Captive Splendors (37 page)

The two women made their way to where Peter was standing and waited for the man to continue speaking. They were too late; he was turning and walking away, his face hateful and mean. Peter looked at the women, and his face, too, wore a strange expression.

“What's going on?” Wren demanded. “Who was that man, Peter? Why is he dressed in those elaborate clothes?”

Peter shrugged. “He said he was Willem Kiefft, the governor. He means trouble for Caleb and for us, too. He's calling us Indian sympathizers and traitors to our own kind. Do you see the looks we're getting? Walk with me, quickly now, and don't waste time. We're going back to the ship.”

The women needed no second urging. They, too, heard the mutterings and saw the unrest that seemed to be gripping the people. “Why wasn't Caleb here?” Wren fretted as she forced her legs to keep up with Peter's loping walk.

“Does this mean we're not going to get the berry pies? I knew I should have picked the damn things myself and made them,” Lydia grumbled.

“For shame, Lydia. Blasphemy coming out of your sweet mouth,” Wren chided.

“I don't feel particularly sweet right now,” Lydia said, glancing over her shoulder as they sped to the shoreline.

“Peter, tell us what happened. What was he saying? Why are those people looking at us that way?”

“Politics! Kiefft isn't happy about Caleb dictating to him and holding him under the knife of the Dutch West India Company. He said the captain was ready to toss him out on his ear. I know the captain, and it wasn't his ear he was about to be tossed out on.” Peter hurried the two women along to the riverbank and the waiting jolly boat. “Kiefft wants the settlers to unite, to break away from the influence of ‘interlopers,' as he referred to the captain. There was all kind of talk about being sacrificed to the Indians for the profits of the Company. Add to that the promises he has no intention of keeping, and it spells trouble for the captain and ourselves. Did you notice that when he walked away, he took three men with him, the most influential men in the settlement? They reminded me of puppets waiting to have their strings pulled.”

“Will we be safe on board?” Lydia asked, a quiver in her voice.

“We're going to do our best,” Peter said softly, his hand reaching for hers, causing Wren to wish with all her heart that Caleb were here to reassure her. “I doubt if they'll do anything tonight, but we have to prepare ourselves. There's no way of knowing if the captain will make it back from New Amsterdam tonight or even tomorrow. We're on our own, and each of us will have to depend on the other.”

“But why?”Lydia protested. “We did nothing! The captain didn't do anything wrong!”

“Little matter when a man like Kiefft decides which way he's going to jump. I don't think his grievance is against us. Mostly it's against the captain and the ship. The last thing he wants is to have the
Siren
pull into port without the cargo he guaranteed to the Dutch West India Company. I've seen seeds of unrest planted in the past, and I've also seen the results. They aren't too pretty.”

“I'll be damned before I let them touch Caleb's ship!” Wren snapped.

“That goes for me, too!” Lydia avowed, hands on her hips, red hair tossing, blue eyes full of fire. “That's not just a ship to me, it's a symbol of my independencel”

Peter's stomach churned. Two women and him. What kind of showing could they make against a band of angry settlers who were looking for a good fight and some sort of retribution, just or not? Not much, he told himself. And why had the captain given the crew shore liberty? The men were scattered all over Hell and creation, probably drunk as lords and no good to anyone even if he could track them down.

“We have a good number of daylight hours left,” Wren said. “If you feel that something might happen tonight after dark, then we should think about taking some precautions the moment we're back on board. I don't know exactly
what
we can do, but one of us is bound to get an idea. I'll die before I let them harm the
Sea Siren!”
A chill washed over her when she remembered that the
Sea Siren
was really Sirena's maiden ship, the
Rana.
If she let anything happen to this ship, the van der Rhyses would never forgive her.

Bright afternoon sunshine faded into soft twilight as the trio battened down the
Sea Siren.
Secure in the knowledge that they had done all they could, for the time being, they dragged tack boxes to advantageous lookouts and proceeded to keep watch.

The same twilight that wrapped the
Sea Siren
in its arms slowly descended on the Pequot fort. Sassacus liked this time of day when the children were tired and played quietly as their mothers cleaned up after the evening meal. Soon it would be time for the chiefs to take their places at the council meeting. For hours the young men worked, laying the twigs and gathering the dried-out logs that would make the bonfire stretch to the heavens.

Sassacus looked around the compound at the newly erected lodges that housed the representatives of the other Indian chiefs. They would remain inside, eating the sweetmeats the women had prepared as they waited to be called to the meeting. Each would come out adorned in his richest attire and then sit cross-legged, face impassive, eyes blank.

He should be in his own lodge, dressing, but he hated the thought of being cooped up. He wanted the soft night around him with the brilliant stars overhead and the rich smell of the earth wafting up to his nostrils. His eyes traveled to the stockade fence and he cringed. He hated the sight of it. Man, red or white, did not belong behind a barricade. Children and women should be able to walk about freely without fear. This was a white man's fence, this ugly log structure that glared back at him in the lavender light. The white man built stockade fences to ward off the Indian, and the Indian built stockade fences to ward off the white man. It made no sense. His eyes were sad and troubled as he reached out a hand to touch the rough bark. He and his people were prisoners of the white man, even though there were no guards outside the heavy gates. He knew in his heart that he and his people had seen the last of their peaceful days. He had to do what was best for them. If that meant going to war, then he would go to war with the other chiefs. They would unite and hope against impossible odds that they could regain that elusive thing called peace.

 

As Sassacus pondered and weighed his problem, Bascom Stoneham strolled from the makeshift quarters that had been allotted to his flock, his eyes on a dark form directly ahead. He neither saw nor appreciated the quiet star-filled night or the soft evening sounds that meant people were living and breathing and loving in this tiny village. His thoughts were full of lust and what he was going to do when he came upon the young girl walking along the river.

His voice was sharp, hostile, when he grasped the frightened girl's thin shoulder. He turned her to face him his grip painful and strong. Her name was Anna and she was frightened, as any child of thirteen would be. She swallowed hard, tears gathering in her eyes at the pain the preacher was inflicting on her. She wanted to cry out, but the eyes boring into her forbade it. She swallowed again and tried to speak.

“You must not speak in my presence. I feel a visitation coming on,” Bascom said, forcing the girl to her knees. “Clasp your hands and pray with me. Pray to the Lord and beg Him to forgive you for straying from your parents. I saw the way you've been looking at the Emery boy and the way he's been looking at you. Pray to the Lord that He drives your lustful wants from your body. Pray,” he commanded.

Fear coursed through Anna as she again tried to speak. Saliva gathered in her mouth and dribbled down her chin. “Truly, Preacher Stoneham, I was not lusting after William Emery. Our eyes met once and I lowered mine immediately. It was an accident.”

“A sorry story, indeed, and one I cannot believe,” Bascom intoned piously. “I know what I say. You have the body of a woman, and all women lust after men. You throw your wanton bodies before men and flaunt your wares like a hawker. Disgusting!” he all but spit. “Now, pray, and don't stop till I tell you, or I'll have a long talk with your parents about your wicked ways.”

Anna dropped her eyes and bowed her head, muttering and half moaning prayers she didn't know she knew, saying words that had no meaning to her. Saying anything to keep the preacher from telling her parents of what he called her wicked ways.

While Anna prayed, Bascom positioned her more carefully in front of him and forced her head upright. “Close your eyes when you pray to the Lord!” he cried in an excited voice. His hands worked feverishly with the belt buckle of his trousers as the girl's prayers invaded his ears. Quickly, before she knew what was happening, Bascom forced his manhood to her mouth, his bony hands gripping her head. His body moved in a frenzy as the girl choked and sobbed.

“Wanton slut,” Bascom shouted hoarsely as he thrust her from him and snapped his buckle together. “I'm going to take pity on you and not tell your parents of your sinful ways. I'll stay here all night and pray for your soul. The devil's blood runs in your veins,” he muttered as he opened his prayer book and then dropped to his knees.

Anna rubbed her hands across her mouth and ran, her eyes blinded with tears. She wasn't a wanton slut, she wasn't! She ran till she collapsed, exhausted and numb. She had to tell someone. Who? Billy Emery? She cradled her head in the crook of her arm and sobbed, great racking sobs that tore at her very being. “I'm not what he said I am. I'm notl” she cried over and over. Eventually she slept, and it was Billy Emery who found her hours later and carried her back to her worried parents.

At seventeen, he felt very manly as he approached Anna's parents and smiled to reassure them the girl was safe, only sleeping. No one noticed the dried tears on her cheeks except Billy, and he promised himself he would find out why Anna had been sobbing. Morning would be time enough. He was also the only one who noticed that the preacher wasn't anywhere to be seen. And that, he told himself, is unlike Bascom Stoneham, who likes to be in the thick of things with his prayer book. The young man's eyes narrowed to slits as Anna's father took her from his arms and carried her off to her bed.

 

Caleb had never been so angry in his entire life. Sassacus was right—the white man was stupid, even ignorant. The men sitting before him with their glasses of wine, their jovial attitudes and their elegant clothes made him want to kill. They heard him out and then laughed. Ridiculous! Sassacus? There was no fight in Sassacus. Sassacus liked the white man. Unite? The Pequots were so scattered they couldn't unite as one and make war. They knew the white man was superior and would take what he wanted. Who really cared if those savages had been here first? You had to be strong and eager to conquer new worlds. The white man was strong; he had already proved this. Even if the Pequots did band together, they would be no match for the English and the Dutch. There might be a skirmish or two, but those bastard savages would be put in their place.

Caleb watched the men raise their wineglasses and drink to the demise of the Indians.

A portly gentleman, attired in a crimson waistcoat with a ruffled shirt, slapped Caleb resoundingly on the back. He was already drunk, and his facial muscles hung slackly as he tried to bring Caleb's angry face into focus. “You, van der Rhys, think you have control of the Dutch West India Company. You don't,” he blustered. “We do what we think is best. You come sailing into port and think you have all the answers. You don't—as Governor Kiefft will soon show you!”

Caleb seethed and fumed but realized he couldn't argue with a group of drunken men. And from the looks of things, that was a state more common to them than sobriety. He was on his own. The letter giving him full authority from the Dutch West India Company meant nothing to these sodden fools.

 

Sassacus took his place before the council fire, his spokesman calling the names of the visiting chiefs. Although they were not in the Pequot fort in person, their representatives answered to their chiefs' names. When all were assembled, they sat side by side, forming a straight line. Sassacus, on the far side of the fire, faced them. Through the flames he could see the visages of his enemies.

There sat the spokesman for Miantonomo, chief of the Narragansetts, who had no love for the Pequots. When Sassacus had approached Miantonomo nearly a year before with terms for an alliance, he had been cruelly rejected.

Beside the Narragansett, rested the representative for the Mohegans, speaking in the name of Chief Uncas. There was no friendship to be found in this face, either. Little more than two months earlier, sixty Mohegans, who were related to the Pequot tribe, had set out from Hartford town with ninety militiamen. When their loyalty had been doubted, Chief Uncas himself had soon reassured the English by attacking a nearby hunting party of Pequots and returning to the militia with four heads and one prisoner. This prisoner, nephew to Sassacus, had shown great courage; he had lost his life by suffering an atrocious torture: one leg had been tied to a post, the other to a frisky horse.

Even the spokesman for Ninigret, chief of the Eastern Niantic warriors, was no friend to the Pequot. Sassacus had learned that afternoon that Ninigret was joining with nearly six hundred Narragansetts and, with the English, was preparing to attack the Mystic fort.

It was into these hostile eyes that he peered, stating his pleas. “All red men are brothers. We are all of the Algonquian family and language. We are brother to the Narragansett, the Niantic, the Mohegan and the Mohican of the Hudson Valley. We who are the children of the earth must live for the earth. Now it is the Pequot time to face his enemy. But soon, very soon, each of you will suffer the fate of the Pequot. Our bones will rot and make the earth richer, more fertile. We will become fodder for the white man's crops as he fishes our streams and hunts in our woods.”

Sassacus spoke slowly and precisely, to be certain they understood and would deliver his message to their chiefs. “We are the people. We will die. All of us. Women. Children. There will be no heritage. The leaves will fall and cover our graves, and within the lifetime of the eagle, there will be none to say that a red brother lived on the land.”

It was difficult for Sassacus to keep his shoulders straight, his head high and proud, as he left the ceremonial fire and walked to his lodge, where he would await their answer. Would they stand beside their brothers, the Pequots? Even as Sassacus crossed his legs and lowered himself to the floor, he knew his people would face their destiny alone.

 

The shadows of twilight had deepened before Malcolm withdrew from his hiding place in the woods and pressed forward, tripping and falling over vines and rocks. The swelling over his eye had eased since his battle with Caleb, and he had enough vision to see where he was going.

He trekked for hours until he saw lantern lights winking in the settlement of Saybrook. He was familiar with the territory. During the past two nights, he had skulked into the compound to forage for food and had succeeded in garnering eggs, early radishes and peas from kitchen gardens, and, wonder of wonders, a stray chicken. Belly full, confidence high, he stood still, orienting himself in the darkness and determining the best way to get to the riverbank without being seen.

He crept through the trees as silently as he could, stopping every so often to see if he was being observed. His thoughts rumbled with curses, damning Wren and Caleb van der Rhys. He knew that Caleb's influence in the region was far from minimal because of his position with the Dutch West India Company. Owing to the fiasco Malcolm had brought about with his attempt to ransom Wren, van der Rhys had no doubt placed a bounty on his head. There was no welcome for Malcolm Weatherly anywhere in this new world. His only chance for safety lay among the masses in England. There, among the riffraff of the slums, his disfigurement would be accepted, almost unnoticed.

Excitement coursed through him. He was so close to precious safety—the ship! He was almost to the shore and even from this distance he could see the
Sea Siren
's sails and masts stabbing the dark sky. She was close, close enough for him to swim out to her. She had been his haven once before, taking him away from England, and she would be his haven again. He looked around, held his breath and was just about to weave his way to the sandy, gritty strip of land that would lead him to the Sound when he heard a voice, soft at first, then raised in anger. Malcolm drew back fearfully and waited. The voice was familiar, one he had heard before. He strained to distinguish the words, but with the rustling of the branches overhead and the soft lap of the water, he could only make out sounds. He crept back through the trees, careful to be quiet.

It was the preacher! And two other people. No, one other person. The third person seemed to be hiding, peering around a tree. A woman was with the preacher. Malcolm leered. This was something he understood. The preacher was out dallying with another man's wife, and the husband was waiting to catch him in a compromising position. Malcom shook his head. Whatever happened to Bascom, he deserved it. Malcolm certainly wasn't going to intervene. He had enough problems of his own without adding more to the list. He would just wait and see what happened.

He watched in shock as Bascom forced the girl to her knees and then prevented her from getting away. She was clumsy, not like that sure-footed she-cat, Wren. Bascom had her in his clutches before she could get one foot solidly planted in the sand. She was crying, sobbing at what the preacher was making her do. So it wasn't a mutual feeling of lust. This Malcolm understood also. His eye went to the figure standing behind the tree, and he wanted to urge him on, to shout at him to take the preacher by the neck and throttle him for what he was making the girl do. From the looks of things, the preacher wouldn't have to wait for God to punish him. The man behind the tree would do it for Him.

Malcolm saw the glint of a knife in the moonlight and the direction in which it was traveling. He winced. There were other ways to die, better ways, less painful ways.

The man, whoever he was, had things well in hand. He was leading the girl away, his arm protecting her from the grisly sight at their feet. Malcolm saw the knife fall to the ground and fought the desire to rush to it and pick it up. Instead, he crawled silently on his hands and knees to the water and struck out for the ship.