Seneca Surrender (Berkley Sensation)

by Gen Bailey

  Sarah shook her head, but held her tongue.

  He was frowning. “I doubt that we have the right roots and herbs to put on the wound to prevent infection,” he went on to say, “but there is water near here and it can be boiled and placed on the wound to speed its healing. The water is perhaps a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet from us here in the cave, but it is downhill from this place, and it is in the complete dark.” He looked at her sheepishly. “I fear I may not possess the strength to take the path to the water.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Good, but bring a good fire stick with you when you go there. You will need light to find the stream.”

  “And what shall I collect the water in? ”

  “I have several bags, there by the fire.” He nodded in the direction indicated. “They should do. There is also a large, hollowed-out rock that can be used to gather water, if you need it. Take more than one of the fire sticks with you when you go there, not simply one. Do not let the fire go out. If it looks as if the fire is dying, return here while there is still light by it. Once blackness falls, it is complete and there is no way to tell where you are. You could get lost. Do you understand? ”

  “Aye, I do.”

  He breathed in deeply and settled back on his own bedding of pine boughs and blanket. “I will reload the gun while you are gone.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Please do.”

  He smiled at her. “Are you a good cook?”

  “Yes, sir, I am—in the right circumstances.”

  “That is good,” he said, “for I believe your skills will be needed while I recover.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  He stared at her a moment. “If you have any trouble at the stream, signal me by a cry, high-pitched and loud. I will rouse myself and come and help you.”

  “Very well, but I think I can manage.”

  “Yes. We will talk when you return. After all, I would like to hear what it is that you have remembered.”

  “Aye,” she said as she stood to her feet. “It is important, I think, although it seems to me that there are still pieces of the puzzle that I haven’t recalled yet.”

  “Then we should discuss it. When you return here from the underground stream, I will listen while you talk.”

  She nodded, and rising up, she made her way to the underground stream. It was not an easy task, considering that she was carrying three bags, one heavy hollowed-out stone and three different fire sticks.

  Even collecting the water proved to be almost impossible, since she dare not let the fire on the sticks go out. In the end she made several trips from their camp to the stream and back. But her problems were only beginning.

  What in the good Lord’s name was she going to use to boil this water? In the end, she did finally discover the smoked and toughened rawhide bags that White Thunder used to make soup. They were ingenious, actually. When she heated stones and threw them into the liquid, it was as good as boiling the water over a fire.

  It was not the easiest way to go about things, but at least they would be able to eat. It could be worse, she decided. They were alive. Indeed, she thought as a shiver ran down her spine, their situation could be very much worse.

  Straightening her shoulders, she set about locating the sinew that White Thunder had mentioned. With both it and a knife—well prepared, she would be able to perform the necessary surgery to his arm.

  Hopefully her hand would be steady.

  Nine

  “ What do you mean that there is nothing to numb the pain? Are there no roots that I can dig, no plants that will deaden the nerves, even a little? ”

  “There is nothing.”

  “But if I’m to cut into you, there should be something to ease the trauma.”

  White Thunder’s look at her was cautious, she noted, but surprised. He said, “There are herbs and plants that might do this, but there is not the time to prepare them for use. We will do without them.”

  Do without them? She didn’t think so. She said, “Am I to presume that you intend to remain awake while I poke holes in your skin? And also while I sew up this gap in your arm?”

  “Nyoh, that is exactly what I have in mind.”

  She scowled at him. “Are you one of those strange people who enjoy pain? ”

  He grinned at her, and again she was astonished by the appealing effect a smile could create upon his countenance. He said, “I am not that kind of person, but I will withstand the pain.”

  “No, sir, I beg to differ.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her, but said nothing.

  “You won’t have to withstand it,” she continued, “because I simply won’t do it. There must be another way.”

  He didn’t answer all at once. Instead, he frowned as he turned his attention inward. After a lengthy pause, he said, “Perhaps you might push the skin together and wrap it tightly enough so that when it heals, the skin will grow together. If you can do this, we may not need the stitches.”

  Her gaze sought out his. “Do you think that will work?”

  “I have no reason to think it wouldn’t. If I understand it correctly, the reason for sewing it together is to ensure that the wound heals completely and will not leave a gash on the skin. I believe that if you push the skin together and wrap it tightly, it might accomplish the same thing.”

  “I suppose it might work,” she agreed, though her tone was noncommittal. “We could try it.”

  Given their circumstances, it might be the best that she was going to be able to do. She came up to her feet and turned to step to the fire. She said, “I’ll boil the water.”

  He nodded, and leaning to the rear, flopped back against his bed.

  She was beautiful. She was sweet. She was incredibly female, and despite his injuries, White Thunder was experiencing again the realization that he was nothing, if not all male.

  At present, she was working over the last of his wounds, and she was so close to him that he could smell the clean, tantalizing fragrance of her femininity. It teased him. It baited him. And every now and again, one of her stray, blond curls brushed against him. Involuntarily, he shivered in response.

  It wasn’t her fault. He was more than aware that it wasn’t her intention to become the object of his sexual fantasy. That knowledge, however, didn’t change the fact that she was fast becoming exactly that.

  White Thunder rocked back against the backrest of the pine branches that she had painstakingly placed between him and the wall of the cave. He shut his eyes.

  In truth, he wasn’t certain which was the more difficult to endure: the pain from his injuries or her soft touch upon him. At present she was washing his chest with a cloth soaked from the cave’s freshwater stream.

  As her fingers worked over one of the injuries to his chest—a cut that came dangerously close to his nipples—he thought he might likely sink into giddiness. How was a man supposed to endure this? Indeed, he thought, a man might very well welcome the pain instead of the unwelcome sexual stimulation.

  At last, as her fingers dabbed at a cut up close to his right nipple, he caught hold of her hand. Immediately, she gazed up at him.

  “Did you want something, sir?”

  You. He wanted to say it. He dare not. Instead, he took a deep breath, and uttered, “A man can bear up under much, even torture, but ofttimes, a woman’s touch, sweet and soft though it might be, when so close to sensitive areas of a man’s body, can produce more agony for him than an enemy carving out his heart.”

  She stopped and stared into his eyes, her lips barely open as she gaped back at him. He wondered if she were aware of how kissable she looked. At last she said, “Have I hurt you, sir?”

  He sighed yet again. “Oh, that you would.”

  “Sir? If I have hurt you, I apologize—”

  “There is no need,” he interrupted as he rubbed his fingers over her hand, which he still held within his own. “But there is a problem.”

  She looked up at him inquiringly.r />
  He didn’t know how else to put his thoughts into words, except to admit the truth, and after some deliberation as to how he might say it, he blurted out, “I am a man. You are a woman. You are beautiful. And you are working on injuries on my chest.”

  “Oh.”

  At last she understood, and he nodded.

  But instead of drawing away—as she should have done—she said, “Do you object, then? ”

  She hadn’t taken her hand away from his either, nor did she back off from him, as he had thought she might, as he knew she ought.

  “It is not that I object,” he answered. “Rather, I am tested almost beyond my endurance. If you mean to tempt me, this is the way you might go about it.”

  “I’m not trying to tempt you, sir. I am simply endeavoring to clean your wounds. If you please, I have almost finished the task, the worst injury being to your arm. But ’tis wrapped now, and if you will permit me, I think I might attend to the rest of your injuries more easily.”

  “But those places you are cleaning are dangerously close to parts of my body that are . . . sensitive.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I cannot help where the injuries lie. I am simply taking action to ensure that your other wounds are clean. If it will ease your mind, I will be finished here soon, since I need to stop and prepare us something to eat.”

  He swallowed hard as he stared back at her. It appeared to him that in this instance, he had few choices. Either he must silently endure the cravings that she was awakening within him, or he must take her in his arms and make ardent love to her. Here. Now.

  Considering who each of them was and the barriers placed upon them by their respective societies, neither option seemed a good choice. After some deliberation, he decided to proceed with caution and changed the subject to something less personal. He said, “I have not forgotten that something today jogged your memory. You have yet to tell me what you remembered or even how it happened.”

  She didn’t answer at once. Instead, she extricated her hand from his and pressed the cloth against another of his wounds. And though he sighed under her care, she seemed not to notice.

  At length, she said, “Please excuse me for taking so long to tell you of it. It has not been my intention to hide it from you, ’tis only that I’ll be done here in a moment and I had thought that we might talk about it over our supper.”

  He hesitated, then asked, “Are these memories bad, then, that you hesitate to tell me? ”

  “No, not necessarily.” She frowned. “’Tis only that I little know how to relate everything to you, and since it was more important that I attend to your injuries, I thought I would first concentrate on mending those, then fix us something to eat, which would free my mind to tell you what I have remembered and what it might mean to us both.”

  He scowled. Something in her manner didn’t seem right. Shouldn’t she have been anxious to tell him about her life? Especially since she hadn’t recalled anything previously?

  Had she recollected something unpleasant?

  That thought brought up another. Was she running away from some wrong done to her or some wrong she had done to another? Either of those scenarios would explain how she had come to be in these woods, alone. After all, such circumstances were not unheard of. In the past, the Seneca had given shelter to a few of those men his people called the black white men, those who had escaped their English masters’ chains.

  Staring at her, he realized it was best to put his ponderings into words, and leaning forward, he again took one of her hands in his, but this time he clasped it within both of his own. He said, “Is there something particular about your past that you feel you cannot tell me?”

  “No,” she replied immediately, perhaps too quickly. “It’s only that—”

  “Are you running away from something? ”

  She frowned. “I don’t think so.”

  He nodded. “Are you married to a man who was cruel to you? ”

  “No, I am not married.”

  “No? ” He made a face. “Did your husband die, leaving you alone? ”

  “No, sir. In truth, I have never been married.”

  His frown deepened as he contemplated what her confession might mean. At length, he said, “I am attempting to understand this, but I am having difficulty. Perhaps you might help me. How can a woman as pretty as you have not seen the marriage bed? ”

  She bit her lip and looked away, and he was afraid she wouldn’t answer at all. However, after some moments, she replied, “The truth is, sir, that I am not free to marry.”

  Not free to? How could this be? He said, “But you remarked to me just now that you are not married.”

  “That is true. I am not, sir. What I am is an indentured servant.”

  His brows drew together in thought. He knew what a servant was, but an indentured one? He must have appeared as puzzled as he felt, for she went on to explain, “I have five more years of service to give to the man who owns my papers. Until that time, I cannot marry anyone.”

  “The man who owns your papers? Are you like the black white man, a slave? ”

  She coughed. “No, sir,” she managed to say after clearing her throat. “I am a servant, which is different from a slave.”

  “Is it? How is it different? ”

  “Well,” she explained, “a slave is owned by his master for his entire life, and he must toil without compensation for himself or his family. A servant, on the other hand, works for another for compensation or in some cases, he or she toils for another in repayment of a debt. At the end of a certain amount of years, which are needed to repay the debt, he or she is free.”

  White Thunder thought about her words momentarily, then, “By compensation, you mean money? ”

  “I do.”

  “And repaying a debt?”

  “A debt is money or services owed to another.”

  He scowled, not at her, but rather because of the subject matter under discussion. “Do you work for compensation or to repay a debt? ”

  “I work to compensate an obligation, I believe, although I’m uncertain how that obligation came to be. That part of my memory is still unclear to me.”

  He nodded. “Now, you say that a man owns you? ”

  “My services, yes.”

  “Tell me, how can a human being own another human being? ”

  She might have had a good explanation to the question, but he didn’t await her response. Rather he went on to say, “Are we not all part of the Creator’s plan? ” He paused, and warming to his subject, he continued, “This is a fact of the Englishman’s society that we of the Seneca have not understood. By what authority does one man feel he can own another? ”

  She shrugged. “I little know, sir, except perhaps in the matter of debt, since a man or a woman cannot produce all he or she requires in order to live. He or she must work, then, for money in order to buy the necessities of life. Sometimes a man lacks the finances needed for basic things like food, clothing and such. In that instance, he might borrow the money from another and become indebted to him. Thus, he works for another to pay for the money loaned to him.”

  White Thunder’s frown deepened. “Am I to understand, then, that a man exists who does not give what he has to aid another of his own kind? Without expecting labor and servitude in return? ”

  His confusion must have been easily witnessed on his countenance, for he noted that she immediately replied, “I can see how strange it must seem to you, for you have not been brought up by the English and are not aware of their system of culture.”

  “I spent three years with missionaries.”

  “That’s not the same thing. Perhaps this explanation might help. In English society, there are those who are rich enough to be beholden to none. They are free men and women because they have the necessities of life and don’t owe another their work to simply live. Then there are those who are not rich enough to obtain such things as food and shelter. These serve those who are free. It is necessary in order to si
mply live. I am among those who serve others.”

  Slowly he nodded, but in due time he had a further question, and he asked, “And who gave these men, who are free, their freedom, and the right to rule another’s life to the extent of restricting another’s free choice? ”

  She frowned. “I . . . I don’t know. It has always been this way, I believe. It has to do with money, I suppose. Perhaps the king grants their favor? ”

  “Ah, the English father. And who gave the English father the right to rule over another’s life, and take away his freedom? ”

  She pulled a face. “You ask me questions I have never pondered. But I believe that the church gives the king his power . . . God? ”

  White Thunder breathed out on sigh, then said, “If that is so, then I ask you this: According to the good book that the missionaries preached to me, does not the Creator make each of us with the same amount of love? I do not remember the missionaries saying that He smiles more favorably on one of his creatures than another.”

  “That is true,” she replied. “In the eyes of God, we are all equal.”

  He dipped his head in understanding. “So it is,” he said. “And now you understand the Iroquois way. A man is subject only to his Creator and to no other. It is in your good book, and it is also part of the Iroquois religion. The fact that according to the Creator, all men and women command their own lives is understood by those who serve the Iroquois government also. A man rules his own life. No other. Nor is he allowed to rule another. Such things were unheard of before the English came to this land.”

  “But, sir,” she said, “if what you say were true, there would be nothing but confusion in a country. If all are free, how is one to pay for his necessities? How is another to secure the things he needs in order to work? ”

  “This is a false idea. Do you see confusion surrounding the Iroquois? ” He paused. “Or do you see unity? ”

  “I . . . I don’t know, sir. I haven’t had the pleasure of being among your people.”

  “Then I will tell you. We of the Iroquois are united. We have laws, but our laws are those given to us by the Creator. Only these must a man obey. And I will tell you this: The Creator made no man to be another man’s slave. He who would say differently seeks to enslave you for his own benefit.”