The Bride and the Buccaneer

by Darlene Marshall

  It took an eternity until he was fully inside her, stretching her, filling her in a way that was almost uncomfortable, yet unbearably exciting. She thought she would die if he didn't move, if she didn't move, and then she felt it, his hips rocking against hers, a languid, slow, drawn-out movement that would bring him almost all the way out, and then gliding back into her.

  Sophia moaned, which earned her another, "Shhhhh...," but she could feel the tension in the arms gripping her, and while his slide through her senses was exquisite, it wasn't nearly enough. She took the hand low on her belly and positioned his fingers where she wanted them, her hand covering his so she could show him how she wanted him to press down there while she pressed up. He followed direction well, only losing his rhythm when muscles she didn't know she had tightened around him, gripping him. She didn't think they could be closer than they were already with him inside her and wrapped around her and covering her with his hard leanness.

  Then he whispered, "Now, kitten, come now," and bit her where her neck and shoulder met. She arched up against his hands and rocked against him until the release overtook her and she felt him clench and pull out and spend himself onto the ground.

  He held onto her until her breathing returned to normal, then took his hand off her mouth. She could feel him redoing his buttons behind her, and she wiggled and pulled at her trousers until she was decently covered again.

  "Now go to sleep," was all Jack said, and while Sophia wanted to give him a good piece of her mind, she fell asleep as she was framing

  the rousing tirade she'd unload on him on the morrow.

  * * *

  Birdsong and the sky lightening to a pearly gray brought Sophia awake. She was surprised she'd slept at all, but felt amazingly well rested. Jack was already up and had water set to boil over the fire for their morning tea.

  "I was sorry to learn you can't cook, Sophia. Guess it will be up to me to make sure we don't starve on this trip."

  His actions backed up his words. He was cutting up some of the meat from the night before and when the water boiled he made them tea, then threw grits in the remaining water to cook.

  "You stir those grits so they don't stick to the pan."

  He rummaged through the pack and brought out a paper packet.

  "Here. I took some sugar because I know that's how you take your tea."

  Sophia took the packet from him and looked at it, then at him.

  "That was thoughtful of you, Jack."

  "You don't have to be so surprised, Sophia. Being thoughtful— hasn't anyone ever done something for you just to make you happy?"

  Sophia turned the packet over in her hands and looked down at it, not at him. "Yes, but it is always—unexpected."

  He squatted down next to her and put his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her head up so she was looking at him. "Maybe it's time you learned to expect—and accept."

  He kissed her on the lips, then rose to go pack up their bedding and supplies.

  They spent the morning walking around the old mission, but found nothing that looked like it could be a clue to the location of the gold. Sophia was feeling frustrated and angry, more so than she would have been had they not found the initial clue and the doubloons.

  "Where is the damn lock for this key?" she finally yelled.

  Jack lifted his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow before putting it back on.

  "We'll look for it later, Sophia. We have to return to St. Augustine."

  "What? Why? We cannot return to the city until we find the next clue or the gold!"

  "We have to go back. There's someone there we have to fetch for Reuben."

  "But what about the treasure?"

  "This is important, too, Sophia." Jack's words were clipped and his lips drawn tight. "I owe Reuben, and I am not going to put off my debt to him."

  "But the gold, Jack—"

  "Is money all you ever think about?" he snapped. "Money can't buy happiness, Sophia!"

  She stalked up to him and stood almost toe to toe.

  "That is a lie," she hissed. "Forget your stupid platitudes, Lucky

  Jack. Let me tell you what happiness is. Happiness is a roof over your head that doesn't let the rain in. Happiness is enough fuel to keep fires burning in the winter. Happiness is having enough food to eat, clothes to wear, shoes on your feet, and servants who are paid a decent wage. Happiness is money for the physician and coins for medicine when your mother is dying! That is happiness, Captain Burrell, and with Garvey's Gold I can buy all the happiness I want!

  "Don't you dare pity me." She sobbed, taking a swing at the hand he reached out to her, but he caught her clenched fist and pulled her to him. "Oh, Sophia, Sophia," he whispered in her hair. "There is so much happiness I want to give to you, and not an ounce of it can be purchased with money."

  She gave in to her frustration and her feelings and let it all out, the fear that was always in her mind, wondering if there would be food tomorrow, coal tomorrow, shelter tomorrow. Jack was whispering soothing words to her but she barely noticed, because what was important was he was holding her, rocking her gently, making her feel warm and protected in the circle of his arms. It made her feel cherished.

  It made her feel loved.

  She sobbed harder.

  Jack held her while she cried herself out. It had been a long time coming, and he seemed to understand.

  She sniffed and gave a watery chuckle, wiping her sleeve across her face.

  "Most men would run screaming into the river rather than deal with a weeping woman," she said hoarsely.

  "I have sisters. You get used to it."

  "Jack, what are we going to do?"

  He didn't pretend not to understand.

  "I don't know, Sophia." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her curls. "I just don't know."

  CHAPTER 19Rain fell 'til dawn, but it didn't stop the market at the Plaza in St. Augustine from being in full operation by mid-morning. A big sale was underway and the narrow streets were crowded with wagons, horses, and pedestrians.

  One pony cart was being driven by Captain Burrell, his wife beside him with a lacy parasol in soft shades of rose shielding her from the sun drying the puddles to steam. The captain stopped to joke and exchange greetings with some of the Americans in attendance, his tobacco-colored coat and a broad brimmed planter's hat illustrating, as much as his pretty wife, his status as a successful and shrewd businessman.

  "Will you be traveling up to Savannah after this?" a planter from St. Marys asked.

  "Not just yet, I don't believe," Burrell said with an easy grin. "I'm here today to shop for Mrs. Burrell, and we'll need to get things settled before I can go home."

  The auctioneer ascended the platform, his stock arranged behind him and in a holding area off to the side, and he started with a few quick sales of no special note, just to get the crowd warmed up. He built up to the top merchandise he was saving for the end of the auction.

  "Now, who'll bid me five hundred dollars American for this prime young buck," the auctioneer called, gesturing to the young man standing beside him. "Jeremiah's sixteen years and promises to grow strong as an ox. He'll work all day for you picking your cotton and is fresh from Havana, healthy and bright eyed."

  The bidding rose to seven hundred dollars before the sale was concluded, and the black teen walked away, the property of a planter from Cowford.

  The slave auction continued past noon, and Captain and Mrs. Burrell watched the proceedings with interest but made no move to bid until the auctioneer came to his final batch of slaves.

  "This wench is Betsy, twenty years and house-trained as a lady's maid. She'll make a fine and valuable addition to your property, gentlemen, tractable and docile. Now, who'll give me an opening bid of one hundred fifty dollars? Come, come, gentlemen, gals like this are going for five hundred dollars in Georgia!"

  The woman, Betsy, stood in her indigo dress, her head covered by a faded piece of red cloth twisted into a turban. She
towered over the auctioneer and stared over his head, her eyes focused on something far away, her expression blank. Her cinnabar skin bespoke her Indian heritage, and one of the bidders called out he wasn't interested in a Seminole maroon who'd run off at the first opportunity.

  "Naw, this gal won't run. She's been taught better," the auctioneer said with a grin.

  "One hundred fifty dollars."

  "Captain Burrell bids one hundred fifty dollars American, gentleman. Who'll give me one hundred sixty dollars?"

  The auction continued with the captain bidding against a portly banker who kept wiping his red face with his handkerchief. He scowled when Burrell put in a bid of two hundred fifty dollars. The entire time the slave stared unseeing over the crowd, swaying slightly on her feet, and Captain Burrell's new wife sat in the cart, twirling her parasol and dabbing at the perspiration on her upper lip. She put her gloved hand on her husband's arm and whispered something in his ear.

  "Just a moment, Mr. Crosby," Burrell called to the auctioneer, "I'll take a closer look at what I'm bidding on."

  He climbed down from the wagon and headed up on the stage. The slave ignored him. Crosby, the auctioneer, was reluctant to let Jack have a closer look, but he had no choice, not if he wanted to continue to sell in the city.

  Captain Burrell put his fingers under Betsy's chin and lifted it to the right and left, studying her face. He said something to her the crowd couldn't hear, but she opened her mouth so he could look inside at her teeth.

  He put his hand on her upper right arm and turned her around, then took hold of the fabric of her cotton dress in both hands and ripped it down the back.

  The crowd gasped. Betsy's back was a cross-hatching of red welts down to her waist, some of them still oozing blood.

  '"Tractable and docile?' Gal doesn't get whipped like this for being 'tractable,' Mr. Crosby," Burrell said. "More likely she'll scalp my wife while she's sleeping!"

  The crowd was muttering now, not over the whipping, but over Crosby's attempt to hoodwink them with mislabeled merchandise.

  "Oh, Captain Burrell, do not buy that savage!" his wife called out in her English accent. "I would fear for my very life with her nearby!"

  "This gal just needs a firm hand." Crosby scowled. "She was sassing her mistress and not doing what the master told her."

  "I think you have a great deal of nerve trying to pass this wench off as an appropriate servant for my wife," Captain Burrell said. "She'll make a decent field hand for two hundred fifty dollars, but I'm not going to get any work out of her in this condition, not right away. That's a generous offer, Crosby, and you know it."

  "Any other bids, gentlemen?" the auctioneer asked weakly. When there were no other bids forthcoming, he said, "Sold, to Captain Burrell, for two hundred fifty dollars."

  Captain Burrell pulled out a roll of banknotes and completed the transaction. Betsy bent over slowly to pick up the cloth bundle at her feet, then clutched the rags of her dress to herself and shuffled across the stage, ignored now by Crosby and the other bidders as the auction continued. The gentlemen wanted to get the business transacted before the afternoon heat became oppressive, and they were anxious to retire to the cool interiors of the local taverns to eat a hearty meal and congratulate themselves over their shrewd bargaining.

  Captain Burrell waited next to his wife at the pony cart, but didn't offer his new property any help when she jerkily climbed into the back of the cart. He took the horse's head and walked the cart the few blocks to his residence in St. Augustine, exchanging quips and greetings along

  the way with neighbors he passed on the street.

  * * *

  When they entered the courtyard of Captain Roberts's house, Sophia jumped off the cart and hurried inside while Jack carefully lifted Betsy Factor from the back of the cart.

  "I'm sorry," he murmured when she couldn't hold back a cry as his arm brushed across the open stripes on her back. He staggered slightly under the weight of the tall slave woman, but got her inside to the cot Luisa had prepared in the room off the kitchen. There was a window there and a slight breeze ruffled Sophia's curls as she tossed her bonnet and gloves onto the kitchen table and washed her hands in the water sitting nearby.

  "Lay her on the cot, Jack," Sophia said unnecessarily, but she was feeling useless and needed to say something. She'd felt worse at the market, twirling her parasol and simpering like a fool while they bided their time and waited for Reuben's wife to be sold on the block like a piece of livestock.

  She shuddered at the memory. Anti-slavery tracts were sold at the bookstore in Portsmouth, but she had not thought about the reality of slavery until she saw the men and women in the market, heard the haggling over infants priced under one hundred dollars as families wept at being torn from one another.

  "Sophia! I need your help here," Jack snapped at her.

  Sophia shook herself out of her reverie and hurried over to Jack's side. Betsy lay on her front on the cot, her eyes closed.

  "Let me, Jack," Sophia said, rolling up her sleeves. She took the vinegar and water and crouched down next to the nearly unconscious woman.

  "Betsy, I need to clean your back. It will hurt, but then I will put salve on it and I can give you laudanum for the pain."

  Betsy licked cracked lips and whispered, "Yes'm."

  Jack squatted down next to Sophia. "Betsy, Reuben sent us. We're going to take you to him when you can travel."

  The cracked lips moved slightly. "Reuben?"

  "Yes, Betsy. I'm Reuben's 'Captain Jack.' Nothing bad is going to happen to you now."

  The woman didn't say anything more, but silent tears rolled off her face, soaking the ticking of the mattress beneath her. Jack muttered something and left the room to allow Sophia and her patient privacy.

  Sophia felt tears rolling down her own face as she dabbed as gently as she could at the wounds on Betsy's back. Betsy's fingers dug into the cot and she moaned at the vinegar burning its way across her flesh, but Jack had insisted, saying it was necessary in the tropical climate to take whatever steps one could to prevent infection.

  Afterward Sophia smoothed salve onto the shredded skin and I covered it with a clean cloth she lightly bound 'round the woman's ribs. Betsy remained conscious long enough to raise herself on her arms so Sophia could get the bindings around her, then she dropped off into sleep, a grayish cast to her skin.

  Figuring rest was what Betsy needed most, Sophia left her and cleaned her hands before joining Jack in the parlor. He had a glass of rum in his hand and was staring out the window into the walled garden. His shoulders were stiff, and without stopping to think why, Sophia went to him and put her arms around his middle. Jack turned from the window and setting down his glass, hugged her fiercely.

  "Oh, Jack, that was horrible," Sophia said, unmindful of the tears still rolling down her cheeks. "How could anyone do that to her?"

  Jack hugged her again before reaching into his jacket for a handkerchief. He wiped it across her cheeks and then handed it to her. She blew her nose, but when she went to hand it back a shadow of a smile crossed his face.

  "You keep it for now, Sophia."

  He released her and reached for his drink, staring into it.

  "It is horrific, Sophia. And if I go back to Georgia, I will have to live with it every day." He looked at her, his face bleak. "Some of my family's money is in shipping, but the rest is in crops. Cotton, mostly. My mother wants me to come home and take over because I'm the oldest, but I cannot do it."

  "Can't you—can't you just free your slaves and hire workers?"

  "No. The law doesn't allow private manumission. Only the state legislature can act on that, and they're not inclined to do so." He sighed. "Even if I had the right, it would bankrupt my family and I cannot do that to my mother and brother."

  "You may not be able to help all the Negroes, Jack, but you helped one today," Sophia said stoutly. "Two, counting what you did for Reuben."

  "Two hundred fifty dollars isn't much t
o pay for Reuben saving my life, Sophia."

  "Maybe not, but the value of Betsy to Reuben is priceless, Jack." She turned to walk back to check on her patient, but paused in the doorway.

  "And let me just add, Captain Burrell, you may not believe money can buy happiness, but today I saw evidence your money has purchased a great deal of happiness for Reuben and Betsy."

  Satisfied she had the last word, this time, Sophia walked to the back

  room and smiled as she heard her husband's soft laugh.

  * * *

  Betsy awoke long after Jack and Sophia had eaten their dinner, but Sophia kept a hearty soup of ham and peas warm for her. The slave woman sat up and ate two bowls of soup before Sophia checked her bandages and re-applied the salve.

  "It looks to me like the best thing for you now, Betsy, is food and rest," Sophia said when she retied the covering over the lacerated back.

  "When will I see Reuben?" Betsy asked. She already looked better than she had hours ago. Rest, medicine, proper food, but most of all, the prospect of being reunited with her husband put the shine into her eyes.

  "Soon as you are ready to journey, but that won't be for another week, if you continue to mend," Jack said, coming into the kitchen and carving himself a slice of watermelon. Sophia was addicted to the sweet treat, and Luisa made sure there were always some on hand now. Jack joined Sophia at the table.

  "Reuben wants you to join him as soon as possible, but he does not want your health to become worse than it is already."

  "How did you become separated from your husband, Betsy?" Sophia knew she should let her rest, but her curiosity was eating at her.

  "We camped over near Alligator, months back," Betsy said, her face looking haggard again. She spoke with a lilting accent new to Sophia's ear, an accent that hinted at her Indian upbringing. "I was fetching persimmons and a raiding party down from Georgia caught us. They couldn't keep the Seminoles, but they took all of us who were maroon, or black, say we was runaways."