Captive Splendors (31 page)

“That sounds right to me,” Caleb agreed drunkenly, now lacing the pot liberally. “You're right, I am the captain of this ship.”

“And a damn good captain you are. You're the first captain I ever sailed with who knows how to make broth. Even the damn cook doesn't know how to cook,” Peter laughed happily.

“I know, and it's a damn shame, too. I pay good wages and the crew expects to eat hearty and all we get is slop. My provisions are the best money can buy. Gustave ruins everything. This will be the first decent meal we've had in days.”

Both of them peered into the pot.

“I thought this broth was for the guards. Why are your eyes watering, Captain?” Peter asked, staggering back from the strong fumes rising from the pot.

“Damned if I know. Must be from the onion I put in there,” Caleb said, wiping at his eyes.

“That was no onion, it was a potato. Gustave ran out of onions days ago.” Peter uncorked another bottle of rum and passed it to Caleb. “That's for the pot. You're the captain, and you shouldn't have to put yours in the pot. I'm the first mate, and it wouldn't look right if I did, so let's just use this bottle for the pot and forget about sharing.”

“That sounds right to me,” Caleb said, dumping the contents of the third bottle into the pot. “We seem to have quite a bit here, Peter, enough for an army. We'll eat hearty tonight.”

“You're a good man, Captain, even if you did get off to a bad start with all those . . . those . . . holy people on board.”

“I know. I can't stand them,” Caleb whispered confidentially. “They've been nothing but trouble, and now you tell me you have designs on the preacher's wife. The question is, does the preacher's wife have designs on you?” he chortled, waving his rum bottle in the air and narrowly missing Peter's head.

Peter nodded sagely. “She looks at me and then looks at the floor.”

“That means she likes you, and yes, she does have designs. I'm an authority.” At Peter's look of disbelief, he laughed loudly. “Even Regan says I'm an authority. Married ladies can be trouble, especially when they have husbands.”

Peter nodded again. “I'm expecting the worst,” he said slowly and distinctly. “The very worst.”

“That makes sense. That way you won't be disappointed if the preacher doesn't give you trouble. Bottle's empty,” Caleb announced, flinging it across the room.

Peter laughed as the glass shattered in all directions. “You broke it, and Gustave goes barefoot in the galley. Now you have to clean it up.”

“I'm the captain. All I do is steer this damn ship and cook broth. You have to wield the mop.”

“Sounds fair to me.” Peter peered into the pot again and reeled back, his hands to his face. He stumbled, righted himself and stared into Caleb's dark eyes. “I think, Captain, that you put just a little too much rum in the broth.”

“How can you tell? Too much is never enough. If you're worried because the fumes unclog your nose and burn your throat, that doesn't mean anything. It's cooking away. See how thick it's getting?” He backed away from the cookstove and fell heavily against the doorframe.

 

Two hours later, her patient resting comfortably, Lydia set out for the galley to see how Peter and the captain were faring.

The fumes from the cooking pot drove her back into the passageway. Cautiously, she poked her head around the corner of the door, all the while dabbing at her eyes. Caleb was sprawled on the floor, snoring loudly, a rum bottle clutched in one hand, the other shielding his eyes. The first mate was trying, unsuccessfully, to wield a mop over what looked like broken glass. He wore a look of disgust as he scattered the fragments and drank from his bottle at the same time.

“And what do you think you're doing? Who made this mess? Who's going to clean it up?” Lydia demanded.

At her words, Peter dropped the bottle and the mop and clapped his hands over his ears. “Isn't it bad enough I can't keep my eyes open? Do you want to make me deaf, too, with your caterwauling? Don't look at me for this mess!” He smirked as he pointed a shaking finger at the prone captain. “He did what you ordered, and he's the one who made this mess. All I did was watch. I think it's going to be the best damn broth you ever ate.” He nudged Caleb gently with his toe. “Pity he won't be awake to try it.” He took one step and then another toward the rum-laden pot and crumpled to the floor. Loud, lusty snores permeated the galley as Lydia threw her hands helplessly in the air.

What did she have to lose? All the while wiping at her eyes, she ladled out a generous portion of broth for her patient. It would either kill him or cure him. If the captain cooked it himself, it had to be worth something. It looked like pure, undiluted, hot rum to her inexperienced eye.

 

Even through his rum-induced sleep Caleb was aware of a deep-seated restlessness, and he tossed and turned in his bunk—the same bunk he had shared with Wren when she had been beset by feverish chills and he had wrapped her in his arms and shared the warmth from his body. In his grief-tormented dreams he heard her cry out, “Caleb! Help me!”

 

Wren tossed fitfully in her sleep, her mind screaming Caleb's name over and over. Hours later, Malcolm shook her roughly and pulled her to her feet. He loosened her bonds, and Wren stumbled as the blood rushed through her veins. Her feet on dry land gave her no comfort. She looked around but could see only inky blackness and dark, spectral-looking trees. She was standing in mud and slime up to her ankles. There was no means of escaping the man who was securing the dinghy to an enormous tree on the shoreline. Where would she run to in this infernal darkness? With the way her luck had been of late, she would run straight into some wild animal's lair and be chewed alive for her intrusion. She gulped and decided to take her chances with Malcolm.

Malcolm pushed her ahead of him and pretended to look around. If she couldn't see in the dark, what could he see with one eye? she wondered nastily. She was about to voice her opinion and then thought better of it. “I'm hungry and you damn well better feed me,” she snapped. “If you think Captain van der Rhys is going to pay out good money for me, I better be hale and hearty or the price will go down.”

“Shut up,” Malcolm grated. “Get over there by that tree. I'm going to tie you to it, around the waist. You can maneuver your hands and feet. And if you don't shut that mouth of yours, I'll gag you again.”

“You want me to shut up? I'll shut up, but not before I tell you that you are without a doubt a ring-tailed son of a bitch!” She felt better for expressing her opinion of him, coining Sirena's favorite phrase for an insufferable bastard.

Malcolm ignored her words and dragged her toward the tree. “I won't tell you again to shut that mouth of yours. This is your final warning. Once I gag you, that means no food. It's immaterial to me if you die. I can get the ransom from your brother even if you're dead. Dutchmen like bodies to bury.”

Satisfied with the tight knot on the rope that bound Wren to the tree, he handed her some cheese and bread. “No more until tomorrow evening, so you better make it last,” he said coldly as he gave the rope a vicious twist. It cut into her ribs, but she didn't flinch.

Wren bit off a piece of the rancid-smelling cheese and devoured it. She would eat the bread and cheese now; for all she knew, he might decide to kill her within the hour. That remark about the Dutch liking bodies to bury bothered her. If she was going to die, she would rather die on a semifull stomach.

She cast a critical eye toward the sky. Soon it would be dawn. What was going to happen then? Would he leave her here tied to the tree? Of course he would; he had no other choice. Then he would go back down-river, seek out Caleb and demand the ransom. That meant she would be tied here for another day. Already she could feel the pull of the rope around her waist. If she kept perspiring, the rope would tighten more cruelly. She wished she had more clothes on to protect her from the burning sensation she was beginning to feel. It was impossible to remain perfectly still. Fidgeting was a habit she had been born with.

Malcolm toiled to start a small fire within the cluster of trees, more for light than for warmth. The balmy June weather was holding, and the studding of stars in the black velvet sky abated the threat of rain.

The moment the flint sparked, he sat back on his haunches and glanced about him. This was as good a place as any, he thought. Far enough away from the water to be safe from discovery by a passing boat. The woods were dense here, a shield from observing eyes.

Soon he would approach van der Rhys and find Farrington. For now, he had to sleep, to regain his strength. A few more days wouldn't alter his course and would only serve to increase van der Rhys' anxiety for Wren. Malcolm knew he would need all his strength to face a man as formidable as Caleb van der Rhys.

Leaving Peter and Lydia to tend the wounded crewman, Caleb had come ashore to make a cursory tour of the fortress settlement of Saybrook town, which rested at the mouth of the Connecticut River, in the heart of Pequot Indian territory. Owing to his colossal hangover from the night before, it had nearly been dusk when he left the
Sea Siren,
and the great gold ball in the sky was dipping rapidly into the thick tree line on the west as Caleb made his way down the hard, dusty road inside the protective walls of the fort to the office of the Dutch West India Company, as it was known in the New World.

Caleb had been in Saybrook two years before when he had arranged for tobacco, the “Imperial Weed,” to be transferred from the Virginia colony to the office at Saybrook for shipment and distribution through the Company. The progress made by the settlers since he had last been here was at once visible. A wide expanse of forest surrounding the fortress, had been cleared, a precaution that aided visibility in case of an Indian attack. Several hundred people now lived in Saybrook town, many of them merchants and skilled craftsmen. Farms flanked the territory, the boundaries of their property lines hugging one another for security, and all roads led to the fort.

Caleb quietly opened the rough wooden door of the Dutch West India office and immediately upon entering knew something was wrong—very wrong. He could see it and he could smell it. The office was dingy and bare of everything save a primitive desk and a stool. A map, tattered and ragged at the edges, was hanging by one nail on the far wall. A lantern, empty of oil, was carelessly flung into a corner. A man Caleb had never seen before lolled drunkenly on the stool, his feet propped on the desk. Loud snores resounded through the room. Caleb raised one booted foot and knocked the man's moccasined feet to the floor. His anger was immeasurable. Was everything concerning this voyage destined to go amiss? A familiar heaviness swelled in his chest as fleeting thoughts of Wren and Aubrey Farrington crossed his mind.

“What . . . who?” the man muttered, trying to orient himself and failing miserably.

“What the hell do you call this?” Caleb shouted. “You're a disgrace to the Company. Where's Galt?” he demanded.

“And who the hell are you to be asking me any questions at all?” the man retorted angrily as he wiped at the spittle drooling from his mouth with the back of a filthy hand.

“I'm Captain Caleb van der Rhys, and I'm here for the yearly report and to take the furs and tobacco back to England on my return voyage. Where have you been storing them? But first I want you to tell me where Galt is and explain this sorry mess!”

The man swallowed hard. He had known that sooner or later this day of reckoning would come. He only wished he had been better prepared. The man standing in front of him didn't look as though he would listen to an explanation, much less an excuse. But why should he give a damn? His wages were already a month late in arriving. By rights he owed this bastard nothing.

“I'm waiting,” Caleb said through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to strike out at this slovenly figure.

“My name's Conrad. Galt is dead, attacked by a small band of renegade Indians months ago. The furs were stolen, the storehouse emptied, and this is all that's left. If you think I'm going into those Indian camps to make your bastard burghers rich and me dead, you have another think coming. The raid was long overdue and everyone knew it was coming. Those thieving Indians stole everything they could get their hands on. They emptied the storehouses, plundered—they even took two of the women!”

“Why?” Caleb shot out, remembering the good relations between red men and whites which had existed two years before.

“How the living hell should I know? Who knows why an Indian does anything? They're savages and don't think like humans,” Conrad grumbled, his eyes avoiding Caleb's.

“I asked you why and I expect an answer!” Caleb grabbed Conrad by his shirt front and pulled him to his feet, staring down into the older man's eyes with contempt.

A new respect for Caleb dawned in Conrad. This was the first white man, besides the stray Jesuit priests who sometimes wandered through Saybrook on their way to the upper reaches of the Hudson Valley, who had ever admitted the Indians had a reason for committing their ruthless acts. Conrad could understand the prejudice against the Indians. The settlers were taking land which belonged to the tribes, pushing the Indian out, a subject which was defended with a heated self-righteousness but was nevertheless a cause for guilt. And, too, it wasn't easy to live under constant threat of attack. That was reason enough for the settlers to hate the red man. But Conrad himself had no such stake in the New World. Once his contract was completed with the Dutch West India Company, he would go home to Holland, hopefully richer than when he had left.

Now, with Caleb's inquiry as to why the Indians were prompted to pit themselves against the colonists, Conrad decided he deserved an answer. “On second thought, Captain van der Rhys, I'm going to tell you why the unrest exists between white and red. But you won't like the answer, and there's nothing that can be done about it. The Dutch West India Company is responsible.” Conrad curled his lip in distaste and ran a hand through his sparse hair. “We, the pragmatic Dutch, with our ‘Christian' approach to the aborigines. Bah! Lip service! The burghers of the Dutch West India Company are more interested in making money!”

As Caleb listened to Conrad's now mostly sober words, a colorful and true picture of the circumstances emerged.

At first arrival in the New World, the Dutch company had established friendly relations with the Indians and managed to make its home base in the wonderful, deep harbor of Manhattan Island. Within a relatively short time the thriving colony of New Netherland and its capital, New Amsterdam, had become one of the most powerful footholds in the New World. This productive tranquility, however, was short-lived. Two years before, just after Caleb's last voyage to America, the incompetent Wouter Van Twiller had been replaced as governor of New Netherland and as regional head of the Company by a man named Willem Kiefft. Kiefft was a bigger thief and an even worse administrator than Van Twiller had been. The new governor's way of dealing with the Indians was to extort from them levies of corn, wampum and especially furs for the “protection” afforded by New Amsterdam.

“So you see why the Indians stole back the furs and emptied the granaries,” Conrad concluded. “They stole to give the booty to the fat governor, Kiefft. I'm no Indian lover, but they have to live, too! It's extortion, pure and simple. Pay up or be decimated. That's the message our humble governor puts out.”

Caleb shook his head, trying to absorb what Conrad was telling him, knowing that no matter how much rum the man had consumed, he was speaking the truth.

“The Indian traps his furs honestly, sells them to the Dutch West India Company and then has to turn over one hundred percent profits to Kiefft in New Amsterdam. Their women and children are hungry. I don't blame them for stealing, and that's why you see me here—drunk. I can't stand seeing another Indian come in here begging for food for his children. If I had any to give, by God, I'd give it! And to hell with your fancy burghers in Holland just waiting for their profits. Hand over my wages and the place is yours,” Conrad said, hitching up his trousers. “And you're welcome to it!”

“On whose authority does Kiefft extort these levies?”

Conrad laughed. “How would I be knowing?” he sneered. “The likes of the governor don't see fit to confide in the likes of me. So if you'll just hand over my wages, I'll be departing your premises.”

Caleb counted out the man's wages, his face a mottled mask of rage. The first order of the day would be to get a replacement for Conrad and then pay the governor a visit, an unexpected visit. Tomorrow, after sunup, he would find a horse and set out for a look at the governor's ledgers. It would be interesting to see how Willem Kiefft had prospered.

Caleb sat down on the wooden chair, propped his feet on the flimsy desk and then dropped them to the floor. He had seen a strongbox beneath the desk, full of papers. The Company's records, no doubt, for the trading post. He would take them back to the ship and go over them later. Now he had to think about what he had to do and how he was going to do it. He was one man, alone in a strange new world. The fact that he had been here when the trading post had first been established didn't alter the reality of the present situation.

During that trip he had spent his time wisely and to good advantage. He had established friendly relations with the chief of the Pequot tribe and smoked a pipe with him and his council members on the agreements between them. His relations had been so friendly, in fact, that on his departure the chief had offered him a gift of one of the young tribal maidens. Caleb had been hard pressed to decline the generous offer tactfully, and with tears streaming down Wildflower's face, he had sailed away with a brisk wave of his hand and a sly wink for the aging chief.

Now he had been told that the Pequots had rebelled and taken women hostages and stolen their own furs, furs meant for rich, elegant ladies in Europe. Something besides the levies must have stirred up the old chief. He had proclaimed that he was a peaceful man who only wanted to live out his days in his village and watch the young bucks grow to manhood. The men of his tribe were not warriors and were as peaceful as their chief.

When unrest settled in, everyone involved was threatened. Christ, what if the Indians decided to stage a war? Caleb mused. These settlers didn't know the first thing about fighting. They would be no match for the revenge-seeking Pequots. He shuddered when he remembered having heard that New Amsterdam matrons had used the severed heads of Indian men, women and children for a grisly game of kickball on the dusty streets. And the chief had remarked sadly, “Your governor laughed heartily. We did not go to war but turned our backs. Fence a dog or drive him into a corner, and sooner or later he will strike back.” Those had been the only ominous words mentioned on the day Caleb had sailed back to Holland. Had that day come and gone? Were the Indians preparing for another attack, and would it be an all-out war against the ill-equipped settlers?

He groaned aloud at the thought of Bascom Stoneham wielding a weapon to ward off an Indian attack. Prayer wouldn't help Bascom if the Indians decided they wanted his scalp. Caleb seriously doubted that anything would help Bascom. But Bascom wasn't his worry any longer. The preacher would live here with his people and help build the church of his dreams. This was no time for Caleb to saddle himself with worrying about the good people settling this lush new land. The Dutch West India Company was of the utmost importance. The burghers had told Regan they expected and would accept nothing less than that New Netherland would attain the most powerful position in the New World. Regan had agreed to their plan and sent Caleb to arrange matters. And Caleb had done what he had been told to do, and now everything was in a shambles.

First he would see the governor, and then he would go up the river to the Mystic fort of the Pequots and get the straight of it. Thoughts of renegade Indians with their deadly bows and arrows made him flinch. His hand went to his thick head of ebony hair and his mouth tightened. He was going in peace and would fly the white flag if necessary, along with the emblem of the Dutch West India Company. It was unfortunate he couldn't carry Kiefft's head on a pike to show his good faith. Kiefft had been installed as governor by the Dutch West India Company, but now, since Caleb's authority superseded Kiefft's, the governor's days were numbered as regional head of the Company in the New World.

Darkness enveloped Saybrook when Caleb closed the door behind him, the strongbox containing the piles of business papers riding on his shoulder. Great bonfires raged toward the sky, and women bustled about smaller cookfires, preparing the evening meal for their men.

From his position on the road Caleb could see Bascom leading his people toward the center compound, where the largest fire burned, for a prayer meeting before dinner. He frowned when he saw Sara walking behind her mother. A stab of guilt and remorse pierced him but was short-lived when he remembered that Sara's lies had most likely prompted Wren to go overboard.

Grief ripped through him.
Wren.
His loneliness was tangible and his sorrow weighed him down. How was he to live without her?

His feet directed him to the river and the jolly that would take him back to the ship, but his thoughts were centered on the last time he had been alone with Wren, when they had vowed their love to each other. How could she have believed Sara was carrying his child, regardless of what she had overheard? A flush of shame coursed through his veins. If he hadn't prided himself on being such a womanizer, and if he'd kept his hands to himself instead of on Sara, there would have been no recriminations. Guiltily, he recalled that even he had considered the possibility that he could have fathered Sara's child.

Choking back the taste of bitter gall, he broke through the clearing to the river. Wren was lost to him. He knew it in his head, but he would never accept it in his heart.