Bonds, Parris Afton (20 page)

"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.

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 the 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.