Savage Surrender

by Natasha Peters

  Occasionally I felt inexplicably sick and weak myself. I would vomit over the side and then lie on the deck in the sun, gasping and shivering. The seas were calm and I didn't feel really seasick. I told myself that it was lack of sleep and proper nourishment.

  Every so often I would go below and find that Garth had thrown off all his covers and was trying to get up.

  "Got to warn them," he shouted incoherently. "Tell them. Too late. Too late! Get out of my way!" He put his hands on my throat and started to choke me. "Got to tell them. Don't stop! Don't stop!"

  I managed to break his hold and persuade him to lie down. "It's all right, Garth," I told him. "I'll warn them, I promise. But you have to rest. Do you understand that? Rest! Lie back and be quiet, please. Everything will be all right."

  He fell back exhausted and I covered him up again. I sat on the other bunk and sighed deeply. I didn't know how much longer I could endure this. Would he ever be well? Had the fever damaged his brain? Suppose I were trapped on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic with a madman? There was no escape. My nerves were frayed and I was so tired I could hardly stand, but I was too worn out to sleep.

  "Elise." He was calling me. "Elise!"

  "Yes, Garth, I'm here, what is it?"

  He clutched my hand. His eyes were wild, bloodshot. "Don't leave me. I—I have something to tell you."

  "Shhh, I'm here. What is it? What do you want to tell me?"

  "The story of my life," he whispered conspiratorially. "About Grandfather, and Highlands. And Georgette, too. You have to know about her. Never—never loved—The women. Never loved any of them, Elise. You were right. I couldn't love them. Grandfather was a stable lad. Ran away. Shall we go there together? Come with me, say you'll come with me."

  "Of course I will, Garth." I stood up and tried to pull my hand away. "You ought to sleep now. And I—I have things to do."

  But he wouldn't release me. I sat on the bunk and he talked, talked for hours, telling me all the things I had once wished he would tell me so that I could know him better. Everything was garbled and out of sequence, but soon I was able to piece together a picture of his whole life, from childhood on, until he met me. I was in his ramblings, too. I was the French Bitch, the Girl with the Damning Black Eyes, the Hellcat, the Savage, the Firebrand. I tried occasionally to slip away but he held me fast. I was forced to relive our meeting in the forest, our farcical marriage, the voyage on the Charleston Belle. I heard about his other women: the Maries and Louises and Annettes. I seemed to have been the only Elise among them. There were women in every city and town in the Americas and in Europe as well. And there were duels, debts of honor paid by sword and gun, nights spent whoring and gambling, hard rides over rough roads on secret missions, kisses stolen from countesses, princesses, schoolgirls and shopgirls. There were enemies, real and imagined, in Louisiana, the United States Congress, the British infantry. General Ross qualified as an enemy on two counts, as a British soldier and as my lover. There was the wistful longing for a son, the soaring love of his country and his home, his eagerness to serve his President. And underlying it all was a deep loneliness. Joseph had known about it, had sensed it. And until that night I hadn't believed him.

  He forced me to listen while he laid himself bare and stripped away all the pretense and posturing that he had always used to disguise himself when he was with me. Several times I cried out, "Stop, Garth, please! I don't want to listen to this. I don't! Please let me go—" But he ignored me and kept on, alternating between lucidity and complete irrationality.

  "I was born at Highlands. The ancestral home. I was the first and only son of an only son. Grandfather bought the estate in England where he had worked as a boy. I've been there: drafty halls and wind-blown hills. They told me it was beautiful country. That the woods were full of grouse and the streams brimming with trout. That's true, to a point. But her beauty pales beside America's. You can see in Europe what centuries of war and plague and famine have done to civilized countries. America is still intact, still pure and whole. It's wild and free. Wild and free."

  He had grown up the pampered only son in a family of four children. He had had tutors and slaves of his own, but at twelve he had left home and run away to sea as a cabin boy on a French merchant ship. His father brought him home and extracted a promise that he would not run away to sea again. He ran away, but not to sea: the next time he lived for a year with the Choctaw Indians, learning their language and their ways. His despairing father told him that he was free to live as he chose, after he finished his schooling. Garth attended the University of Virginia and read law for a while, then he volunteered his services to President Jefferson as a scout on the Louisiana frontier.

  Family business took him abroad for a few years after his father died. He lived in Paris and London and became familiar with the manners and modes of living in the world's more sophisticated capitals. He traveled extensively, to Russia and the Orient, to India, Africa, Egypt. His facility for languages stood him in good stead, and his wits and intelligence made him an invaluable man for his fledgling government to have in their employ. When he returned from Europe he married his neighbor, Georgette Charpentier. It was his father's dying wish that their two plantations be merged, and Garth wanted to gratify the last request of the man whom he felt he had disappointed by his way of living.

  "I didn't want to step into another man's shoes. Had to make him see that the role of gentleman planter didn't suit me. Bored by that society. Farming is a bore. Georgette was attractive. And intelligent. At the time I thought that's what one looked for in a wife. Have to take one's pleasures elsewhere, with the others. Dull woman. Mean. She loved Highlands. I didn't mind paying for her pleasures. Better than giving her—" His voice faded.

  "—part of yourself," I finished for him. I looked at him. He had fallen asleep, his fair hair falling over his forehead like a little boy's. He must have been an impossible child, spoiled and undisciplined and selfish, but a determined individualist and lovable in spite of himself. Would I want my son to be like him? I pulled myself up with a start. There would be no son, there couldn't be. I drew away from him, torn between regret and thankfulness.

  His fever broke that night. He stopped thrashing and fell into a deep, heavy slumber. He lay so still that I thought he must be dead. I touched him. His skin felt cool for the first time in days. He would be all right now. He would live.

  He opened his eyes and said my name. "Elise."

  "Yes, Garth, I'm here." I knelt near the bunk and tilted a cup of water to his lips. He drank thirstily.

  "Where are we?" He was weak and exhausted, but he sounded rational.

  "Somewhere off the Florida coast, I think," I told him.

  "Joseph? Where's Joseph? We should be—"

  He was becoming excited. I put my hand on his arm and said, "Joseph is dead, Garth. Don't you remember?"

  He closed his eyes. "Indians. I—I remember now. We shouldn't have gone there. I should have known. My fault."

  "It's not your fault, Garth. It's nobody's fault. You're alive. That's all that matters now. You'll get stronger every day and soon we'll be on our way again."

  "Joseph." He sighed deeply. "A good man. My—my friend. I'm sorry we had to fight. He was a good friend until then."

  "His friendship never stopped, Garth. I know that. He never hated. He didn't know how to hate. He was better than both of us."

  He slept again. That day I sighted the coast and scouted around for a likely-looking campsite. I found a wood-fringed inlet and dropped anchor. Through the spyglass I studied the shoreline for any signs of Indians. I saw none, but then they would hardly be waiting to greet us. I would have to be on my guard. Garth was calling me. I sighed and went below.

  I saw that he was trying to sit up. "Save your strength," I told him. "We're going to have to go ashore for water, and I've decided to make camp until you're well."

  "No," he said. "We can't afford the time. You have to take us to New Orleans, Elise."
r />   I looked at him. He didn't remember anything about last night. He was behaving just like the old Garth: arrogant, imperious, demanding.

  "I don't think so, my friend. This is my ship now, and I say that we're putting ashore until you're well. I can't sail this thing and look after you at the same time, Garth. We're just lucky we didn't have any heavy weather while you were ill."

  "How long—how long since the attack?" he asked.

  "Almost a week."

  "A week! No, we can't, it's impossible! We have to get to—"

  "Stay where you are until I tell you to move," I said firmly. "If you don't I'll tie you down, Garth. I mean it."

  He glared at me. "You wouldn't dare."

  "Oh, yes I would. I have enough to do without you getting under my feet. Try to get some sleep now. It's the best thing for you." I started up the ladder.

  "Where are you going?"

  I didn't even pause but said over my shoulder, "I'm going to pitch a tent."

  It was low tide and I started to carry the things we would need ashore. I waded through the shallows with my goods piled on my head. The undertow wasn't strong but there were occasional tricky cross-currents, and once I was swept clear off my feet and my load fell apart in the water. Fortunately, I wasn't carrying food on that trip, only clothing and a canvas sail. For several days after that I found stray items of lingerie and underclothing washed up on the beach.

  I found what looked like a suitable place to build our shelter in a spot just off the inlet. A broad sward of silky grass was surrounded by tall pines and hemlocks. There was a stream of fresh water about a hundred yards away. The beach at that point was full of driftwood for fires, and I saw fish and waterfowl in abundance. All I had to do was build a waterproof shelter, I thought, and Garth and I could live quite comfortably during the weeks of his convalescence.

  The invalid needed to be kept warm. I toyed with several designs for our shelter, and finally decided to construct an Indian-type wickiup like those I had heard about from trappers on the river who had been west. This was to be a cone-shaped dwelling with a vent at the top for smoke so that we could have a small campfire inside the tent. I felled and stripped five sturdy saplings that afternoon and lashed them together at the top with ropes from the Sea Demon. The most difficult part was draping the stiff canvas sails over my framework, lashing them to the upright poles, and driving stakes into the ground at the bottom to keep the skirts from blowing up in a high wind.

  It was nearly sunset by the time I finished my task and swam out to Sea Demon for the night. I was proud of my handiwork. Our dwelling was about ten feet high at the center and twelve feet at the base, with plenty of space for two sleeping pallets—at opposite sides of the floor—and for storing our food and clothing and ammunition. Plans were whirling around in my brain. I would build a bed of stones under the campfire. The stones would hold the heat from a small blaze very well, and would serve as a sort of stove. Tomorrow, after I got Garth settled, I would explore the woods for herbs and grasses that I could use to season our food. Joseph had shown me which ones to look for, and I hoped they grew this far south. I would also keep a sharp eye out for traces of Indians. I should have done that first thing: if I saw any we would have to pull up anchor and move to another spot.

  I pulled myself aboard our little schooner. My arms ached and I was shivering slightly, for the heat of the day had disappeared with the sun. I went down to the cabin to change into some dry clothing. Garth was awake, I saw, and he had lit the lantern.

  "Why did you get out of bed?" I demanded angrily. "I told you not to."

  He grinned weakly. "Call of nature, my dear. How did your day go?"

  "Splendidly, unless I've landed us in Indian territory," I said. I stripped off my wet clothes and dried myself with a scrap of muslin. He was watching me closely but I didn't care. He was too sick to be interested in doing anything more than look, and privacy was too much to ask in these circumstances. "I'm moving you ashore tomorrow morning, Garth," I told him. "It won't be easy, but I'll help you all I can. The tide will be low at mid-morning and you can wade in without too much difficulty." I dressed and moved around the cabin, putting things away, preparing another load to take ashore in the morning. I set out soap, water, and a shaving brush.

  "What's that for?" he growled.

  "Haircut and shave," I said. "There's no point in bathing you until we're on land and I can heat your water, but this can't wait." I mixed up some soap in a cup until I had lots of lather.

  "It certainly can wait," he said sharply. "You're not going to bathe or shave me. I don't need a bath. I don't—"

  I said briskly, "You stink, Garth. And besides, I'm the one who has to look at your face, not you. I like it better clean-shaven. You don't want to get lice, do you?"

  He narrowed his eyes until they were the merest slits. "You think this is very funny, don't you? You think I'm at your mercy, that you can do what you like to me now! Well, Madame, you're wrong. Get away from me!"

  I applied a brushful of lather to his furry cheek and he knocked my hand away. The next time he opened his mouth I stuck the soapy brush into it. As he sputtered and growled I said with icy calm, "I don't find this one bit amusing, Garth. If I had wanted to take revenge on you I would have let you die of your wounds and thrown your body to the fish. But I kept you alive so you could get me to New Orleans, and after that I don't care what happens to you. We have a long way to go together and I want to make it as easy for myself as possible. I don't want to fight with you and I expect you to be sensible about your illness. You were sick, very sick. You very nearly died, and you won't be well any time soon. You'd better get that through your stupid head. You're making it harder for yourself by fighting me, and every time you waste energy arguing with me you're prolonging your convalescence. I won't ask you to do anything unreasonable, and when you're better you can take care of your own toilette. But I have to live with you and wait on you, like it or not. The least you can do is cooperate with me."

  I let him rinse his mouth. "Goddamn you, Elise," he muttered.

  "He did damn me, Garth. When he sent you into the forests of the Lesconflairs four years ago. Close your mouth now—"

  In the morning I helped him dress. We only spoke when it was necessary, and then just a few syllables. He was still angry with me over the shaving business. He wasn't used to being thwarted by a woman. He crossed the cabin floor without my help, but by the time he mounted the ladder to the deck he was out of breath and had to sit down and rest.

  After a minute he lifted his head and said, "All right, Madame Slave Driver."

  "You can rest a little longer," I told him. "There's no hurry."

  "No." He sounded determined. "Let's get this nonsense over with. I suspect I'll be resting for a long time."

  He leaned heavily on me as we crossed the deck. I helped him over the side and into the ocean. We slogged through the waist-high waves with agonizing slowness. Finally we came out of the water and he collapsed on the beach. I had sun-warmed blankets already waiting and I wrapped him up immediately. His face was pale and pinched looking and his chest was heaving. We waited until he felt rested, then he nodded at me and signaled his readiness to go on. I led him to the cove where I had erected our tent. When he saw it he stopped short and stared. His eyebrows went up and he looked down at me. He didn't say a word.

  The inside of our dwelling was warm and dry. The opening flap faced away from the prevailing winds. We could hear the surf rumbling softly over the sand. Home. Until Garth was well again. I hoped he would mend quickly.

  When I helped him into dry clothes I saw that the wound in his shoulder had broken open and was oozing blood. As I changed the dressing he said irritably, "What did you do to me, Elise? Bury one of your razors in my flesh?"

  He lay back on his grass-filled pallet and I drew the blankets over him. "You didn't know I was a surgeon, did you?" I said lightly. "I saved the bullet for a souvenir. Remind me to show it to you sometime. I was q
uite proud of myself."

  "I'll bet you were. You must have derived great joy from digging the point of your dagger into me. I can just see you: lips curved into a malicious smile, eyes shining with the prospect of inflicting pain without meeting any resistance from me. And now you can gloat over me, can't you? You like seeing me this way, helpless and weak. Well, don't expect me to thank you for your dutiful attentions, Madame. None of this would have happened if you hadn't been so hysterical when you thought your honor was being slighted."

  "You'll have to forgive me, Garth," I said, "if I don't agree with your conception of rape as a kindness. I'm not sorry I tried to kill you. I'd do it again."

  "Get out of here," he snarled. "I'm sick of the sight of you."

  I picked up my rifle and left the tent. I told myself that he wasn't really angry with me, that he was just annoyed at himself for being sick and for showing weakness. Impatiently, I brushed away a tear that had started to roll down my cheek. He must hate depending on me for everything. He hated and despised me. I knew him so well now, well enough to understand his cruelty, if not to forgive it.

  That night I prepared a fish stew and opened a bottle of burgundy.

  "Burgundy?" the invalid muttered. "Surely I had some pinot—"

  "You'll need a lusty wine to make this stew palatable," I informed him. I dug at the cork with the tip of my knife.

  "Dear God, and you're going to taint it with cork besides! Let me do that." I handed the bottle over to him.

  "You must be feeling better," I remarked. "Your temper is improving."

  He tasted the stew. "You astonish me, Elise. Your cooking is as bad as ever. You seem to have mastered everything else: navigation, sailing, nursing, even tent-building and hacking a living out of the jungle. How is it you didn't teach yourself to cook?"

  I tried to control my anger. I was unsuccessful. I picked up the pot of stew and hurled it out into the night, and did the same with the bottle of burgundy, his cup, his plate, and his spoon.