Savage Surrender

by Natasha Peters

  "You bloody arrogant bastard, you can eat dirt for all I care!" I shouted. I hoped he starved to death. I gathered up some blankets and my rifle and stormed out into the darkness. I slept on the grass outside the tent that night, with my hand clutching the stock of my rifle. I dreamed of Indians and death, and slept poorly.

  When I entered the tent the next morning I saw that he was asleep. His arm was thrown over his face, and his blankets had slipped down so that his entire upper torso was exposed. He looked deceptively innocent and vulnerable. I drew the covers up and tucked them around him. He opened his eyes and grasped my hand.

  "Good morning," he said.

  "I thought you were asleep." I tried to pry his fingers loose. "You have remarkable strength for a sick man."

  "Aren't you even going to ask how I'm feeling today?"

  "No. I don't give a damn how you feel." I reached for the knife in my belt. "Now let me go before I cut your hand off."

  He sighed and released me. "Life has made you hard, Elise."

  "Is that so surprising? Life hasn't been easy for me. But I've survived."

  "You'll have trouble finding a ship that will take you to France, you know. This is wartime."

  "I don't care. I'll find some way of getting away from this wretched country if I have to swim." I heard an animal howl in the depths of the forest. "I hate this land of yours," I said, shivering. "If I ever get back to Paris, I swear I'll never leave it."

  He smiled. "You'll find Paris dull after all this, Elise. The men there are as pale and as weak as women. All they care about is the latest gossip from the theater and from court, who is being cuckolded and by whom, who has been seen on whose arm. Surely you don't miss all that?"

  "All that and more. I would like to sleep in a real bed and eat real food. I want to be warm and dry and safe from savages. We'll probably be attacked at any minute. Not that you care."

  "Oh, I'm sure you'll be able to fight them off, Elise," he said airily. "You're rather a tigress yourself. But the Seminoles that live this far south are generally peaceful. I could probably persuade them not to slaughter us."

  "You speak their language?"

  "I could make myself understood. The Seminoles were originally Creeks in exile. Wanderers. They speak a Creek dialect."

  "I thought you were more familiar with the Choctaw dialect," I said without thinking.

  He blinked. "That's true. How did you know about the Choctaws?"

  It would be so easy to use his rambling confessions as a weapon whenever I was angry with him. Easy and unfair. I said, "I don't recall. Perhaps it was Jacques who told me. You lived with them when you were a boy, didn't you?" I picked up our water buckets and walked out of the tent before he could answer.

  I made my way to the stream. While I was bending over I suddenly felt dizzy and sick, and I had to sit with my head on my knees until it passed. What was wrong with me? This was no seasickness. And I couldn't be—pregnant.

  No, it wasn't possible. It couldn't happen. It would be so unfair, so unthinkable. I wasn't supposed to be able to get pregnant again. I assured myself that I was just tired and weakened by anxiety and overwork, that I was upset with Garth, and that I might even have caught a touch of some kind of Florida jungle fever. Yet deep in my soul I knew it was true. I threw myself on the ground and wept until I was weak.

  "Damn him. Damn him to Hell!" I sobbed.

  I wanted to kill it, to kill myself. Why, why did it have to happen now, when we were so near the end? After we reached New Orleans I would never see Garth again. And when I got back to France my belly would be big with his child. Oh, God, it was so unfair, so cruel.

  I dried my eyes. He must never know, never. I wouldn't tell him. He would only laugh at this new twist of fate, as he had always laughed at my troubles. Mother of his child! This would give him a new hold over me. He might not let me go home! Oh, I hated him, I hated him!

  I could hardly bring myself to look at him for the rest of the day, I was so angry and so ashamed. I answered his questions with one-syllable replies, gave him his meals without fuss or comment, and failed to respond to his barbs.

  "You can't wait to get away from me, can you?" he said at dinner. I gave a short, bitter laugh. "You'll miss me, Elise. I've been a challenge to you, haven't I? I'll hate going back to dear Georgette. Something must be done about her. I can't permit her to go about enslaving my mistresses, can I?"

  "Why don't you divorce her?" I asked softly. "You don't love her."

  "No," he admitted, "I don't love her."

  I set down my plate. I had hardly touched my food. "You'll never leave her, Garth. Marriage is a very safe institution. You don't have to get too involved with anyone else because you're a married man. The Creole mammas in New Orleans can't pester you, your mistresses can't plague you to marry them, and because you are rich and good-looking you can have any woman you fancy, just for the asking. Or even without asking."

  "Except you," he said. "You've given me more trouble than any twenty other women."

  "Your Maries and Louises and Annettes?" I said viciously before I could stop myself. His mouth was open with astonishment. I bit my lip. "Bloody bastard," I muttered, and I ran out of the tent into the cool night air.

  Rain fell all the next day and night. I hated being confined with him, and so I busied myself with mending and cooking and a hundred other distractions in the hopes that I could avoid conversing with him. He watched me closely, watched my every movement without saying a word. I fancied I could feel the heat of his gaze on me even when my back was turned. I became self-conscious and tense. My movements were awkward and clumsy and my hands began to shake. Finally I whirled on him and cried out, "Stop watching me, can't you? Leave me alone!"

  He looked hurt. "Surely a sick man should be allowed some entertainment, Madame. What do you want me to do, turn my face to the wall and dream about my Maries and Louises and Annettes?"

  "I don't care what you do," I said angrily. "Just stop bothering me."

  "I beg your pardon, Madame Fournier," he said with mock politeness. "By the way, isn't it time for my bath?"

  "You'll get no more baths from me," I told him. "If you're well enough to plague me you're well enough to take care of yourself."

  "I'm making remarkable progress," he said complacently. "Your beauty is having a wonderful effect on me. I find the black tangle of your hair so charming, and I love that revealing tear in your blouse and the smudge of dirt on your cheek. You are truly a goddess, Elise." He laughed softly.

  I stared at him. My eyes were wide and my cheeks were flushed from the stuffy warmth in the tent and with anger. "You—you swine," I whispered hoarsely. "If you think for one minute that I enjoy slaving for you—in this muck and slime and stink—" Tears started to spill. The rain was falling in torrents outside the tent but I didn't even see it as I ran outside and stood in the downpour, shaking and sobbing. I was so lonely—and so sad. In a minute I was soaked to the skin. My hair was hanging lankly around my face and shoulders, and my blouse—the blouse with the revealing tear—clung to my body.

  I did not hear him approach. All at once his arms were around me and he was saying, "Come back inside, Elise. I shouldn't have teased you. Forgive me, Elise. My poor darling, dear Elise."

  My heart split wide open. I let him hold me close, and I buried my face in his chest and clung to him. We stood in the pouring rain, holding each other while thunder rolled ominously around us and occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the clearing with a searing white glare.

  Finally I came to my senses. "And just what do you think you're doing out of bed?" I said fiercely. "Do you want to kill yourself, you damned fool? If you think I need your comfort and consolation you're wrong, I don't."

  We walked slowly back to the tent. Garth was bent over slightly, holding his side. When we got under shelter again I threw another log on the fire and helped Garth change into dry clothing. Then I went over to my side of the tent and stripped off my sodden garments.
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  "Elise," he said softly. I ignored him. I toweled my head vigorously and combed out the tangles. "Elise," he said again, "lie with me tonight." He wasn't whining or begging, he was just asking: lie with me tonight.

  I wrapped myself in a blanket and went over to him. "I suppose you're going to tell me you're cold," I said.

  "No, but you are. You're still shivering. Please, Elise. Just for tonight. I won't hurt you."

  My eyes filled with tears. "I—I can't," I whispered.

  "Just tonight. I won't ask again."

  We didn't speak another word. I slipped under his blanket and lay with my back against the curve of his body. Every part of my body felt stiff, as though someone had wound me up with an invisible spring. I felt sad and frightened of the future, and I found his nearness more comforting than any words. He fell asleep with his arm loosely draped over my waist, and I continued to stare into the smoldering embers. A revelation more shattering than any other had come to me when he held me in his arms in the rain. I loved him. I had always loved him, from the very first moment I saw him, and I would never love another.

  The rain stopped before dawn. I slipped away from him to add some fuel to the fire, then I dressed and went out to greet the first light of day.

  Later that morning I changed his bandages. When I was finished I sat back on my heels and said, "Listen to me, Garth. About last night. I don't want you to think that there will be any repetitions. I won't allow you to use me to ease the boredom of your convalescence. I—I'll sleep on the Sea Demon and let the panthers have you." I knotted my hands together. "I felt—distraught—and I needed someone, that's all. But it can't happen again. Not here, and not when we're at sea. I'm not going to beg or threaten you. I'm just asking you to give me your word that you will respect my wishes and keep your distance. You—you owe me that much, I think."

  "Of course, Elise," he said. "Whatever you say." He reached for my hand and I saw the old arrogant gleam in his eye. "You have my word. I'll wait for you to make the first move."

  I drew my hand away and said with the old aplomb, "You will have to wait a long time, my friend. Perhaps forever."

  "I'm a patient man. When I know a thing is worth waiting for."

  Garth grew stronger day by day. He insisted on doing as much for himself as he could, and one week after we made camp he managed to walk a few hundred yards down the beach and back again without my assistance.

  "Well, I'm fine now, Elise," he said briskly. "We'll break camp tomorrow and set sail—"

  "You're being a little hasty, aren't you?" I said. "Give yourself more time."

  "I've had enough time!" he exclaimed impatiently. "How long has it been since the attack? Nearly three weeks! It's practically November, and we still have a thousand miles to go!"

  "Don't be idiotic, Garth," I said crisply. "You know how difficult sailing is when you're in the best of health. Do you think I want you to collapse over the wheel and leave me in sole charge of that wretched schooner? No, thank you."

  "I'll be perfectly all right," he said irritably. "I am not a child, Elise. I've been wounded before, lots of times. Nothing is gained by babying oneself." He turned on his heel. "We leave tomorrow morning."

  "Very well," I said calmly. "You may leave, but I shall remain here. I will not sail with an incompetent captain."

  "Incompetent!" His face darkened. "All right, stay here and let the alligators eat you alive, if the Indians don't get you first."

  "Bon voyage, then. You might want to start dismantling the tent now. You'll need the sails."

  "Damn you, Elise," he said grimly. I noticed that he was looking pale and shaky. We stood silently for some minutes, watching the waves breaking out past where the Sea Demon was anchored in the inlet, listening to the sigh of the wind in the hemlocks and the raucous calls of the brightly-colored birds that flew and wheeled over our heads. After a while he said, "God, I'm tired. I hate this—this boredom. I hate—doing nothing!" He balled his hands into fists.

  Impulsively, I put a sympathetic hand on his arm. I wanted him to know that I understood his frustration and anger. He brushed me off and stepped away from me. "I don't want your comfort, Elise. Any more than you want mine." He walked up the beach to the tent and disappeared inside.

  Why did it have to be this way? Why did we have to be either raging hot or deadly cold? Why did our relationship have to be a thing of violent extremes instead of gratifying serenity?

  Heavy rainstorms and strong winds confined us to our tent for the next four days. Garth told me, rather unnecessarily, that winter was the rainy season in this part of the country, and that we had been remarkably fortunate in the good weather we had enjoyed so far.

  "I have never seen rains like this," I grumbled one afternoon as I peered through the open tent flap at the torrents of water that poured out of the sky. "I can't imagine why this whole country doesn't just melt into the sea."

  "Surely it rains in France," he said distractedly.

  "You're not even listening to me," I said irritably. "Oh, I know only boors and strangers have to resort to the weather to find a topic of conversation—"

  He chuckled. "And which are you, Elise?"

  I sniffed. "I am not a boor, therefore I must be a stranger."

  "You don't look like a stranger. You look like a girl I once knew. She had fine large breasts and damning black eyes, and she was most beautiful when she was angry, which was most of the time. I made it a point to annoy her constantly because I loved her best that way."

  My heart gave a queer little jerk when he said that, but I cocked my head and said, "Well, I won't be angry with you again if you like it so much. You may tease me as much as you like. I won't rise to the bait and I won't let you upset me."

  "Excellent. No more tantrums, no more flying objects, no more sullen dark looks and pouting lips. No more stumbling out into the rain and crying on one's shoulder. And if I should steal a kiss or squeeze one of those lovely breasts—"

  "You wouldn't dare!" I said hotly. "You promised!"

  He laughed aloud, a rich, warm sound. "You see how rash it is to make promises you can't keep?"

  I tossed a piece of driftwood on the fire. "I really despise you, Garth McClelland," I muttered. "I liked you better when you were almost dead. At least I had some power over you then."

  "But you do have a power over me, Elise," he said in a different voice. "You always have, and I'm only beginning to realize it."

  I felt the blood rise to my cheeks. I stirred the ashes of the fire with a stick and thought bitterly. You are the one with the power, Garth. You can still reduce me to jelly with a look and a word, and there's nothing I can do about it.

  "What shall we talk about next?" he asked. "Love?"

  "I don't think either of us has very much to say on that subject," I said dryly.

  "And why not?"

  "Because I have never been in love," I lied, "and you don't know how to love."

  "Is that so?" he mused. "I had several wildly exciting affairs in my youth. And I discovered eventually, as most youths do, that passion is not love, although I guessed that love was probably passion. But I haven't thought that part through yet."

  "I'm not surprised. I wouldn't think you had too much time to think about such things," I said.

  He laughed. "Well done, Elise! You're quite right: I don't think about them at all, or I haven't until recently. Must be a sign of advancing age."

  I smiled at him. "Are you willing to share your discoveries with an amateur, Monsieur? What do you think about love now?"

  "Oh, love is arbitrary, unexpected, and annoying. But like a case of sickness or a bothersome itch, it will soon go away if it is ignored. And you, Elise. What, in your opinion, is love?"

  I gazed at him thoughtfully over the tongues of flame that licked at the piece of driftwood. "Love?" The chasm in my heart widened slightly. "Love is pain."

  Several minutes passed. "Love is rather hard to describe, I fear. Go to sleep now, Elise," he sai
d. "If the weather is clear tomorrow we'll pull up anchor and sail. I'm tired of this place."

  I didn't argue with him. He was assuming command again and I was happy to relinquish it.

  The next day dawned bright and clear and Garth was true to his word. We dismantled the tent and carried our belongings out to the Sea Demon. We spent the rest of the morning bailing water out of her hold and preparing her to sail. I had some misgivings about Garth's ability to endure the rigors of a voyage so soon, but I didn't voice them. He was determined to sail, and I was just as eager to be on my way to New Orleans. I looked forward to the remainder of the journey with a mixture of hopefulness and dread, and I felt almost sad about leaving our little Paradise. He would not be so tolerant of me once we were under way, I knew. His mission would take precedence over everything else. And the tensions of the voyage would be very hard for him to endure without some sort of release, especially when there was a woman on board.

  We had been at sea about a week when I looked down at myself and shuddered. I looked like a slattern. My blouse was hanging open so that my breasts were practically spilling out. My sleeves were rolled up over my elbows like a common laborer's. My breeches were stained and torn and I was still carrying my dagger in my belt, as though I were some kind of buccaneer! And my feet were so grimy and rough that they might have been a boy's.

  Somewhat impulsively I scrubbed myself vigorously with seawater and lavender soap, put on a dainty green frock, and dabbed myself with perfume. My hair was hopeless, frizzy and dry from the dampness and exposure to the sun, but I brushed it until some of the gloss had returned, and put it into two braids which I pinned up on top on my head. Little black tendrils escaped and waved around my face, but on the whole I looked much neater and rather pretty, I thought. I had to go barefoot because my kid slippers had been corroded with mildew and my sturdier boots would not be appropriate with my gown.

  I swirled around the tiny cabin, curtsying to invisible gentlemen, pretending I was in Paris at last, the toast of Napoleon's—no, Louis'—court. I wondered how much fashions had changed. I would have so much to catch up on, so many people to see. Parties and balls, the opera, the theater.