. The two men were laughing. Rachael closed her eyes, holding her breath as the men passed her and walked out of her line of vision.

  Suddenly there was a scream. One of the other women captives. "No! No, let me go!" she cried. "Please leave me alone!"

  Rachael's lower lip trembled. A moment later the men passed her again, this time half carrying, half dragging the captive in the yellow dress. Anna, Dory had said her name was. She'd been kidnapped from a farm in the New Jersey Colony.

  A sob rose in Rachael's throat as she watched the men drag poor Anna through the camp, the girl screaming and begging.

  "Just look away," Dory whispered, her fingers finding Rachael's. "Just look away, Rachael-honey. Ain't nothin' can be done for that girl now."

  "The . . . the soldiers, they bought her r . . . right? They . . . they're just taking her with them, r . . . right, Dory?"

  "I'm 'fraid not. Looks to me like she's a samplin'. They like her, they'll be willin' to buy the rest of us. I wouldn't expect that poor child to live through the night."

  The men and Anna disappeared into the darkness, her sobs drowned out by the beating of drums and the sound of the Mohawks singing. Too frightened to move, Rachael sat in silence, her head against the post as she ignored Gifford's frantic calls. Then, suddenly she heard the girl one last time. A terrifying shriek pierced the night air. It was a sound of pure terror, a sound of defeat. One scream, and then silence . . .

  "All right," Rachael hissed. "All right, Gifford. Let's go."

  Dory caught Rachael's fingers in her own steady grip. "Don't be a fool, Rachael-honey. You'll not make it a mile. You want them filthy animals to do to yo
u what they done to poor little Anna?"

  "They're going to do it anyway! I can't just sit here and wait for them to come for me—for Gifford. I have to try." She pried her fingers from Dory's grasp. "You come with us."

  Dory chuckled. "As wide as my ass is, Rachael-honey, you expect me to get on that Indian pony with you and Fancy Breeches? The nag wouldn't make it from here to Broken Horn's longhouse!"

  "You could take your own horse!" Rachael fell onto her hands and knees watching the Mohawks closely. God knew she wanted Dory to go with them, but even without her friend she knew she had to go. She knew she had to try to get away before it was too late.

  "Hurry, Rachael!" Gifford urged.

  Watching the frenzied Mohawk dancers and keeping her eye out for Pretty Woman, Rachael crawled the distance between her and Gifford and knelt, reaching around him with both hands.

  The smell of urine on Gifford was strong. She wrinkled her nose as she fumbled for the leather bindings that held him to the pole.

  "Ah, Rachael, love, it's so good to feel you so near again," Gifford crooned, burying his face in her clean hair. "You smell so sweet."

  "You smell bad." Rachael knew it wasn't his fault, but she just hadn't been able to hold her tongue.

  "Just wait till I've been bathed properly. Just wait until I'm clothed again properly. I'll be as good as new." He brushed his mouth against the peak of her breast.

  "Gifford!" The knot came loose in her hands and she jerked back. "There." Self-consciously she brushed her hand over her leather dress. There was a wet spot where Gifford had touched her with his mouth. Her stomach rolled in disgust. "Let's go."

  "No. You stay here. I'm in charge now!" He wobbled to his feet. "You go back to Dory and wait until I give you the signal. Once I've freed the horse and mounted, then and only then do you come."

  Her eyes met his and for the hundredth time she wondered what she had ever seen in the Viscount Gifford Langston. "All right," she conceded. "But hurry. They might be coming back any moment."