“All right now?” he whispered.
“I—I think so. I—I didn’t mean to be so—so weak and all. I hate women who cry, women who fall to pieces. I don’t usually—”
“I know, wench. You’re a tough, feisty hellcat, full of spunk and spirit. I kinda like you like this, though. Makes me feel strong and protective and manly. Makes me feel somethin’ else, too, but I reckon I’ll just have to forget about that for the time bein’.”
“You certainly will.”
“And I was plannin’ such a celebration. Damn these Indians.”
“They’ll soon go away, won’t they? They’ll—”
I cut myself short. Stealthy footsteps were moving outside the cave, and the bushes were rustling. I let out a gasp, and Jeff clamped a hand over my mouth, lightly but firmly. The footsteps stopped. There was a loud gobble, an answering gobble from across the way. In a minute or so there were more footsteps, and we could hear the Indians talking to each other, their voices low. Then they stopped talking and began to search through the shrubbery. Jeff reached out and clasped the pistol. My heart seemed to stop beating. The footsteps were so close, the branches right outside the opening moving with crisp, rustling noises. There was a moment of agonizing suspense, and then a shrill, excited cry shrieked in the distance. The shrubbery rattled noisily as the Indians searching it left to join the one who had cried out. Jeff moved his hand from my mouth.
“One of ’em must of found the new tracks,” he said.
“I thought they were going to find us.”
“Yeah, for a minute or two there I was kinda worried myself. They’ll be huntin’ down by the stream now.”
“I hope your ruse works.”
“It’ll work. Just relax. Even though we’ve just been whisperin’, I reckon we’d better shut up for a while, just in case one of ’em comes back to have another look at them bushes outside.”
“I’m so frightened.”
“Relax. I ain’t gonna let ’em get you.”
His arm was still curled loosely around my neck. He put the pistol down and curled his other arm around my waist. I leaned against him, trying to conquer the fear that gripped me like a tangible force. The Indians were no longer being stealthy. We could hear feet slapping against the ground as they raced about. They called to each other in harsh, excited voices, and then they seemed to be arguing among themselves. Jeff held me, and I closed my eyes, praying they would go away.
Then he was shaking me and I opened my eyes to see the cave filled with misty yellow-white light. I had fallen asleep. I couldn’t believe it. The Indians had been jabbering and I had been terrified and I had actually fallen asleep. I was stretched out on a blanket, another blanket pulled up over me. Jeff was grinning. He looked cocky and very pleased with himself. I sat up, rubbing my eyes. My whole body ached, and I was hungrier than I had ever been in my life.
“Must say, when you sleep, you sleep soundly. Thought you’d never wake up. It’s nigh on ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Did they—are they gone?”
“They’re gone,” he said, “long gone. They went splashin’ off down the stream just a little while after you dropped off. I’ve already been out, had me a good look ’round. They ain’t gonna be lookin’ for us any longer, Marietta.”
I climbed to my feet. “How can you be so sure?”
Jeff frowned, reluctant to speak. There was something he hadn’t told me. I sensed it at once. His brown eyes were dark, his mouth tight at the corners. He still hesitated, looking at me, and finally he sighed, grimacing before he spoke.
“They found who they were lookin’ for,” he said, “or who they thought they were lookin’ for. Billy Brennan was camped ’bout a quarter of a mile up the stream, Marietta, on the other side. They found him. They had a bit of fun. I … uh … I heard ’em at it last night, after you dropped off to sleep. I heard him, too. I was damned thankful you weren’t awake. No one oughta have ta hear anything like that.”
I was silent. I knew my cheeks were pale. Billy Brennan had been a dyed-in-the-wool villain, a thief, a murderer, but no man should have to die like that. Jeff looked at me with worried eyes.
“I shouldn’ta told you,” he said quietly, “but in the long run it’s best you know. I found Billy, what was left of him. I buried him before I came back here to wake you up. The Indians are gone, and they won’t be back. We don’t have to worry about them any longer.”
“That poor man.”
“Yeah,” Jeff said, and then he changed the subject. “The mules are already outside, eatin’ all the grass in sight. I suggest we have some breakfast, too, and then—then what say we push on to Natchez?”
“That sounds like a splendid idea,” I told him.
XVI
As we neared Natchez the land became incredibly verdant, rich and green, and the trees were majestic, great oaks that spread their boughs as though luxuriating in the fresh air, the rich soil, the clear blue sky. It was still early morning. Jeff told me we would reach Natchez shortly after noon. I should have been relieved, should have been eager to reach the comfort of civilization at last, but I wasn’t. I was curiously sad, for it was over now, this long, hazardous, grueling journey, and the warm, satisfying intimacy must end, too. I would not be able to relax and reveal in Jeff’s nearness any longer. I had to steel myself against him. I had to escape at the first opportunity.
“Natchez really began way back in 1716,” Jeff informed me. “Chap named Jean Baptiste Le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville, built a fort high on the bluffs, Fort Rosalie, near the villages of the Natchez Indians. He and his men had a lot of trouble with the Natchez, but he managed to subdue ’em—forty-nine men against the whole Natchez Nation. A great settlement grew, Frenchies pouring in from all over. The land was cleared, plantations established, merchants and artisans arrived. Ten years or so passed, and then the Frenchies got greedy and tried to take even more land from the Indians.” He paused, shaking his head.
“What happened?”
“One of the bloodiest massacres in history. The Natchez came to the French with reports that the Choctaws were going to attack, claimed they wanted to help fight ’em off. The French were frightened and let the Natchez come pouring in with weapons—Indians entering every house to ‘help’ fight off the Choctaws. At four o’clock in the afternoon—this was November 28, 1729—their chief gave the signal. The killing began. The French were butchered, decapitated, their heads piled up in the public square. The women and children who weren’t butchered along with the men were taken captive. The whole settlement was razed to the ground.”
“How—dreadful,” I said with a shudder.
“There was retaliation, of course,” Jeff continued. “The Choctaws were old enemies of the Natchez, and the French got ’em to help. Soldiers and savages came pourin’ up from New Orleans, and the Natchez Nation was destroyed in a spree of bloodlettin’ that made the massacre seem pale by comparison. A few of the Natchez survived and fled through the wilderness to join up with the Chickasaws. The settlement of Natchez was reclaimed by the wilderness, swallowed up as though it had never existed. Then, at the close of the French and Indian Wars, it passed to the British.”
“I thought the French ceded this territory to the Spanish?”
“Most of it was—Natchez bein’ the exception. It’s the only English outpost in these parts. A few years back, settlers started pourin’ in, folks who couldn’t make a go at farmin’ back east, folks who were dissatisfied with the politics of the Colonies, others who simply wanted a taste of adventure. They’ve done wonders in the past five-six years. It’s still pretty rough and rugged, of course, but it’s growin’ all the time. The land’s some of the richest I ever seen, and men like Helmut Schnieder are establishin’ plantations that are gonna become the glory of the territory.”
“Helmut Schnieder? That sounds like a German name.”
Jeff nodded. “Teutonic to the core. Grim chap, Schnieder. He arrived a couple of years ago, a man of my
stery, loaded with gold. He bought all the land he could get his hands on, built him a cabin, and then sent for his sister, a mousey little thing, scared of her own shadow. They say Schnieder’s buildin’ him a mansion now, say it’s gonna be a showplace that’ll make them fine homes up east look like shacks.”
There was a high bluff up ahead. Jeff looked at me, grinning, his brown eyes twinkling as though he were planning a surprise. We rode side by side toward the edge of the bluff, passing under oak trees, emerald-green land sloping away on either side. I heard a soft, rushing noise; then we were at the edge and the land dropped away abruptly in a steep, rocky cliff and I had my first glimpse of the Mississippi River.
It was large, unbelievably large, a vast blue-gray expanse of water that seemed to divide the continent in half. I stared at it in awe, for I had never seen anything like it. It made the rivers in England seem like paltry streams, made even the mighty Thames seem insignificant in comparison. As we watched, a huge flatboat loaded with wooden crates moved past, and two men poled a crude log raft piled high with bundles of fur. There were several canoes, as well, the great river carrying them all along as though indulging these tiny specks bobbing on its enormous back. Jeff sat there on his mule, grinning, delighted that I was impressed. One would have thought he had invented this majestic spectacle.
“Thought you’d be impressed,” he said.
“It’s overwhelming.”
“Flows all the way down to New Orleans and then out to sea. It’s more’n a mile wide in places—has to be one of the biggest rivers in the world, maybe the biggest. It’s really somethin’, ain’t it?”
I nodded. The river seemed to sparkle in the sunlight, silvery-blue reflections dancing on the surface. The banks were a reddish-brown mud, and on the other side another cliff rose, rocks golden brown, jagged, the land above as green as on this side, the great trees dwarfed in the distance. It was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. I gazed, and the sadness that had been lingering grew stronger. I wanted to cry. Jeff sensed my mood.
“It’s been good, hasn’t it?” he said.
I knew what he meant. I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak.
“We’ve had some rough times, true, and a couple of pretty scary days, what with the Indians and the Brennan boys, but … it’s been good. I ain’t ever enjoyed a trek so much.”
“It’s over now,” I said.
“Yeah, I guess all good things gotta come to an end.”
“And now—” I began.
“Now we’d better push on to Natchez,” Jeff interrupted. “I got a lot of business I wanna take care of this afternoon, and then, tonight, I’m gonna treat you to the grandest dinner you’ve ever had. The inn’s got a dandy taproom, real elegant. All the best folks in Natchez dine there.”
“When will we leave for New Orleans?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“There’ll be a boat?”
“Traffic ’tween here and New Orleans is constant. There’s always a boat leavin’, always one pullin’ in filled with goods. The docks are a regular beehive of activity every day.”
We rode on then, the wind whipping my hair and lifting the skirt of my red dress. It was the dress I had worn to the fair, the dress I had been wearing the day Derek sold me to Jeff. That seemed such a long time ago, a lifetime ago. Carolina … I mustn’t think about that now. I must concentrate on making my escape. It would have to be this afternoon or tonight. Jeff was in love with me, but he still had every intention of taking me down to New Orleans. Love was one thing, business another. He would probably make an enormous profit, enough to give up these treks and go into some other kind of work. He had mentioned wanting to open his own place, had mentioned it several times, though he hadn’t been specific about what kind of “place” he had in mind.
We reached Natchez three hours later. It was indeed a bustling, growing settlement with dozens of sturdy, squared-timber houses, a number of shops, new ones going up. Perched on a bluff overlooking a river, it was impressive, and I found it difficult to believe that, just a few years ago, it had been a wilderness with only a few rusty French cannon and the ruins of the fort. As we rode toward the inn, I could see the docks down below, crowded with boats, dozens of men busily unloading crates and barrels. There seemed to be another small town down there, too, the buildings ramshackle, already run down. When I inquired about it, Jeff shook his head, making a clicking noise with his tongue.
“Natchez-under-the-hill,” he said. “It’s already got the reputation of bein’ the wickedest spot in this whole territory. Settlers come, decent, hard-workin’ folks who wanna establish homes, open businesses, get a new start in life—they’re the ones who’re makin’ Natchez an important town that’s gonna rival New Orleans one of these days. Other folks come, too—riff-raff, men fleein’ the law, thieves, murderers, whores. The decent folk want nothin’ to do with ’em, so they settle down there.”
“I see.”
“Man can indulge any kinda vice down there—drinkin’, whorin’, gamblin’, you name it. A lot of the so-called ‘respectable’ men help keep it goin’. Some claim Helmut Schnieder owns half the property, includin’ the biggest whorehouse. Wouldn’t surprise me none if he did.”
“You keep mentioning him. He must be an important figure.”
“I suppose he is, if by important you mean powerful. I don’t like the man, not many folks do, but he’s rich—gettin’ richer every day, it seems. There’s somethin’ about him …” Jeff hesitated, frowning.
“Yes?” I prompted.
“He’s cold, grim, likes to intimidate people. He never smiles, and you never know what he’s thinkin’. You get the idea he’s plottin’ something all the time, and whatever it is he’s plottin’ ain’t healthy.”
We reached the inn a few minutes later. It was a large, two-story building with a gray slate roof. The verandah in front was supported by a row of slender white columns in an attempt at New England elegance. A neatly clad black man hurried to take the mules around to the stables in back, agreeing to bring in the packs Jeff indicated he wanted. Jeff led me up the steps and onto the cool verandah, proudly opening the front door.
Inside, it was even cooler, dim. A small hallway led into the main room where the proprietor stood behind a long mahogany counter. The walls were off-white and brass chandeliers hung from the ceiling. A blue carpet covered the floor, and there was a tapestry sofa, matching chairs, and a low table with blue and lilac flowers in a large white bowl. A curving staircase led to the rooms above, and an archway opened into the large dining room adjoining. Though it might have been considered pitifully second-rate in the large cities up east, the inn was like a haven of luxury after so many weeks trekking through the wilderness.
The proprietor greeted Jeff effusively and personally conducted us to our room. There was a large mahogany fourposter with a rather worn violet satin counterpane, a matching dresser with tall oval mirror, and a roomy mahogany wardrobe as well. A carpet with faded gray and rose patterns covered most of the polished hardwood floor, and soft violet curtains hung at the windows. The furniture was all old and looked as though it had been over many a rough trail, but everything was neat and clean, and the room had an undeniable charm. When the packs arrived, Jeff stowed them away in the wardrobe, and then he eyed the bed and beamed happily.
“Sure beats sleepin’ on blankets under the stars, don’t it?”
“It certainly does.”
“You tired?” he asked.
“A little. I’d like to rest a while.”
“Tell you what, why don’t you take a nice long nap? I gotta take care of some business, like I said, and when I get back—” He paused, grinning that sheepish grin I had grown so fond of. “When I get back, we’ll celebrate in style.”
“That’ll be nice. How long will you be gone?”
“Oh, maybe three hours, maybe four. Long enough for you to have a good rest.”
He stepped over to the wardrobe and took out
one of the packs, opening it on the bed. I moved to the window and pretended to gaze out at the gardens back of the inn, but by turning my head slightly to one side I could see him in the mirror. I was surprised to see him taking a roll of bills out of the pack. I hadn’t known he had any money, had thought he gave it all to Derek. Jeff peeled off several bills, thrust them into his pocket, and put the rest back in the pack, stowing it away in the wardrobe again. I turned around to face him. If things went well this might be the last time I ever saw him. The sadness welled up again, try though I might to control it. Jeff cocked his head to one side, peering at me.
“Somethin’ botherin’ you?” he asked.
“No, I’m just tired.”
“You look like you just lost a loved one.”
“That’s silly.”
His fringed buckskins were incredibly dirty, and there was a streak of dirt on his jaw. His sandy hair was dirty, too, and he smelled of sweat and leather and woods, and he had never looked more endearing, those warm brown eyes gazing at me with affection, those wide lips ready to spread into another grin. I wanted to rush to him, wanted him to hold me close, wanted him to stroke my hair and croon to me and banish the nervous tremors inside. I hated what I was going to do to him. I actually felt guilty.
“Everything’s gonna be all right, Marietta,” he said.
“Is it?”
“I got a big surprise planned for tonight.”
And I have one for you, I thought.
“You go on and get some rest,” he said. “Tonight’s gonna be a night you’ll never forget.”
He turned to leave. As he moved toward the door, my heart seemed to be pulled with every step he took. I called his name. He turned, puzzled. I hurried over to him. He grinned, slipping an arm around my wraist, drawing me to him. The lips curled at the corners. The eyes were filled with pleasure.
“Just can’t let me go, can you?” he teased. “Can’t stand for me to be out of your sight.”
Love's Tender Fury Page 30
