Bonds, Parris Afton

by The Flash of the Firefly

  His blue eyes were like icebergs. The only live element in the dead face. "Filthy whore of Babylon!"

  Anne stepped back as if she had been slapped. Otto continued, his voice rising to a shrill pitch. "You fornicated with the heathens! You bear the fruit of your sins!"

  He shoved the table to the side, and the Bible slid off, falling near the fire. The pages began to curl from the heat of the flames. But Otto did not notice. He advanced on Anne, his face purpling with the outrage that had festered inside him since the day of her return.

  "And the Word says, 'O daughter of Babylon, you devastated one, how blessed will be the one who repays you with the recompense with which you have repaid us.'''

  Anne turned and grabbed at the door, but Otto seized her by the shoulders. He hurled her from the door, and she crumpled against the wall. "No, Otto!" she begged. "No!"

  But her pleas fell on deaf ears. With eyes that glowed fiendishly, Otto walked purposefully toward her. " 'How blessed will be the one who seizes and dashes your little ones against the rock.' '' Standing directly before her, he kicked her once, then again in the stomach.

  The breath went out of Anne. A sharp pain scissored through her womb. She doubled up, wanting to scream, but the pain consumed the effort.

  "Whore! Fornicator!" Again the terrible thrust in her stomach. She felt something tear inside and then the warm filling of internal blood. Otto drew back for another kick. Anne rolled away, so that he lost his balance and tripped over her instead.

  It was at that instant that she saw, only inches from her, Otto's axe. She struggled free. Her hands grabbed the axe's wooden shaft. It was heavy. Otto was rising now, stumbling to his knees. '' 'Those destined for death, to death.' ''

  He advanced on her. His eyes gleamed now like two red-hot coals.

  Anne swung out blindly. There was an insane scream. Otto caught at his left hand that now dangled from his wrist by a bloody tendon. The eyes that fixed on hers were those of a madman. A snarl erupted from his mutilated mouth. Anne threw open the door and ran out into the cold night.

  xxv

  Anne heard Otto scream an unintelligible obscenity, but she did not look back until she was clear of the pool of candlelight that flooded the dead winter grass before the cabin. Then, within the safety of the trees, she turned, saw him stumbling about the yard as if blind, still shouting, but with bouts of coughing now interspersed.

  And that was the last she knew before she pitched forward onto a bed of dry leaves. But even the blessing of unconsciousness was brief, lasting only minutes, before the pain brought her back to reality. In spite of the cold, sweat broke out on her forehead as the muscles beneath her swollen, hard stomach fought to rid her body of the six-month fetus. Her entire body arched with the contraction. The dead leaves crumbled within her fists. Now that her throat ached to cry out with the pain that was ripping through her, she was forced to bite her lips until the taste of blood echoed the warm fluid pouring from between her legs. "Oh, God! I want the baby!"

  Another contraction tore into her, pushing her insides out, and her whimperings became low moans. Her teeth gritted, and she groaned. "Let it live, dear Lord, please!"

  The tearing. It was all she was to remember later. That, and the unbearable silence afterwards. There was no small cry from the tiny thing that lay between her legs. Anne did not know how many minutes passed before her breath returned and she was able to roll to a sitting position. Blood still poured from her but not as copiously. Tears slid down her cheeks as she looked at the child of her flesh―a little gray, wrinkled thing that was a boy.

  Anne became like an animal then, driven by primitive instinct. Meticulously, she covered the baby and the bloody mass of afterbirth with dead leaves before ripping her petticoats into strips and binding the cotton material about her crotch to stanch the afterflow of blood.

  Her mind was now as coldly clear as the February heavens above. She had watched Indian women, following the migration of the buffalo, birth their children in a field, and within the hour, the child at their breast, rejoin the tribe already miles ahead.

  She had survived everything else. She would survive this. She knew where she would go. It was foolish, she knew, after all that had passed between them ...the hatred, the mistrust, the hurt. But there was nowhere else to go. And she cursed herself for her weakness, even as she stealthily stole a blanket from the lean-to and saddled the horse Rafael had provided for her.

  In the early morning darkness she struck out southward. It took four days of following the San Bernard River before she sighted late one afternoon the motley conglomeration of log cabins and clapboard houses that comprised Brazoria, which still had more of a look of civilization about it than Adelsolms. It had been four days of hard riding―of intense cold and painful hunger, of getting lost when she missed the main branch of the San Bernard, of almost falling into a band of Karankawa Indians.

  That had been the worst―hiding in the thicket with her hand clamped over her horse's muzzle, while the five warriors moved by on foot, calling every so often to one another with good-spirited shouts. One warrior had come so close she could hear the clink of the bits of tin he had affixed to the fringe of his moccasins. The sound had brought back memories that made her shudder.

  All in all, though she was exhausted, scratched, and chilled as solid as ice, and her stomach craved hot, juicy sausage and Matilda's sauerkraut, she was proud of her feat. Alone she had traveled over a hundred miles through Indian country. She had survived cold, hunger, and a miscarriage, sleeping only in snatches, afraid to relax her guard―though one night she had slept safely in the hollow of a lightning-struck oak, while a panther screamed in the distance like a baby―and at that thought, the ache that was not physical began again. The loss of the baby was another mark that life had imposed upon the girl, who had arrived in Texas as unmarred as if she had just been broken from a mold.

  Anne urged her horse forward, moving among the cabins until she reached the far one that belonged to the Hamlins. As if she had sighted the visitor coming, Dorothy waited at the door. "Anne Maren," she said when Anne slid off her horse and walked toward the cabin.

  "You Texians never fail to surprise me, Dorothy. I show up one year after meeting you, and not only do you still remember me but you show no surprise that I'm alone and looking like some camp follower."

  "It don't take you long to learn to expect the unexpected here. Come in, I've got coffee-real coffee. Paw got it in Galveston in trade for some of the chickens."

  "Galveston―that's where I am going," Anne said, drawn to the fireplace by the warmth of the dancing flames.

  "Figured as much."

  Anne looked at the young girl in amazement.

  "A woman traveling without her man," the girl went on, "most likely is running away―and there's only one place to run to around here―if you wanna keep alive―the coast."

  Anne half-fell into the rocker with a sigh. "Aye, things have happened that have made it impossible for me to stay with my husband."

  Dorothy took out the coffee, holding the canister as though it contained precious jewels. "And you're looking for Brant?"

  "Aye," Anne admitted, wondering if the girl would refuse to help her. "I was hoping you could loan me some clothing that was more presentable." Anne spread her hands, indicating the torn, bloodstained clothes.

  Dorothy dipped water from the crock into the coffee pot. "I reckon you're mighty hungry."

  The potatoes Anne had dug out of the field of an abandoned cabin had been her only sustenance. But her mind was not on food at the moment. She leaned forward. "Then you'll help me?"

  The girl eyed Anne levelly. "It ain't gonna do me no good not to. If Brant Powers wanted to take me fer his wife, he would―whether you were around or not. But he don't want to." She gave a lopsided smile. "So it looks like Willie's stuck with me."

  George Hamlin returned later in the evening, and over a dinner that Anne consumed like a buzzard, she told him of her plight, omitting t
he more grizzly details.

  "Once you git to San Felipe," Hamlin said, "you just might get a stage that'll carry you to Houston―if it ain't raining. Flatbeds sometimes hire out of Houston for Galveston. But don't expect much there. It's a muddy, disease-ridden town of mostly tents." He shoveled some peas in his mouth, then said, "But at the harbor you'll find some respectable-like inns―and some that ain't so respectable. Try the Duck Inn."

  Anne was amazed that the father and daughter asked no questions, extending their generosity impartially. When she left the next morning with clean clothing and fresh provisions for her trip, Anne took Dorothy's hand. "I hope this Willie is deserving of you."

  "And I hope you find the happiness you're a'looking fer, Anne. If you're ever around these parts, please stop by."

  The San Felipe-Houston stage was out of circulation with a broken axle, but it mattered not to Anne, since she did not have the ten cents a mile fare and could not bring herself to ask the Hamlins to loan her the money. Dressed in the dull brown woolen skirt and jacket, she went on through San Felipe ,ignoring the people who stared at the lone woman on horseback. To reach Houston, and Galveston, it took her five more days of comparatively easy traveling since the early March weather seemed almost balmy, in spite of the nip of cold at night.

  A year ago she would not even have considered traveling alone on horseback for more than two hundred miles. But she had done it. Had proven herself capable. But now what?

  She had reached the end of her destination. She could go no farther―without money, for the bluegreen of the Gulf stretched beyond Galveston's sandy beaches, filling the horizon.

  The ramshackle town of Galveston served as the base for the Texas Navy. It would be here she would find him. In the mouth of the Brazos two brigs tugged at their chains. But it was hard for Anne to make out their names though the mizzens of both brigs flew the flag with the lone star.

  And what if one of the brigs was not the Seawasp? Fool! Fool! But it seemed he had always been there when she had needed him, beginning there on the Texas coast twelve months earlier. And now she had come full circle.

  There was no decision to make. Digging her heels into the horse's flanks, Anne urged him forward over the low windswept sand dunes. As she rode down into Galveston's mud-rutted streets, a few people stopped on the boardwalks to stare at her. But she was used to this by now. She halted before a two-story clapboard building, whose whitewash had now weathered to a dingy gray. Above its upper balustrade a placard said Duck Inn.

  Her gaze ran over the horses hitched out front. The sorrel was not there. Still, not knowing what else to do, she dismounted and, tieing her own horse to the post, went inside. The smoke-filled room, the hum of conversation, and the warmth from the fire enveloped her, welcoming her like old friends.

  And then there was an old friend, calling out her name. "Anne! It can't be you!" Ezra caught her up in a bearlike hug.

  "Ezra! Oh, Ezra!" Anne blinked back tears of relief as the giant set her from him.

  His sharp eyes took in her disheveled appearance, her tired face. Why had she left Adelsolms? And was Brant the reason she was here? Aware of the gaping of the customers, he said nothing, but led her to an empty table. "You look like you could use a tankard of hot rum."

  Grateful for Ezra's tactful silence, Anne sipped at the rum, holding the warm mug between her hands until she had composed herself. "What has happened since last I saw you?" she asked. Where was her bravery? Why could she not outright ask him what she really wanted to know?

  Ezra pulled out his pipe, knocked its corncob bowl on the table's edge, and tapped in the fragrant tobacco. "We seem to be winning the war against Mexico on the seas. And the day before yesterday, word came that France has recognized our Republic, admitting our commerce on a most-favored-nation basis."

  Anne sensed by the way he hurried his words that there was something Ezra was holding back. "Is that everything?" she asked, meeting his reluctant gaze.

  Ezra's eyes clouded over. "Rafael was murdered last month."

  Anne's cup paused midway to her mouth. "Dear God, no! What happened?"

  "No one knows. He was found about a day's journey out of San Antonio―with a bullet through his back. We think someone probably mistook him for a Mexican nationalist. His sister took it very hard."

  "What a tragic mistake―no one could have cared more about the Republic." A vision of the flashing black eyes in the aristocratic face filled her mind, and she could not help but think what a waste of such a gentle human being―while the more cruel ones lived on. Why could it not have been Otto instead?

  Anne looked at Ezra once more, willing herself to speak the words. "And Brant―is he all right?"

  Ezra set the pipe aside. "We sail with the evening tide, miss. Brant's on board the Seawasp now, going over the provisions."

  Anne drew a deep breath. "Will you take me to him?"

  The longboat rocked gently in the rolling waves. Its bow kicked against the side of the Seawasp and Ezra's hands steadied Anne as she caught hold of the rope ladder and climbed upwards. A young sailor wearing duck trousers with a heavy, blue woolen jacket and red, knitted stocking cap helped her aboard. She stood there, waiting for Ezra to come aboard, hearing the whistling of the wind in the masts, the slap of waves against the brig's broadsides, and the strident call of the seagulls overhead. There were the smells of wet ropes, tar, and damp canvas and the sight of the crew preparing to sail to distract her.

  "This way," Ezra told her, taking her arm and leading her toward the stem of the ship. Climbing a set of shallow stairs to the quarterdeck, they passed through the narrow companionway that brought them to another staircase. And here on the highest deck of the brig, the poop deck, Ezra halted before a heavy door of the finest, white oak timber. To the left stood a seaman with a bulbous nose, dotted with blackheads, who eyed Anne lewdly. Ezra ignored his sloppy salute and knocked on the door.

  At the rough "Yes?" Anne's heart seemed to plunge to the deck, and she wished she looked more presentable. Purely a feminine response, she told herself, as she smoothed back her wind-whipped hair, tucking the stray curls into the knot at the nape of her neck. Besides, Brant had more than once seen her looking her worse.

  "I'll leave you," Ezra said, opening the door for her.

  After the dark of the companionway, Anne's eyes had to adjust to the setting sun's brilliant light that poured into the cabin from the bay window of the brig's stem. Her gaze swept the low-ceilinged room, the maple four-poster bed, the round dining table bolted to the floor, before being drawn back to the center of the room where stood a massive, walnutpaneled desk. On it were polished brass instruments―a sextant, a telescope, and a compass―and strewn papers and maps.

  However, it was the man sitting behind the desk who dominated the room. The sun was at his back, so Anne did not see the momentary look of surprise followed by a joy that lightened the rough-east face. Joy that was just as swiftly replaced by the guarded mask of dispassion.

  There was only the groaning of the ship's timbers to break the silence. Unnerved by the desert brown eyes that seemed to penetrate to the very core of her innermost thoughts, Anne said, "Once again, I am forced to ask for your help."

  Brant rose and came around from behind the desk. He moved easily with the rolling of the ship. Close now, separated from her by only the antique Brussels carpet, he leaned back against the desk's edge and folded his arms across his chest. For a moment he considered her. "You seem to easily forget that when we last parted, you found me disgusting. Why should I help you? What can you offer me?"

  Anne held her tongue. She was in no position to anger him. "I must get away, Brant."

  "So, you couldn't take the hardships of frontier life after all," he mocked. "And just where did you want me to take you―to Sir Donovan?"

  Anne was surprised herself that not even in the back of her mind had she given thought to running to Colin. In truth, she did not know exactly what she had wanted. At the time of her miscarr
iage it had seemed important only to escape Otto. Where made little difference.

  But now that she was here, facing Brant's contemptuous sneer, she wondered why she should not go to Colin. It would save a month or more of waiting. Why should she stay in Texas―a land she hated―with a husband she hated and who hated her?

  She felt Brant's close scrutiny and said haughtily, "Why shouldn't I go to Colin? At least he never barters for a woman's body."

  "He doesn't?"

  Would he deny her her chance to escape Otto? Anne planted her fists on her hips. "Will you help me or won't you?"

  "And I ask you again―why should I?"

  Exhaustion, combined with the horrors of the past days, snapped the tight hold Anne had kept on herself. "Why should you?" she hissed. "Because you owe me that much! Because you raped me―like a beast of the field! It was because I carried your child that I was spit upon in Adelsolms like a whore. And it was because of you, because I carried your child, that Otto tried to kill me!"

  At last, Anne saw the dispassion on Brant's face drop away as the narrowed eyes widened in incredulity. "Aye!" she cried, throwing herself against him. "Otto is alive. And your bastard's dead!" Her fists struck out blindly at Brant's chest and face. "And I'm glad! Do you hear me! I'm glad your bastard's dead!"

  "You little bitch!" The back of Brant's hand came swinging down across Anne's face, hurling her backward to the floor.

  Dazed, bleeding at the corner of her mouth, she looked up at the man who towered over her. "I'll take you somewhere," he said. "I'll take you to hell with me. And when I finish with you, when I've used you like the selfish, self-centered little bitch you are, then I'll see that you get to your beloved Colin. If he'll have you, then."

  Looking like some fiendish pirate, Brant laughed lowly. "But that's still a long time away."

  XXVI

  Brant swung from Anne and stalked to the door. "Tucker, no one's to enter or leave my cabin," he snapped to the burly seaman on guard before disappearing down the companionway.