Love Me, Marietta
Page 43
“There,” Chris said. “It’s simple as can be.”
“Hand me that one, luv. Let me load it.”
“Here. You load this one, Corrie.”
“We’d better start building a barricade,” Marshall told Hurley. “There’re plenty of dead trees. Randy picked a good spot. We’ll have us a small fort in no time.”
What if they were dead? What if I never saw Jeremy again? I hadn’t told him all the things I wanted to say. I hadn’t let him know how I felt. I hadn’t expressed the feelings inside. I wished fervently that I had given way to them. I had been so stiff, so thorny, so defensive. I had been afraid. I realized that now. I had been afraid to examine those feelings too closely, afraid I might have to acknowledge them. I wished now that I had melted into his arms, given way, had succumbed to that dangerous charm, that virile strength. I wished I had let him make love to me, how I wished it now, how I longed to be in his arms at this moment.
“You did fine,” Chris said quietly.
“Nothing to it,” Em replied. “It’s ready to fire?”
“Ready,” he told her.
“This one is, too,” Corrie said.
“Now I’ll show you how to load a pistol. It’s a little different. Pay close attention.”
The rough bark cutting into the flesh of my forearms, the bodice of my dress clinging wetly to my skin, I peered at the line of trees, willing them to appear, and I saw a man step onto the bank, tall, stalwart, rifle in hand. It was Randolph. He looked behind him and then started across the river, wading slowly, constantly glancing over his shoulder. I stood up and climbed over the log, heedless of the protests behind me. Marshall shouted for me to get down, get down, and Em called out, and Chris, and I paid no mind. I waited. Randolph swam easily across the rest of the way and climbed out.
“Where is he?” I asked. My voice was barely audible.
“He’s all right, gal. He’s coming.”
“Where is he?” I repeated.
“They fell back. Soon as they tasted our bullets, they fell back, and he wanted to look around a bit before he joins us.”
“Randolph—”
“He’s all right, gal. Here, get back behind this log. Damn foolish of you, standin’ in plain sight, easy target. They fell back, but they’re still out there, probably watchin’ us right now.”
“And Jeremy is—”
Randolph made a face, impatient, half-shoving me over the log, climbing over himself, pulling me down beside him. He was lying. I knew it. He was lying because time was of the essence, they were going to attack any moment now, and he was afraid I would grow hysterical if I knew Jeremy was dead. He was being kind. He wanted to give me a few more hours of hope. I could feel the hysteria building inside me. I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t. Randolph took hold of my shoulders, gripping me so tightly I winced.
“Jeremy can take care of himself. Ain’t a better man alive for creepin’ through the woods. He’ll be here in just a few minutes.”
“He’s alive?”
“He’s alive, gal,” he assured me.
I sat quietly, still not believing him, and he got up and began to help Marshall and Hurley build the barricade all around us. They dragged the fallen trees through the sand, piling them up, constructing rough walls while Chris and Em and Corrie loaded all the guns and lined them up on the oilskin, setting out the ammunition, the powder horns, preparing. I was numb, unable to feel anything it seemed, unaware of the gritty sand, the rough log I rested against, the mosquitoes humming in the air. Em came to sit beside me. She took my hand. I looked up at her and shook my head.
“It’s going to be all right,” she told me. “Randolph says they aren’t likely to attack now. They don’t like to fight in the dark. They’ll wait until dawn, and we’ll be ready for them then. Corrie and I are going to gather up some of these broken limbs and make a fire. She’s going to make stew with that meat Randolph has in his pack and the mushrooms she gathered. You’ll feel better after you eat, after you’ve had some coffee.”
I nodded, forcing myself to respond. I brushed a wave from my cheek and told her I would help. Like a zombie, I got up and helped gather limbs and placed them over the hole Chris had dug and lined with rocks. Hurley and Randolph and Marshall finished building the barricade, piling the dead trees in a circular wall four feet high all around us. Corrie made coffee and put the stew on, and everything was peaceful, calm. It was totally dark now, the sky a deep purple-black frosted with stars. Em handed me a cup of coffee. The fire cast flickering yellow-orange patterns over the sand. Chris and Randolph patrolled, moving around the hastily improvised walls with their rifles. The water lapped against the banks. Behind us, the woods were full of night noises.
I sipped the coffee without tasting it. An hour must have passed since we had first climbed over the logs, dripping wet, exhausted, terrified. It seemed much longer. It seemed an eternity. I was functioning quite Well. I finished the coffee and handed the cup to Corrie. She filled it again, and I carried it to Hurley. There weren’t enough cups for all of us. We had to share. I told him the stew would be ready shortly. No one guessed that I was numb. I was admirably calm, composed. No one guessed.
The moon came out, silvering the water, accentuating the blackness of the woods. I moved back to the wall that faced the opposite bank, leaned my elbows on it and stared across at the blackness beyond the rippling silver water. I was convinced now that he was dead, that I would never see him again, and I tried to resign myself. I tried to be brave and rational about it, but I wanted to scream. Jeremy was gone, and I knew I couldn’t endure the loss. Not this time.
“The stew’s done, luv,” Em said, coming to stand beside me.
“I’m not hungry, Em. Let the others eat first.”
“He’s going to come back, Marietta. He stayed behind to look for Bobby. The Karankawas fell back almost immediately, the men shot at least a dozen. Randolph figures there’re about fifty of them.”
“Bobby—”
“They took him. They dragged him away. Jeremy thought maybe he could follow the trail and—and help. He promised Randolph he wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks. It was something he had to do.”
I didn’t reply, and Em fell silent, standing close beside me with her hand on my arm, trying to comfort me. She understood what I was feeling and knew the reasons why. There was no need for words. We could hear the men talking quietly behind us. Corrie’s voice was low and melodious as she served the stew. The river rippled, silver shimmering on the black water, under the purple-black sky. The fire made a soft crackling noise, and tree limbs groaned as they stirred in the faint night breeze.
Randolph came over to join us, peering across the river at the dense black trees.
“They ain’t gonna attack tonight,” he told us. “You gals might as well get some rest. Might as well sleep.”
“I don’t think I could,” Em said.
“You’re gonna need all your strength tomorrow. It ain’t gonna be pleasant. They’ll come shrieking across the river soon as the sun comes up. We’ll hold ’em off, but it may be hours ’fore they give up. They may be at it all day.”
“Go ahead, cheer us up.”
“Oh, we’ll be all right,” he said, not at all perturbed. “We got plenty of water, enough food, ample ammunition, and every man here’s a crack shot. I been in a lot worse spots. The Karankawas’ll come and they’ll lose a lot of men and when they’ve had enough, they’ll give it up.”
He paused, listening intently, gripping his rifle tightly. From across the river came the faint sound of scuffling. There was a moment of silence, and then there was another loud caw, a hideous sound all the more terrifying now that I knew it wasn’t a bird. A second caw answered, coming from nearer the river. The other men joined us, alert, ready to fire. A shot rang out in the woods beyond the water, the explosion reverberating loudly, drowning out the shrill yell that sounded simultaneously. Silence followed.
“There he is,” Chris said.
Jeremy turned, fired. One of the Indians fell forward, his knees hitting the sand, his torso landing in the water with a mighty splash. The other savage let out a bloodcurdling shriek and plunged forward into the water, swinging his knife in the air. There was no time for Jeremy to reload his rifle. He turned and hurled it through the air, and even before it landed in front of the barricade he had whirled back around to meet the assault.
Em seized Randolph’s shoulder.
“Shoot!” she cried. “Why don’t you shoot!”
“Too dark, too far,” Randolph said calmly.
The Indian yelled and leaped upon Jeremy. Jeremy grabbed his wrist and kept the blade fom plunging into his heart, and they both fell into the water and began to thrash and whirl and flail in a life-and-death struggle. Dazzling geysers of silver water shot up all around them. They rolled and tumbled, going under, surfacing, fighting, and it was impossible to tell who was on top, who was trapped in a death lock. The water splashed wildly, shimmering, shooting up in brilliant fountains. Then they went under again, and the water was still.
Five seconds passed, ten, and there was no movement. Fifteen, twenty, and I felt an invisible hand clutching my heart, squeezing, squeezing, and then, after a full half-minute, a man stood up in the water and a limp, broken figure popped onto the surface, floating face down. We were silent, watching. Jeremy shoved the corpse away from him. It began to float downstream as he turned and began to swim toward us. He climbed onto the sandbank and picked up his rifle.
“Glad you could make it,” Randolph said amiably.
He reached out and took Jeremy’s rifle. Jeremy climbed over the barricade, dripping wet, hair plastered over his head, across his brow. He pushed it back, his eyes inscrutable in the firelight.
“Bobby?” Marshall asked.
Jeremy shook his head. “No sign of him. I picked up their trail and followed it over a half a mile, lost it when they crossed a river. I kept hoping I’d stumble across his body. No such luck. They took him away. Alive.”
He spoke in a cool, matter-of-fact voice. We all knew what it meant. I thought of the plump, amiable Roberts with his curly hair and choirboy’s face, and I prayed fervently that he was already dead. Em looked faint, leaning back against the barricade with ashen cheeks. Chris wrapped his arm around Corrie’s shoulders, holding her tightly. The men were calm, betraying not the slightest emotion. Jeremy unfastened the pack on his back and let it drop. He peeled off his buckskin jacket and tossed it near the fire.
I went over and took an empty tin cup and filled it with coffee, handing it to him. He took it from me, seemingly unaware of what he was doing. I placed my hand on his arm.
“Come sit by the fire,” I said quietly.
He let me lead him across the sand. He sat down and sipped the coffee, and the others left us alone. I stood over him, watching him. The firelight bathed his face. His wet shirt clung to his back and shoulders. His hair began to dry slowly, feathering at the ends. When he had finished the coffee, I fetched stew, and he drank it slowly and set the cup down. I reached down to smooth the hair back from his forehead. The fire was beginning to burn down, crackling quietly, charred wood popping as tiny flames licked it.
“More stew?” I asked.
“Don’t hover over me,” he snapped.
“I—I’m sorry.”
He looked up and grimaced, his mouth turned down, and then he shook his head again and stood up. His clothes were dry now, his wavy brown hair still slightly damp. His face, in the firelight, was lined with exhaustion, almost gaunt. His twisted nose looked thinner, his eyes much larger and filled with emotions he sternly repressed.
“Forgive me, Marietta. I shouldn’t have snapped.”
“You’ve been through a great deal. You should rest, Jeremy.”
He moved away from the dying fire and stepped over to the barricade. Em and Randolph were talking quietly. Hurley and Marshall were standing guard at either side, watching the moonlit water for any sign of movement, while Chris stood facing the trees directly behind us, Corrie beside him. The crickets no longer chirped. It was a lovely night, black and purple and silver, serene and so peaceful with the sound of the water and the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. The horror was out there in the night, waiting, waiting.
“I thought you were dead,” I said. “When you didn’t come back I was certain you’d been killed.”
“I’m not an easy man to kill,” he said lightly.
He turned to look at me, his face polished by moonlight now, all smooth planes, shadows beneath his cheekbones, his mouth wide and full and soft. The cleft in his chin seemed deeper. Standing so close to him, I felt his strength and his warmth, and I was filled with tender emotions that seemed to blossom inside. I was sad, too, and I found it difficult to hold back the tears. Jeremy touched my cheek.
“I was so worried,” I said.
“You care,” he said.
“Of course I care.”
He curled his fingers lightly around my throat, and I tilted my chin, looking up into those eyes that seemed to caress me. He leaned his body forward and lowered his head and brushed my lips with his own. I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close. He didn’t respond. He stood very still, looking over my shoulder at the river, and after a moment he stroked my hair.
“You’d better get some sleep,” he said.
“All the while I kept thinking of—all the things I wanted you to know, all the things I was unable to say. I want to say them now, Jeremy. If anything happens, I want you to know how I—”
He placed his hand over my lips, looking down at me with sober eyes.
“I want you to say them,” he told me, “but not now, not like this, when you’re distraught, overwhelmed by emotion. When you say them, I want to know they come from the heart. You’re very tired now. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal.”
“And you think I—you think it’s just because—because I’m distraught?”
He didn’t answer. I stepped back, feeling the separation, feeling alone and cold, wanting so to lean on his strength, to feel his warmth and the security of those arms enfolding me. He looked at me, knowing what I felt, and he made no move to draw me to him. Deep, deep inside me I knew he was right, knew I was a prey to emotions brought on by circumstance, and I admired him for refusing to take advantage, yet the disappointment was real, the feeling of rejection acute.
“Get some sleep, Marietta.”
I turned away from him, knowing I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I unwrapped the cloak from my bundle and spread it on the sand beside one of the rough gray logs. I retrieved my pistol, loaded it and then stretched out on the cloak, gazing up at the stars that glittered dimly against the night sky. Corrie soon stretched out beside me, and Em joined us, the silver candlestick at her side. Hurley and Randolph and Marshall stretched out on the sand, too, on the other side of the fire, a mere heap of glowing coals now, while Jeremy and Chris took the first watch.
I wasn’t at all frightened. I was too exhausted to be afraid, so exhausted I was numb. What was it like for every bone and muscle in my body not to ache? I couldn’t remember. I closed my eyes, listening to the flow of water and the quiet rustle of leaves and the hum of insects. A frog croaked nearby. There was a soft plop, a tiny splash. Em made a low moaning noise in her sleep and turned over, flinging an arm out. Chri
s and Jeremy moved slowly around the perimeter of the barricade, their footsteps crunching lightly on the sand. Tomorrow the Karankawas would come and there would be more horror, and I was much too exhausted to worry, exhausted through and through, so exhausted sleep was out of the question. The sand was surprisingly soft beneath the cloak, yielding slightly under my weight, shifting as I moved.
Another frog croaked and an owl hooted. It really was an owl, not an Indian. The woods were full of Indians. One of them dropped from a tree and I shot him as Em broke away, the whole scene replaying itself, growing darker as I watched, darker, merging into blackness, melting away. I slept deeply, heavily, and then I sat up with a start. Em grabbed my hand. She was listening to something. Screams. I could hear them plainly, coming from the trees across the river.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“They’re at it, luv. They just started.”
There was another piercing scream, a shrill, anguished cry that seemed to be torn from a body and hurled into the night with shattering force, rising to a high pitch that vibrated and hung in the air. Everyone was awake inside the barricade. The men had their guns. The sky had lightened to a pale violet, and the stars were barely visible. Even though the sky was lighter, the shadows seemed darker than ever, spreading across the ground like opaque black veils. Em gripped my hand tightly as another scream split the air. I realized it was Roberts. I realized what they were doing to him.
“Oh God,” I said. “Oh God. God.”
“They want us to hear, luv. They want us to know. They brought him back so they could—so they could torture us as well, so we could hear the screams and—and know what was happening.”
I stood up and moved over to stand beside the men. None of them spoke. Across the river, through the trees, I could see a flickering orange glow. It was indistinct and shapeless, shifting and spreading, fading, flaring up again, dimly illuminating a tiny section of the vast darkness. I judged it to be perhaps a quarter of a mile from the river, not too close but close enough for us to see, close enough for us to hear. There was another anguished scream, and I knew I couldn’t stand it. I knew I would go mad with anguish myself.