Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  Chris fired, and a brave crashed against the barricade, clutching his chest, blood spurting through his fingers. Before Chris could grab another rifle an Indian leaped on him. Chris seized his wrist and slung an arm around the back of his neck and dipped forward abruptly, sending the Indian flying over his shoulders. Chris seized a rifle, fired again. Jeremy scooped up two pistols and shot a brave who leaped over the logs, shot another who rushed him. The chaos was unbelievable, a mad frenzy of carnage, bullets flying, savages howling, blood splattering over the sand. Em and Corrie and I loaded the guns, quickly, quickly, never quick enough, it seemed, our eyes smarting from the smoke.

  I tossed a rifle to Hurley and loaded a pistol and Marshall seized it and ran to the other side of the barricade. I picked up a rifle, and a Karankawa leaped over the logs and landed only a few feet away from me, yowling with savage glee. He was tall and brown and muscular and his face was painted black with streaks of white in a jagged lightning pattern. His long, coarse hair was tangled, and his black eyes held mine for an instant, burning with lust as he let out another hideous yowl. I raised the rifle and pulled the trigger. There was no streak of orange, no puff of smoke, no crushing thud against my shoulder. The rifle wasn’t loaded. The brave cackled and leaped forward to grab me. I saw his eyes burning and saw the flash of silver and heard the deafening crunch as Em slammed her candlestick against his skull with all her might. His skull split open. Em dropped the candlestick and covered her face with her hands. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her down as arrows flew.

  We loaded guns. The men were all back at the barricade now, firing rapidly. No more Indians leaped over the logs. Time passed, and the howling grew distant, and then, miraculously, it ceased altogether. The smoke lifted, and it was over. For a while it was over. Marshall and Hurley were heaving the corpses over the logs, into the water, and the river carried them away like bobbing logs. Blood dried on the sand, a dark red-brown, and arrows dotted the logs like porcupine quills. I stood up, my muscles sore, my bones aching. The sun was high, the sky a cloudless blue. Across the river the woods were still, tree trunks brown, leaves dark green in the sunlight, the bank deep with blue-gray shade. There was no sign of the Karankawas.

  “Is everyone all right?” I asked.

  “I got a lump on my head the size of a egg,” Hurley said.

  “I feel like hell,” Marshall added.

  “Me, I feel terrific,” Randolph said, “rarin’ to go again. Ain’t had so much fun since I don’t know when.”

  “Jesus,” Em moaned.

  I wiped sweat from my brow. “No one’s hurt?”

  “Can’t hurt men mean as us,” Randolph informed me. “It ain’t possible.”

  “Will they be back?”

  “Not soon,” Jeremy replied. “They’ll regroup and count their losses and have a big powwow about it. Probably won’t hit us again till late afternoon, if then.”

  “They’re not going to let us go,” I said in a flat voice.

  Jeremy shook his head. “We’ve killed too many of their men. They can’t go back to camp now without captives or—souvenirs.”

  “You mean scalps?” Em asked.

  “The Karankawas have never heard of scalping. That’s a European refinement that hasn’t spread to these parts yet.”

  “European? What do you mean?”

  “Before the white men came, the native American Indian didn’t scalp. He merely decapitated his enemy. During the colonial conflicts, when the French and English were battling it out up north, our distinguished British officers placed a premium on the—uh—heads of the French, and the Indians brought them in by the basketful.”

  “Jesus! I’m sorry I asked.”

  “As you can imagine, it got rather cumbersome, all those baskets piling up, and then someone had the bright idea of just accepting the hair. It was much tidier. Scalping caught on fast. The French placed a premium on English scalps, too, and later on, in various parts of the country, a bounty was placed on Indian hair. White men are much better at scalping than the Indians, better knives, I suppose.”

  “So if the Karankawas don’t take us alive, they won’t take our hair,” Randolph said cheerily. “They’ll just whack our heads off and wag ’em back to show all their pals.”

  “You go to hell, Dick Randolph!”

  Randolph grinned and began to rub the butt of his rifle.

  “They’ll hit us again,” Jeremy said calmly, “and we’ll hold them off and deplete their ranks even more. There were maybe fifteen in the woods yesterday, twenty-four more came down in canoes. That’s forty, more or less, and we picked off at least twenty of them.”

  “Hardly enough left to shake a stick at,” Marshall observed.

  “They’ll hit us this afternoon, and when they fail to overpower us they’ll either give it up or send for more reinforcements.”

  “Dandy,” Em said.

  “If they’re not going to hit us again till late afternoon, I suggest you men get some rest,” I said. “You’re going to need all your strength.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Randolph agreed. “The rest of you chaps sit down a spell. I’ll keep watch. If I see ’em comin’, I’ll holler.”

  I picked up the canteens by their straps and began to distribute them to the men. Randolph lounged against the barricade, idly watching the woods, and the others sat leaning against the logs in a patch of shade, sweaty, exhausted, faces drawn. Corrie and Em began to gather wood for a fire, and after the men had all had water I put the canteens aside and began to hunt through the packs for food. All my senses seemed to have been deadened by the carnage, the horror, and I moved as though in a trance.

  “Corrie’s putting coffee on,” Em said, kneeling down beside me. “I could use something a hell of a lot stronger, I don’t mind telling you. Do we have any food left?”

  “There’s some dried beef, some mushrooms, the bag of berries Corrie picked yesterday. It’ll have to do.”

  “You’re so calm, luv.”

  “I’m not calm at all. I’m just—numb.”

  “I’m still shaking all over. I’ve never killed anyone before. When I hit that Indian with the candlestick I just—I just meant to stun him. Jesus, his head cracked open like a melon—”

  She shuddered and reached for the bag of berries.

  “There was blood all over the candlestick,” she said in a shaky voice. “I felt like hurling it into the river.”

  “Did you?” I inquired.

  Em got to her feet and brushed sand from her skirt. “Of course not,” she replied. “I wiped it off and stuck it back in my bundle. A girl has to be sensible about these things, luv.”

  She began to pass around the berries, encouraging the men to eat heartily, and I handed out the beef and mushrooms. The sun had passed behind the woods now, and the trees spread long shadows over the sand. Although it was still intensely hot, we were no longer in the blazing sunlight. The smoke had long since lifted, but the acrid smell of gunpowder still hung in the air along with other smells too horrible to contemplate. The river flowed with a soft, lapping sound. Leaves rustled in the trees behind us. The birds had begun to twitter again.

  Jeremy relieved Randolph after a while, and I joined him at the barricade. The others were very quiet. Chris and Corrie were sitting together, her head resting against his shoulder, his arm curled loosely around her. Hurley lazily cleaned rifles, and Marshall was stretched out in the shade, sound asleep. Em was going through her bundle, examining her treasures in an effort to keep her mind off what was to happen. I began to tug at one of the arrows sticking in the log in front of me.

  “Be careful,” Jeremy warned. “They’re poisoned.”

  My hand flew back as though it had been stung. Jeremy broke the arrow off and tossed it into the river.

  “They dip the arrowheads in venom,” he explained. “A Karankawa arrow will kill, even if it doesn’t hit a vital area. Takes the poison no more than ten or fifteen minutes to do its work.”

  “
How horrible.”

  “They’re not a particularly engaging tribe,” he admitted.

  I gazed across the river. The trees were still, serene. The bank was deep with blue-black shade. Sunlight sparkled on the river, paler now, a dull silver. I wondered if they were watching us, planning their next attack.

  “Are we going to get out of this?” I asked quietly.

  “Of course we are. The worst part’s over.”

  “What if they send for more reinforcements?”

  “Don’t anticipate, Marietta. Try to put it out of your mind. It’ll all be over soon.”

  He spoke in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice that was extremely reassuring. I believed him. I had complete confidence in him, and I wondered how I could ever have thought him carefree and irresponsible. The handsome, jaunty, fashionably attired rogue of New Orleans seemed a figment of my imagination, and it was hard to believe that this strong, resourceful leader was the same person. I had misjudged him dreadfully, had been completely misled by the dazzling and glamorous facade he had assumed in the city. Facade? No, that Jeremy was real, too, merely another part of an extremely complex man who was tough, tender, gallant, grave, full of contradictions.

  He noticed my hands and took one of them in his, examining it with a frown creasing his brow. My palms and the insides of my fingers were badly scorched, the skin stiff and dry and lightly discolored.

  “Do they hurt?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I hardly noticed. They’ll heal.”

  He folded his fingers over mine. “You women did a wonderful job,” he told me. “We couldn’t have made it without you, you know. You were very brave. Most women would have gone to pieces.”

  “I doubt that. We’re not the weak, clinging creatures you seem to think we are, Jeremy.”

  “I’m finding that out.”

  “You’ve obviously known the wrong women,” I said.

  He grinned, thinking, no doubt, of the lovely, pampered, perfumed creatures he had known so well, and in such quantity. I felt a slight twinge of jealousy as I thought of that parade of beautiful women who had spoiled him so thoroughly ever since he was in his early teens. He looked at me, the grin still playing on his mouth, and I was acutely aware of my tattered, filthy dress, my tangled hair and dirty face. He seemed, again, to read my mind, and the grin softened into a smile.

  “I remember a gorgeous creature in a sumptuous red brocade gown,” he told me, “her skin like pale satin, her hair glistening like dark red gold, and you know what?”

  “What?”

  “She didn’t look half as lovely as you look right now.”

  “Filthy? Bedraggled?”

  “Brave. Courageous. Unafraid.”

  “I suppose you thought I was merely another pampered courtesan,” I said, looking away from him.

  “I thought you had the saddest eyes I’d ever seen, lass,” he replied. “I thought I’d never seen a creature so completely vulnerable, so intent on hiding it.”

  I gazed at the river, thinking of his words, moved by them and amazed, too, for Jeremy Bond understood things about me no other man had ever even suspected. He knew the woman behind the mask, the Marietta who kept those secret, innermost feelings carefully concealed and faced the world with a defiant show of strength and thorny pride. Several moments passed in silence, and then he placed his hand on my shoulder.

  “Get some rest, Marietta,” he said.

  “I don’t think I could.”

  “Rest,” he ordered. “We’re going to need you later on.”

  I left him and sat down in the shade and listened to the hum of the mosquitoes and the lapping of the water, aching all over and utterly depleted. I refused to think of the horror that had engulfed us such a short while ago, and I refused to contemplate the repetition that would surely occur before the afternoon was over. I thought, instead, of the remarkable man to whom I owed so much and wondered what I was going to do about him when this was over, when we reached civilization again.

  I pulled my bundle over and rested my head against it, closing my eyes, trying to rest. A fine coat of perspiration covered my skin. It was so dreadfully hot, even here in the shade, and they were out there, waiting. Randolph and Jeremy made light of it and presented an optimistic front, pretending the worst was over, but they were worried nevertheless, deeply worried. If more reinforcements came, if more and more canoes glided down the river, filled with those savage warriors with their bows and arrows and clubs.… I shut the horror out of my mind. With great difficulty, I forced myself to think of nothing but the gentle lapping music of the water, the soft, splashing melody that was so soothing, so relaxing. Peaceful.

  Corrie shook my shoulders, and I sat up, startled. She smiled a reassuring smile. I rubbed my eyes, and then I heard the shrill, cawing noises coming from across the river and saw that the men were all in position around the barricade, waiting with rifles cocked.

  “How long have they been—making that noise?” I asked.

  “They just started a little while ago,” Corrie said calmly. “You’ve been sleeping for almost four hours, Miz Marietta. Mister Jeremy said let you sleep, you needed it, not to wake you up till we needed you.”

  I stood up and looked across at the opposite bank. The hideous, birdlike cries grew louder, nightmare sounds that seemed to split the air. Late-afternoon sunlight bathed the bank, mud and mossy rocks gleaming, vines dangling from the trees in thick loops. The Karankawas were not yet in sight, working themselves up to a frenzy behind the trees, cawing, yelling. Corrie saw the expression on my face and took my hand, giving it a tight squeeze.

  “It’s not going to be nearly as bad this time, Miz Marietta. There aren’t nearly as many of them. Chris says they’ll probably fall back real soon. They won’t even get across the river.”

  Her voice was calm and gentle, betraying not the least sign of fear. She squeezed my hand again, small, fragile, lovely, so much stronger than I was, so confident in her newfound love and the happiness it brought her. She let go of my hand and told me that she and Em had already loaded all of the extra guns and had everything set up.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said.

  “I’m not afraid, Corrie.”

  “It’s going to be over soon. Chris promised. We’re going to get out of this and then everything is going to be beautiful.”

  She believed that. She was still young enough, still innocent enough to believe everything would be beautiful. I had believed that once, so long ago, but life had taught me that such belief was fantasy, wishful thinking. Perhaps it would be different with Corrie. Perhaps everything really would be beautiful. She was in love with Chris and Chris was in love with her and he was a fine young man, honest, stalwart, strong, tender, too, not afraid to express his tenderness.

  “We’d better get ready,” I said quietly. “They’ll be coming any minute now.”

  Corrie smiled again and nodded. As she did, the Indians came tearing out of the woods, yelling and dancing on the bank and waving their bows in the air. It happened quickly, so quickly, in one terrible instant that seemed, strangely, to take forever. The Indians started across the river, and the men began to fire, and the arrows flew before Corrie and I could step over to where Em was kneeling beside the neat row of rifles lined up on the oilskin. I saw the brave leap into the water, splashing it vigorously with his feet, saw him draw an arrow from his quiver and position it in his bow, all in that instant as the rifles exploded and puffs of smoke rose and the shrill screams grew even more frenzied.

  The brave let loose the arrow and it spiraled through the air, the feathered end fluttering. I saw it coming. I heard the zinging whistle it made and heard the splatting thud as it jammed into Corrie’s shoulder. Her eyes grew wide with amazement, and she frowned, bewildered. I grabbed her hand and pulled her down to the sand and gathered her into my arms, stunned, unable to believe what had happened. The arrow protruded from her shoulder, long and sleek, still quivering slightly as she moved in my arms, straight
ening up, that bewildered look on her face. Deafening explosions sounded all around us, so loud we could no longer hear the yells. Arrows thunked into the logs.

  “It didn’t hurt, Miz Marietta,” Corrie said. “It dun’t hurt at all. I can’t—I can’t feel anything but a—a stinging, a funny stinging feeling in my shoulder.”

  “It—it’s got to come out, Corrie.”

  “I’ll be all right. I’ll just rest here. Miz Em needs you to help reload the rifles.”

  “Marshall’s helping her. See? He’s kneeling beside her, helping her. Sit still, Corrie. Please, please just sit still.”

  “It’s going to be all right,” she said.

  “Of course it is.”

  “It’s just my shoul—shoulder.”

  Chris dropped down beside us. His face was taut, cheekbones chalky. Corrie smiled at him, her small pink lips curving sweetly, her dark eyes glowing as she looked into his. His blond hair was damp with perspiration. There was a powdery black smear on his cheek. His brown eyes gave nothing away.

  “I’m going to have to pull it out,” he said.

  “Sure. I’se not—I’m not scared.”

  “Hold her arms,” Chris ordered.

  I held her, and Chris pressed his lips tightly together, grasped the arrow, and jerked quickly, savagely. Corrie gasped, her whole body twitching violently, but she didn’t cry out. She didn’t scream. The corner of her mouth was bloody where she had bitten it. Chris staunched the stream of blood that flowed from her shoulder with his handkerchief and told me to hold it there. He handed me a canteen and looked into my eyes, and I nodded, knowing as he did, knowing we must keep it from Corrie.

  “I’ve got to get back to the barricade,” he told her.

  “’Course you do. You’re the best shot there is. Mister Jeremy said so. I’m going to be all right. It don’t hurt, Chris. Honest it don’t.”