Surrender to Love (10 page)

Gruffly the man grasped Sabine’s ankle and she jerked back in surprise, her eyes blazing. 
How dare he attempt to take liberties with her!  With a bare foot she struck him squarely in the chest and sent him reeling to the floor.

“What do you think you’re doing,” she bit out venomously.

He answered her with the stinging slap of his hand.  Her head exploded with pain as it snapped back, soundly striking a solid timber.

“You little bitch,” he growled, and roughly grabbed her arm.  “I’ll be more than happy to see the last of you.”

As she wrenched away, Sabine’s free hand crept to the hard knot hat formed at the base of her skull.  Damn him straight to the devil, she thought fiercely.  And the rest of this crew, too, for their sadistic tactics.

The ferocity of her words frightened her.  Such horrid harshness coming from the well-mannered young woman Mama and Papa had raised.  It was scandalous, her behaving like a guttersnipe, uttering words only a sailor would use.

A sharp laugh escaped her lips.  Who was she trying to fool?  No one cared a whit that she had been brought up a proper girl who could read and write and do a thousand things that a colored person wasn’t supposed to.  To these men she was only merchandise; something to be sold for a few gold coins.

“You got a problem?”

“No,” Sabine replied slowly as she met the man’s gaze steadily, her eyes glowing with the black rage that filled her.  “I don’t.”

With his fistful of keys he unlocked each of the women from their fettering chains.  Roughly he pulled them to their feet and herded the small group down the lantern-lit
passage.  Pauline’s nervous whimperings reached her ears, but Sabine forced the sounds from her consciousness.

Not now, she willed herself.  Her nails dug tiny grooves into her palms as she fought back the hot pressure of tears that built up behind her eyes.  She couldn’t allow the pitiful wails to weaken the solid defenses she had built around her.  She must be strong.  And she wouldn’t cry.

She would never, ever cry.

XXX

Long streaks of twilight stretched across the sky, settling into the hollows of the harbor city.  The smells of the waterfront district pricked her nostrils – pungent stagnancy with just a touch of saltiness.  And hauntingly familiar sounds wafted to the deck where Sabine stood.

So this was it.

Havana.

She stared out numbly over the water, the moonlight sparkling like a random scattering of diamond dust.  The shadowy silhouettes of two fortresses
stood as immovable sentries against the night sky, securely guarding the mouth of Havana Harbor.  It should have been beautiful – could have been, had all of this been another time, another place.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!”

The piercing shriek sliced through the darkness, followed by the clattering of heeled shoes.  Hair wild, Arianna Covington stood high upon the deck; a burly crewman held her captive.  The darkened form of Blackie drew back a hand, striking out with a deafening smack.  A startled yelp escaped her and she sagged in the restraining grip.

“You said you would spare me.  I told you my father would gladly pay you a fortune for my return.”

“I never said a thing about when we arrived in Havana.”

Their voices drifted down to her ears, and Sabine turned away, disgust
twisting her stomach into acidy convolutions.  The woman was a ridiculous fool to be selling herself for the hope of freedom.  It would never happen to her, Sabine vowed as she set her jaw and squared her shoulders in defiance.  Never.

Arianna’s cries of protest rose to the night air once again, but were promptly subdued to muffled shouts as a cloth silenced her.

“Get them out of here,” Blackie called down, dismissing them with a wave of his hand.

“Knock it off,” Patsy snapped angrily.  “What do you think we are? Cattle?”

The glowering man with the thin scar didn’t bother a reply, but instead gruffly shoved Patsy with the rest of the women.  Sabine looked at the struggling form of Arianna, who lagged behind until she was forcibly dragged to the fringes of the crowd, her muffled squeals crying out in protest.  And then she glanced briefly at Blackie’s silhouette as he turned his back to the group.

Hatred seized her heart.  God should s
trike him down dead for everything he had done…and send him straight to hell where he belonged.

The short, burly man who held Sabine firmly in his grasp grunted audibly as he pushed her roughly into an oxcart next to Pauline.
  Her bare feet tangled in the long skirts of cotton dress and she pitched into the wagonload of listless women, gasping painfully as the skin on her knees scraped free.

Warily, Sabine eyed the others as she felt Pauline’s small hands knot themselves into the threadbare material of her skirts.  The dullness of their defeated and accepting stares stirred resentment in her breast.  How could they?  How could they just sit there and do nothing?

For the same reason you merely sit and ponder your own situation,
the small voice inside her reminded sarcastically. 
What exactly would you do, and where would you go?

The voice was right.  It was always right, Sabine conceded bitterly as she inspected the half-dozen men that surrounded the rickety construction of the oxcart – all of them mounted on quick, rugged ponies.  What use was it to try to run in country where she didn’t have a chance?  No one would think her word contained an ounce of truth anyway.  She swallowed, and the bitter pill of defeat sank heavily in the empty pit of her stomach.

The oxcart’s iron wheels slogged through the quagmire of the muddy, plank-covered back alleys, and the unnerving sounds of the waterfront reached her ears.  Glasses clinked, voices raised in conversation.  The eerie familiarity sent a chill coursing through her.

Sabine craned her nec
k, desperate to catch sight of Patsy or Mauda, but they were nowhere to be seen.  Fear clutched at her heart as she reached Pauline’s hand and squeezed it tightly.  The security of their small group was gone. No longer would they be there to foster her new-found strength.  She and Pauline were on their own now.

“Maybe things will be different here,” she said with false encouragement to Pauline as she slipped
a comforting arm around the girl’s thin shoulders.  “Maybe it’ll be better than New Orleans.”

“I thinks you’re
dreamin’,” Pauline spoke after several moments.  “I thinks you’ve spent too much time on that boat and you’re goin’ soft in the head.”

Well, Sabine thought with a sigh, maybe she was going a bit daft; but if it took fooling herself into believing that things would turn out perfectly, then that was what she would do.  She had to rise above all this – survive and prove to everyone that she couldn’t be beaten.

The wagon lurched to a rickety halt behind a tightly packed row of buildings.  By the pale rays of the lantern light, she saw glittering malice in the eyes of the man who stood next to her.

“Get out.”

Heart pounding, she cautiously inched her way to the ground, never taking her eyes from the brute who lingered nearby, a twisted and scarred bullwhip snaking through his hands.

“You,” he pointed at her, “the
nigra with the green eyes.”

Her entire being constricted with trepidation, and Sabine looked up in alarm.  What did he want with her?  He had no cause to single her out.

Pauline wailed in despair and clutched desperately at Sabine’s skirts. Her frail form sank to the ground, her sobs muffled within the folds of the threadbare material.

“No,” the dark girl pleaded.  “You
cain’t let her go. Please!  Please, it ain’t right.”

Sabine looked back as she was torn from Pauline’s grasping hands.  She refused to cry, and not even the pathetic figure of Pauline
would move her to the weakness she had vowed to fight.

A stranger led her up a set of listing sets, his clutching fingers digging into the tender flesh of her arm.  She was thrust into a small room, bare of all furniture except for a small washstand.  He set the rusted lantern next to the wash basin and threw a soiled, ragged cloth into the wash pitcher.

“You have five minutes.  Wash up.”

Eyes wide, Sabine whirled to face him, and the door shut between them with reverberating finality.  Fear and panic raced through her body, violently shoving aside her resolve.  No!  it wasn’t supposed to happen this way.  She was supposed to live out her life in New Orleans…perhaps marry someday.  But not to be auctioned of
f as a piece of stolen property!

Sabine stared idly at the cracked pitcher and bowl on the washstand and rubbed the feeling back to her numbed cheeks.  She dipped her hand into the water
hesitantly, feeling it run through her fingers before pouring it into the basin.

“Come on.  Time’s up.”

“But I – I’m not ready.”

Her words
came breathlessly as bands of fear constrained her chest.  No.  Not yet, she thought frantically as her heart leaped in her throat.  The sudden urge to flee gripped her, but her legs refused to obey.  And there was nowhere for her to go.  She was trapped.

A firm grasp held her as the stranger led her down a narrow, dimly lit hallway.  Drawing a deep, wavering breath, Sabine straightened her shoulders and strode behind him, her steps never faltering, though her heart raced with uncertainty.

The burgundy velvet curtain was pushed aside and Sabine entered the brightness of the room, the smoke of cigar hanging heavily in the air.  Swallowing the lump that rose in her throat, her resolve quickly fled and salty tears of humiliation smarted her eyes.  Damn them, she swore mutely. Damn them for betraying her!  Couldn’t her own emotions even remain loyal?  Must they continually play traitor and mock her at every turn?

The action in the room halted immediately, and she found herself staring out over the group of fifty or so men, many of them attired in finely cut suits – and they looked as though they had come with plenty of money to spend. She refused to meet their appraising stares, but instead focused all her attention on the velvet-curtained doorway at the back of the crowd while she fought back the bile that churned dangerously in her stomach.
  The forceful sound of a gavel struck upon a wooden podium, its crack echoing loudly in her ears.

“How much money for this woman?” the auctioneer shot out in Spanish. 
“Ella es una chica bonita.
  Look, she has the most beautiful green eyes.  She would make an attractive addition to anyone’s household staff, wouldn’t you say?  Let’s start the bidding at three hundred and fifty
pesos.”

Sabine stood riveted, numb, eyes wide in fear as she looked out over the smoke-hazed mass.  A hand lifted the mass of dark curls from her neck and stroked them appreciatively.  Someone forcibly turned her in a small circle to parade her attributes.  Another
hand stroked the length of her neck, lingering briefly at the hollow of her throat.  She wanted to scream, to lash out furiously against these men.

But she couldn’t. 
All she could do was stand, and allow herself to be handled like some sort of prized piece of livestock.

An older gentleman in the back signaled the auctioneer in an offer to bid.

“How about four hundred?”

“Four hundred,” another to the right of the room called out.

Sabine was jerked back to her senses, and she quickly glanced at the latest bidder.  He was not like all the others who gathered here.  He looked as though he could almost be American with his curly blond hair and blue eyes.  Cocking his hat back on his head, he rested his hand casually on his hip as he leaned against the white plastered wall.  He scrutinized her carefully with narrowed eyes.

Her heart stopped as their gazes locked, his eyes piercing her own intensely.  She had seen it – compassion – lurking in those icy blue depths; she was sure of it.

But she had to look away because of the shame that filled her.  Property.  Merchandise.  That’s all she was.  Why did she even think that he could have pity for her?  Compassion was the last thing on his mind.

“Five hundred,” the older man calmly stated.

Her gaze shifted again to the rear of the crowd, and to the gentleman in the black suit.  He smoothed his neatly trimmed moustache with a forefinger, a smile playing on his thin lips.

The American looked back at him with an exasperated expression. Turning back to the auction block, he prompted, “Five hundred and fifty.  But only if she speaks English,” he added desperately.

There was a lull, and the auctioneer prodded Sabine in English, “Go ahead.  Say something.”

He poked her side with a stick to prompt her, but she found herself mute.  Anxiety in her mounted as the hold on her arm tightened.  She tried to speak, but her voice failed.  Nothing but mouthed words came forth.

“I – “

The words lodged firmly, her vocal chords paralyzed.  Oh, God, what would they do to her now?  Her wild eyes darted from the burgundy curtain, to the floor beneath her feet, to the blond-haired American who stood off to the side.