Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  “It’ll be the six of us, then,” he said, “and the three women. I imagine we can make it.”

  “Sure we can, Jeremy. Why, me ’n Bobby could hold off a whole tribe of Indians all by ourselves. Is that coffee I smell?”

  “There’s a whole pot,” Corrie said. “I can make more when it’s gone.”

  “You’re a lass after my own heart. What’s your name, gal?”

  “Corrie.”

  “Mine’s Marshall. You can call me Frankie.”

  Corrie smiled, warming to the burly, genial redhead immediately. She gave him a tin cup full of coffee and apologized for not having enough breakfast to go around.

  “If I had some more turkey eggs I could make cornbread.”

  “Young Chris here’s good at findin’ eggs an’ such. He’ll help ya hunt for some, won’t ja Chris?”

  Chris Sampson nodded, very stern. At least six feet tall, with a powerful, muscular build, he had even, attractive features and grave brown eyes. He wore tan knee boots, snug tan breeches, and a loosely fitting yellow shirt of silky material. His yellow-blond hair was very thick, very wavy. Polite, formal, ever so stern, he took Corrie’s arm and led her into the woods. She looked up at him shyly, intimidated by his formality and good looks.

  “He seems terribly young to be on a mission like this,” Em observed as the two of them disappeared.

  “Nineteen years old,” Marshall said. “As fine a lad as ever drew breath.”

  “Then what’s he doing with you all?”

  “Lad’s an orphan,” Randolph told her. “Both his parents were carried off in the last fever epidemic. His father was one of Jeremy’s best men. Chris is young, but I’m damn glad to have him with us. He could shoot the wings off a fly buzzin’ fifty yards away, best damn shot I ever seen, and there ain’t no one better at hand-to-hand combat. Lad’s a killer.”

  “He seems so quiet and gentle,” I said.

  “Oh, he is,” Randolph assured me, “disposition of a lamb, but when he has to fight he’s a cold-blooded terror.”

  “We’re going to need a big breakfast,” Em said. “I suggest you go catch some more fish.”

  “That’s a good idea. Come on, Bobby, you an’ me’ll catch a big batch of ’em. You can wait for your coffee.”

  Roberts groaned, eyeing the coffeepot longingly. Randolph threw an affectionate arm around his shoulders and led him away. Hurley stepped over to help Jeremy separate the supplies into six easily portable bundles, and Em and I went to gather more firewood. Corrie and young Chris returned a quarter of an hour later. Corrie was beaming, walking very carefully with her skirt held up in front of her. It was full of eggs. Chris seemed much more relaxed, a faint smile on his lips as he guided her along. He stuck close by her as she cooked breakfast, his manner extremely solicitous.

  “Corrie’s found herself a friend,” Em remarked as we washed the utensils after breakfast. “Young Chris is positively smitten.”

  “He has every reason to be,” I replied, dipping a tin cup into the water. “She’s a lovely girl.”

  Em shifted her position. We were on our knees, at the water’s edge. “I feel much better with the other men around. Safety in numbers. Jesus, this skillet’s impossible to clean!”

  “Hand it to me. Here, take these cups back to Jeremy so he can pack them.”

  “Is everything all right there, luv?” she inquired. “You haven’t spoken to him since we returned from fishing last night. Jeremy hasn’t spoken to you either.”

  “You noticed.”

  “I always notice, luv.”

  “Everything’s all right, Em,” I said dryly. “I told him what I planned to do with the rest of my life. He didn’t care for my plans.”

  “You told him about Roger Hawke?”

  I nodded, scrubbing the skillet furiously. Em shook her head and stood up, the cups clattering in her hand.

  “It’s none of my business, luv, but you’re making a big mistake. The past is the past, over and done with. You could have a wonderful future with a man like Jeremy Bond.”

  “I know what I want, Em.”

  “Do you, luv?” she asked. “I wonder.”

  She took the cups over to Jeremy, and, a few minutes later, I handed him the skillet. He packed it away without a word, and we began our trek, moving inland. Jeremy led the way, Hurley and Marshall behind him, Roberts and Randolph bringing up the rear. Chris Sampson walked beside Corrie, directly ahead of Em and I, and the two of them talked quietly, Chris pointing out a bird, a plant, a flower, telling her about them. She looked up at his stern, handsome profile with dark eyes that were rendered even lovelier by the soft, feminine glow I had never seen there before. She worshipped him already.

  Chris slipped his arm around her shoulder, leading her around a tangled clump of cypress roots. The loose, silky yellow shirt clung damply to his broad shoulders. Corrie stumbled. He held her tightly for a moment and reluctantly let go when the way was clear and there was no excuse to hold her. She walked very close beside him, seeming even smaller, frailer because of his height, his powerful build. Her step was light, lilting, almost kittenish, and she constantly touched his arm, as though to reassure herself. Chris looked down at her now and then, that faint smile on his wide, full lips.

  I frowned, worried. Corrie was little more than a child, with a fragile beauty and tender heart that would appeal to any youth, but that beauty could become a curse, that heart could be broken so easily by someone like Chris Sampson. He was a fine lad, yes, I could see that, and he was fond of Corrie, but nothing but grief could come of such an affiliation. He might fall in love with her, and he might love her deeply and sincerely, but ultimately he would turn to his own kind. She would lead a doomed, hothouse existence in some opulent, perfumed room in the Quarter, seeking release in other arms, in alcohol. It was a sad history repeated over and over again when forbidden lines were crossed.

  “I shouldn’t worry, luv,” Em said.

  “About what?”

  “About Corrie.” Her voice was low so that they wouldn’t overhear. “His mother was black. Randolph told me about it. She was a mulatto, actually, a very beautiful free woman of color. His father was the son of a white planter, a rugged, rowdy fellow who disgraced himself in his early teens and turned his back on respectable society. He moved in with his mistress and became a smuggler, eventually became a mercenary, one of Jeremy’s best men. He taught young Chris everything he knew, took him along on several missions.”

  “Then—”

  “Chris could pass, of course, but he’s very proud of his heritage, and he has only disdain for those who deny their blood. When his parents died a year and a half ago, he moved in with his black grandmother. She ran a boardinghouse in New Orleans, a free woman with skin the color of ebony and features pure African. He was devoted to her. She passed away, too, only three months ago. Chris was at loose ends and very grateful to Jeremy and Randolph for taking him on and bringing him along on this mission. He and Corrie could be very good for each other, Luv.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” I said, still doubtful. “I just don’t want to see her hurt.”

  We moved on in silence, stumbling over roots, ducking under limbs, the way becoming more and more difficult to traverse. The trees grew thicker, crowding in on either side, heavy with tangled vines and strands of purple-red wild flowers, dripping with moisture. The air was damp, steamy, the ground spongy underfoot, frequently muddy. The twisting rivers were everywhere, shallow, sluggish, clouds of insects buzzing over the greenish-brown surface. Brownish-green logs littered the banks, covered with mud, and it was only when I saw them stir that I realized they were Em’s dreaded alligators. One yawned, making a low hissing sound, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. I thought Em would faint.

  “They won’t hurt you none,” Randolph called.

  “That’s what you say, luv. Jesus!”

  We waded across the river, climbed the muddy bank and made our way beneath the tangled branches of the cyp
ress trees, the men parting low-hanging vines and great clusters of grayish-tan moss. We moved very, very slowly, of necessity, and after a while each step seemed an agony. The heat was intense, pressing down like a tangible force, and the air was heavy, laden with pungent odors of mud and slime and decay. My limbs ached dreadfully. My feet seemed to sink into the muddy ground, and it took great effort to pull them out, take another step. All of us were perspiring, but no one complained. We trudged on and on, finally stopping at the edge of a great brown lake.

  “We’re going to hafta cross it,” Randolph said. “It’d take hours to go around it.”

  “You’re right,” Jeremy agreed.

  “How deep is it?” Em asked.

  “Plenty deep, from the looks of it,” Hurley remarked. “It’s too big for us to try to swim across, Jeremy.”

  Jeremy nodded, grim. I leaned against a tree trunk, thoroughly exhausted and ravenously hungry. From the position of the sun I judged it to be well past two in the afternoon. Em sank down on the ground, heedless of the mud. Corrie seemed to be wilting, leaning limply against Chris who stood very straight with an arm curled around her shoulder. Bobby Roberts looked at the great expanse of water and shook his head. Frank Marshall grimaced.

  “Looks like we’re going to hafta build rafts,” he said. “Won’t take too long. I gotta hatchet. Hurley does, too. We can use them vines to tie the logs together.”

  “No one’s getting me on a raft,” Em informed him. “That lake’s bound to be crawling with alligators.”

  “There’s one right behind you!” Randolph cried.

  Em screamed and leaped to her feet, and the men all laughed. She gave Randolph a look that should have turned him to stone. He merely grinned. Bobby Roberts began to pass around the canteens, which he had been carrying, and after they had drunk the men began to chop down small trees and cut vines. Corrie strolled away, exploring, returning a short while later with some perfectly vile-looking yellow-orange roots which, she assured us, were quite edible. Em made another face, accepting one grudgingly.

  “It tastes like a sweet potato,” she exclaimed, “only softer, sweeter, too.”

  “I told you, Miz Em. You ought to trust me.”

  Corrie went away to fetch more roots, and Em went with her. They washed them in the water and then passed them around to the men who, by then, had cut down enough small trees to make two rafts. Hurley and Marshall were cutting branches off and trimming them all down to uniform size, while Roberts and Randolph lashed them tightly together with the thin, sturdy vines. Chris and Corrie were talking quietly, Chris eating one of the roots, and Em was pestering Randolph, warning him that she bloody well wasn’t going to get on one of those flimsy things no matter how tightly they were tied together.

  I finished eating the pulpy, surprisingly delicious root and stood at the water’s edge, looking across. The flat brown surface of the water had a curious purple hue, and the trees across the way were gray and black, casting deep purple shadows over the bank. The sky was gray-white, ablaze with sunlight, and the air seemed strangely opaque, shimmering with heat. Several logs floated near the bank, half-submerged in the water. One turned violently, lashing a long, scaly tail, and I shuddered, realizing that Em had been right. The lake was crawling with alligators.

  “You’re not frightened, are you?” Jeremy asked.

  His voice startled me. I turned to find him standing just behind me, his buckskin jacket abandoned on the ground, the thin white shirt clinging damply to his chest, the red-orange bandana limp around his neck. There was a streak of dirt on his jaw, and his rich brown hair was wet with perspiration, falling in wet tendrils across his brow. I noticed faint gray-mauve smudges beneath his eyes, etched there by exhaustion, and they made his eyes seem ever bluer, incredibly blue. He smiled a weary smile.

  “We’ll make it across easily enough,” he told me. “I’ve built any number of rafts in my day.”

  “I’m not worried, Jeremy,” I said.

  My voice was cool, much cooler than I had intended, and my manner was remote, aloof. I hadn’t intended that either. He gazed at me with those weary blue eyes, too tired to make a jaunty reply. This was the first time he had spoken to me all day, and I realized he had been trying to relieve the tension that had been building between us. I frowned and reached up to rub the streak of dirt from his jaw, massaging it vigorously with my fingertips. After I had finished, I smoothed the damp tendrils from his brow, silent, my face expressionless.

  The others worked and chattered several yards behind us, but they might not have been there at all. The two of us might have been alone there at the edge of the still brown lake with soft clouds of insects swarming low over the surface. Our eyes met, held, and I refused to look away, refused to bend. He wasn’t going to make me melt, oh no. I stood my ground, stiff and unyielding. He didn’t approve of me. It didn’t matter in the least. I owed him no explanations. I gazed at him with cool, indifferent eyes, and Jeremy finally scowled and jammed his hands into the pockets of his breeches.

  “I ought to slap you,” he said.

  “Would it make you feel better?”

  “Much better. I’d like to shake you until your teeth chatter, but I don’t imagine it would do any good.”

  “It probably wouldn’t,” I snapped.

  “You’re a stubborn wench.”

  “I happen to know my own mind.”

  “Your mind, perhaps, but not your heart.”

  “I don’t care to discuss it, Jeremy.”

  “We’re going to,” he said. “Not now, perhaps. When I get you alone. I intend to talk some sense into you—if I have to use my fists.”

  “You can’t bully me.”

  “No?”

  “No,” I retorted.

  I realized how foolish and childish this exchange had become, and it irritated me no end. I turned my back on him, folding my arms around my waist and staring resolutely across the lake. After a moment I heard him turn and stride angrily back toward the others. He could be as angry as he liked. It didn’t matter a jot to me. I really had treated him shabbily, though. He had tried to make amends, to ease the tension, and I had been poker stiff. I was grateful to him, yes, he had rescued me, had saved my life, but I wasn’t about to succumb to that virile allure, that magnetic charm.

  I had a fortune in jewels hanging in a bag against my thigh. Half the money they brought would be his. Jeremy Bond would be properly paid for his services. He could keep the money or divide it among his men or hurl it into the wind, I didn’t care. I would be under no further obligation to him. I intended to go to England and do what I had to do, and Jeremy Bond could go hang. I told myself that repeatedly, but it was little consolation. I watched the heat waves shimmer in the air and heard the alligators splash and saw a flock of large, long-necked blue-gray birds settle on the bank across the lake.

  “We’re ready, Miz Marietta,” Corrie said, taking my hand. “The rafts look safe enough to me, not a single crack between the logs. Chris cut some poles to use.”

  Roberts and Hurley dragged the rafts to the edge of the water, all our bundles already on them. The alligators glided nearer, curious. Em was holding onto Randolph’s arm so tightly he winced. Her’ face was white. I hesitated only a moment, then, still holding Corrie’s hand, stepped onto the middle of one of the rafts and sat down, pushing one of the bundles aside. Corrie sat down beside me, showing not the least sign of fear. Em clung to Randolph’s arm, and then, taking a deep breath, joined us, watching the alligators with wide, frightened eyes. Randolph climbed aboard, and Chris Sampson gave the raft a shove. It floated onto the water. He grabbed a long pole, vaulted onto the raft and began to pole easily, smoothly, without apparent effort.

  The raft rocked, bobbing lightly on the muddy brown water spread with purple shadows. The alligators followed us, four of them, gliding lazily, snouts and eyes barely visible above the surface, long, heavy bodies swaying back and forth, making few ripples. Chris paid no attention to them, digging t
he pole into the mud, heaving, pushing, the muscles of his arms and shoulders bunching under the silky yellow shirt, his legs planted wide apart. Jeremy and the others were on the second raft, several yards behind us.

  Em’s eyes were closed now. Her lips were moving. Randolph chuckled.

  “What’s the matter, gal?” he teased.

  “Shut up, you bastard! Can’t you see I’m praying?”

  One of the alligators snaked closer, much too close, its wide jaws opening, water pouring over its snout. Chris grimaced and jerked the pole up and jabbed the creature viciously. The alligator thrashed in the water, bleeding, and the other three were suddenly upon him and there was a whirling, splashing, spewing confusion, horrible, horrible, tails lashing in the air, jaws snapping, biting. I looked away, shuddering, and Chris continued to pole. We were more than halfway across now. My skirt was wet. Water was seeping through the logs.

  “Don’t worry,” Randolph said. “It’ll hold.”

  The alligators were far behind us. That horrible splashing, whirling mass of scaly brown-green bodies was gone, and three placid, lazy creatures glided leisurely back toward the shore. Jeremy’s raft was closer, Hurley poling skillfully, his pockmarked face intent as he dug in, pushed, dug in, pushed. Jeremy had put his jacket back on, despite the heat, and he held his rifle loosely, the butt resting on his knee. Bobby Roberts and Marshall were chattering as blithely, completely unconcerned.

  I was vastly relieved when we reached the shore. Randolph scooped Em up and set her on the bank. She shook her skirts out and sighed, picking her way through the mud and onto dry ground. Randolph took my hand and helped me off the raft and then assisted Corrie. Chris pulled the raft out of the water as Jeremy’s raft nudged the muddy bank. I joined Em, and we watched as the men gathered up the bundles, slapping at the swarms of buzzing insects that filled the air.