Savage Surrender

by Colleen French

  "Yes, yes." He turned to go and then turned back, grabbing Rachael by the bare arms and pulling her hard against him. Before she could protest, he pressed his lips to hers in a forceful, hurtful kiss.

  "Giff—" Rachael struggled against him, disgusted by his fetid smell and wet, cold lips. "Gifford!" she cried out, pushing him away. She wiped her mouth against the back of her hand, staring at him with stormy, accusing eyes. "Go on!" she muttered. "Hurry! We have to get out of here before anyone discovers we're loose!"

  "Right." Gifford brushed his fingertips against her chin and then turned and ran toward the place where the Mohawks kept their ponies and horses hobbled.

  Her heart pounding, her blood rushing with adrenalin, Rachael ran back to her post and squatted down, tucking her hands behind her back. "You certain you won't go with us, Dory?"

  "Think I'll keep my scalp a little longer."

  "You understand that I have to go? I have to get Gifford out of here."

  "You don't owe him nothin'."

  "Not after tonight I won't," she said resolutely. "Never again after tonight."

  A full minute ticked by and then another. Rachael shifted her weight from one foot to the other. For God's sake, where was Gifford? She stared into the darkness. She could hear the horses naying and moving their hooves on the hard ground, disturbed by something . . . disturbed by Gifford. But what was taking him so long?

  Rachael glanced uneasily in the direction of the Mohawks. One of the braves glanced toward the trees where the horses were kept. He'd heard something too. Another brave called to him and he laughed and turned away.

  Rachael heaved a sigh of relief. "Come on, Gifford, come on," she murmured. "Please hurry!"

  "Your last chance to stay, Rachael-honey," Dory said gently.

  "Your last chance to get away."

  "I'll take my chances with the Frenchies. I 'spect Broken Horn sold us all but Fancy Breeches."

  "I want to thank you for all you did for me," Rachael whispered.

  "I don't know what you're talkin about."

  Rachael came around the pole so that she could see Dory one last time. "Thank you for being my friend." She looked down. "I've never had any real friends before. Not someone who cared about me."

  Dory's blue-eyed gaze met Rachael's. "I hope that God of yours protects you."

  She lifted up on one knee and touched Dory's pockmarked face with her palm. "He will, Dory. I'm certain of it."

  A Mohawk howl jerked Rachael's attention. On her hands and knees, she crawled back to her post. Suddenly there were Mohawks running and screaming. Several had grabbed up spears and were hurrying toward the place where the horses were kept.

  Rachael hesitated for only a moment and then took off running. This was it. This was her chance. Either she got away now or she was dead.

  "Gifford!" Rachael screamed running toward the horses. "Gifford! They've seen us! Hurry, Gifford! I'm coming! I'm here!"

  Rachael came around a tree and spotted Gifford just lifting the reins over a roan mare's head. "Oh, thank God! Gifford," she cried still running toward him. "They're coming! We have to hurry!"

  He spun the horse around just as Rachael reached him. She raised her hands up. "Help me get on!"

  But instead of reaching out for her, he sunk his heels into the horse's sides and the frightened animal bolted.

  "Gifford!" Rachael screamed. "Wait! Wait for me!" She ran blindly through the woods after him, the briars and branches tearing at her hair and clothes.

  "The horse can't carry us both, Rachael, love. I'll come back for you," he called over his shoulder. "I swear it!"

  "Oh, God! Gifford. Don't leave me! They'll kill me!" She tripped on a root and went halfway down before she righted herself again. "Gifford!" she moaned, flailing her arms. "Don't leave me! I wouldn't leave you!"

  "I'll be back," he called as he disappeared into the darkness.

  A sob of terror escaped Rachael's throat. The Mohawks were coming. She could hear them. She could hear their dogs baying excitedly at the scent of her. She wanted to fall to the ground in utter defeat. Gifford had left her! The coward had left her behind!

  There was nothing left to do now but run. Run!

  Rachael dodged a tree and raced down a narrow deer trail she knew led down to the river. One of her slippers flew off her foot but she kept running. Perhaps they would shoot her. That wouldn't be such a bad way to die. It would be fast and relatively painless. Anything was better than being caught and tortured to death.

  Down the path to the water, Rachael flew with the Mohawks getting closer by the minute. There was laughter and howling as they gained on her. This was a game to them! An amusement! She had become the night's entertainment.

  Reaching the edge of the riverbank, Rachael threw herself in. The cold water revived her. She was terrified, but she still had the will to live. She didn't want to die, not here alone in the woods!

  Without looking back she waded toward the far side. She heard a splash and a shout as one brave leaped into the river. She had just reached the bank when he caught her by the hair on her head and swung her around.

  "Te a yonts ka hou o twe ah sa," the Mohawk hollered.

  Eat. Rachael recognized the word. Eat . . . he said he was going to eat her liver!

  With a scream of desperation, Rachael twisted in his grasp, ignoring the pain he caused as he pulled viciously at her hair, trying to lift her out of the water.

  The Mohawk wore a painted black and white face with a hideous tongue protruding from the mouth.

  "Let go! Let go of me before I eat your liver!" she screamed, clawing at the bank. Her hand touched the cold hard surface of a rock and she grabbed it as he raised her out of the water. She gripped the rock with both hands and, with a scream, brought it down as hard as she could over his head.

  The Mohawk fell back unconscious into the river taking Rachael with him. She went under, but came back up instantly. She spit and sputtered as she grabbed for the bank and began to pull herself up by the roots of grass that stuck out from the muddy slope.

  Just as her cheek touched solid ground, she saw Broken Horn. She didn't know how he'd gotten there or how much he'd seen. Slowly she lifted her head to stare into his lifeless black eyes.

  "You should not have tried to run," he said haltingly. "I am disappointed. You and I, English-equiwa, could have had a good life. We could have had many sons. Now you must die."

  "Gifford," she murmured, dropping her head to the ground. Die? She was going to die. The words really didn't sink in. She wondered if Gifford had escaped.

  "The coward is gone. But my men, they will find him and then he, too, will join you." Broken Horn reached down for Rachael and she lashed out at him, kicking, biting, and scratching. It took Broken Horn and Two Crows to subdue her.

  Finally, when there was no fight left in her, Rachael relaxed. Broken Horn had to pick her up and carry her back to the village thrown over his shoulder.

  When they entered the light of the roaring campfire, the Mohawks of the camp were waiting. They shouted at her, throwing sticks and stones. Two men bound her to a pole like a hog tied for slaughter.

  Pretty Woman approached her as the men sank the pole into the ground, uprighting Rachael. "I told you no run. I told you no touch my man." A smile crossed her misshapen mouth. "Now you pay price."

  With a nod, Pretty Woman stepped back and men began to pile branches around Rachael. Rachael watched for a moment through lowered eyelashes not understanding what they were doing. Her wet hair clung to her face distorting her vision. Her heart pounded so loudly that she could barely hear the Mohawks as they screeched and screamed in excitement.

  Then she saw it. A torch.

  The Mohawks were beginning to dance again, this time around her as the drums began to pound in an ominously slow, steady beat. Fire. They were going to burn her to death.

  Drums rolled as Broken Horn lowered the torch to set the brush on fire. Rouville stumbled forward, barely able to walk for hi
s drunkenness. "I'll still take her," he told Broken Horn, grabbing at his arm. "I'll still take the bitch, but not if she's charred."

  Broken Horn slapped Rouville hard, knocking him to his knees. "She disobeyed. The man got away. She dies!"

  Black clouds of thick, suffocating smoke rose and curled heavenward. The smell of the burning wood filled Rachael's nostrils. It was all happening so quickly. Her skin grew hot and prickly. She could smell her hair singeing as the flames licked closer. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She coughed, struggling for one final breath of cool night air.

  The smoke stung her eyes, but she opened them one last time. She wanted to see the man, the men and women who had done this to her. She forced her eyes open so that she could see them all clapping and laughing as they danced faster and faster around her, taking joy in her pain.

  In the midst of the terror, something drew Rachael's attention. A sound . . . a single bone flute. She struggled to see through the haze of smoke and the confusion in her mind. Then she saw him. Her savage. Though he had not been willing to save her from the other Mohawks, he had at least expressed his compassion. Though he had tried hard to make her think he was as they were, she sensed a difference. A bittersweet smile crept across her face. She was losing consciousness now. She could feel herself slipping. Storm Dancer had come to play her way into heaven.

  Chapter Six

  Storm Dancer pressed his lips against the bone flute, letting his eyes drift shut as the sweet resonant notes filled the night air. Rachael was dying. Rachael. That was the first time he'd allowed himself to think of her by name. Rachael . . . the wife of Jacob. He remembered the name from his teachings of the Bible back at the mission. His father had insisted that he and Broken Horn go to the Jesuit Mission so that they might learn the language of the English and their ways. Storm Dancer had brought those things back to the village with him, but tucked safely in his heart he had also brought their God.

  As Storm Dancer released a soft, haunting note, he suddenly realized that he could not let Rachael die. But if he snatched her from the flames at this moment, how could he protect her tomorrow, the next day? Broken Horn would never allow him to take her from the village to a white settlement. The law of the People would not allow it. The laws were the Mohawks' and Storm Dancer was a Mohawk, bound to those laws till death. Would it not be better, he wondered, to let her soul rise into the heavens so that she might be with her God?

  Storm Dancer glanced over the heads of the frenzied Mohawks. They were dancing and singing, celebrating Rachael's death and their power over her. His Rachael had been so brave. She had not cried out with fear when Broken Horn had lit the flames, nor had she begged to be spared. She was at this moment as fit for death as any warrior. Yet as Storm Dancer studied her ashen face, as he watched her struggle for her last breath, as the smoke suffocated her, he saw a vision. Amidst thick billows of smoke he saw a child. He heard his own laughter mingling with Rachael's.

  The power of God had spoken. Storm Dancer and Rachael were bound by destiny. He lowered the flute. The vision faded, the voices diminished until he wondered if he had heard them at all. He stared through the wall of flames that separated him and the white woman. Perhaps today was not the day she was to meet her God.

  Storm Dancer tucked his flute into his quilled vest and pushed forward through the circle of dancers. As he stepped through the curtain of flames, he heard shouts of protest. The drums slowed and became erratic. The smoke was so thick that Storm Dancer couldn't see his Rachael. He felt for her with his hands and when his fingertips touched the soft leather of her dress, he grunted with relief.

  Pulling the knife from his belt, Storm Dancer slit the leather ties that bound her feet and hands to the pole. Rachael slumped forward into his arms. Storm Dancer couldn't breathe. His eyes burned and his chest burned. He could feel the heat of hell on his bronze flesh.

  Lifting the unconscious Rachael into his arms, he emerged from the wall of flames and came face-to-face with the crowd of angry villagers.

  "You have no right to take this slave," Broken Horn shouted coming toward Storm Dancer. "She tried to escape; the man got away. She must be punished." Broken Horn pointed an accusing finger. "Return her to the fire of her death."

  Storm Dancer looked down at Rachael. Her face was pale save for the smudges of black soot across her cheeks. Her wet hair, streaked with ashes, clung to her shoulders in thick lumps. Her wet doeskin dress clung to her breasts, her nipples evident through the well-tanned leather. He raised his head to meet his brother's hostile gaze. "I have the right to take this woman as wife because I no longer have a wife to cook and clean for me, is that not true?" Storm Dancer spoke in softly accented Iroquois, but his voice was razor-edged.

  "Not this woman!" Broken Horn bellowed in English. "You may not have this woman! This one must die."

  "I have the right," Storm Dancer insisted evenly. He lifted his gaze to meet his fellow villagers'. "Is that not right, my friends? To take this woman to replace She-Who-Is-Gone?"

  For a moment no one spoke. Storm Dancer wondered if tonight was the night his own people would turn on him. They had threatened to do so before. Would tonight be the night he would have to raise a weapon against his own blood? His beliefs were so different from theirs in so many ways that it sometimes seemed as if he could no longer be a part of the tribe he had been born into, and that thought pained him greatly. Again and again he and his fellow Mohawks had clashed head against head. Again and again he had petitioned the council for one reason or another trying to make his thoughts understood. But his father, Two Fists, the shaman, and the old chief, Meadowlark, had allowed Broken Horn to take too much power. They had allowed his hatred for the white men to become their hatred. It had always been held against Storm Dancer that he was half Delaware on his mother's side. The Mohawks said the Lenni Lenape blood weakened his spine. The Delawares were not fighters; they were reasoners. It was that reasoning, that attempt to end the strife between the red man and the white man with words, that the Mohawks and his half-brother despised in Storm Dancer.

  Storm Dancer's gaze went from one villager to the next. Angry black eyes watched him, their hatred evident on their whiskey-flushed cheeks. Would not one man or woman agree that it was indeed law that he could take a slave as wife?

  "This man speaks the truth," came a voice from the crowd.

  Storm Dancer's eyes sparkled though he did not smile . . . His mother . . . She-Who-Weeps, he should have known she would speak up, even if none other would.

  "This man speaks the truth of the law," She-Who-Weeps repeated, coming through the crowd. Despite her years, she was still a beauty to behold with her petite frame and thick dark hair peppered with white. "For shame! Your English fire drink makes you forget who you are. We have our laws." she went on in Iroquois. "You cannot change them on whim. You cannot change them because it does not suit you this night. If you do not like this law, you take it to council and you change it, but this man," she raised a hand toward her only son, "has a right to take the slave as wife and even if you vote tomorrow to change the law, you know she will still be his wife."

  "She's right," mumbled Two Crows standing next to her.

  "She-Who-Weeps tells the truth," Gull admitted begrudgingly. "Storm Dancer has a right to take the slave as wife."

  "No!" Broken Horn insisted, turning to the crowd. "The English woman was mine, mine to do with as I wished."

  "You did not marry her," Storm Dancer said, "so she is free to marry me."

  Broken Horn whipped around to face his brother. "She will not have you!" he scoffed. "She must agree. Is that not the law?" He crossed his arms over his bare chest in triumph. "She hates us. She hates you for your red skin, half-brother, just as she hated me. I offered to marry her but she would not have me, just as she will not have you."

  "I will take the white woman," Rouville offered stepping forward. He took a swig from a flask. "I say sell her to me cheap and be done with her. No woman is worth a bro
ther's argument."

  Storm Dancer looked at Rouville, his violent distaste for the man obvious. "I would kill her myself before I would give her to you."

  "Enough, enough," Meadowlark, the chief, said from the rear. The villagers stepped back to make room for the old man. The feeble Meadowlark walked slowly under the weight of a buffalo hide cloak decorated with gold coins, his Englishman's cane thumping on the hard ground. "Storm Dancer is right," he said, lifting a wrinkled hand.

  "Sir," Broken Horn protested, "the slave was mine. She tried to escape and she allowed another slave to escape. My men, at this moment, search for him. She must be punished."

  Meadowlark shook his head. "She-Who-Weeps is right, the law is the law, my son. I cannot change what our great great grandsires wrote."

  "You are weak, old man!" Broken Horn spit.

  A sudden hush fell over the villagers. They all stared at Broken Horn, their jaws slack.

  There was a moment of utter silence and then Meadowlark turned away, ignoring Broken Horn's ghastly comment. Slowly he shuffled away.

  At that moment Storm Dancer felt a sorrow in his heart as he had never felt sorrow before. Meadowlark should not have allowed Broken Horn to speak to him in such a manner and live. With that comment, Meadowlark had lost what little power he had over the village. From this night forth until his death he would be naught but a figurehead.

  Storm Dancer considered coming to Meadowlark's defense. He considered challenging Broken Horn for the disrespect he had expressed for their chief. But then blood would flow . . . Broken Horn's blood, and Storm Dancer could not bring himself to kill his brother. Not yet.

  Raising the still unconscious Rachael closer to his chest, Storm Dancer broke through the crowd of villagers and strode toward his lodge on the edge of the village. He ducked inside and lowered Rachael gently to a hide mat spread on the packed dirt floor. Tenderly, he lifted her head and placed a soft pillow of goose down beneath it.

  From the bucket of clean water by the door he poured a portion into a bowl and retrieved a precious square of linen. Squatting beside Rachael, he bathed her face, washing away the soot, wishing he could wash away the pain so evident on her ashen face.