Captive Splendors (33 page)

Caleb sat down and looked around the room. It was decorated like a French brothel, a successful one at that. Rich burgundy draperies adorned the long windows, and heavy tapestries hung on the walls. A thick, tapestried carpet made him frown. The bedcovers were satin and luxurious, and he knew they whispered all night long to the naked bodies that cavorted between them. Gold goblets and a decanter of wine stood on a carved table next to the bed. Kiefft certainly didn't deny himself.

Caleb reached for the decanter and drank from it, swallowing deeply. He stretched out on a plum brocade chaise and stared at his booted feet. Mentally, he calculated his forthcoming discussion with Kiefft, knowing he could never turn the man's prejudice around but hoping he could somehow control his greed and subsequent mistreatment of the red man with threats of impeachment. Kiefft and men like him had stirred the cookpot situation between the colonists and the Indians into a boiling cauldron of discontent and fear.

Tomorrow he would see the other side of that fear. He would ride north, past Saybrook, to the Pequot village on the shores of Mystic.

 

Governor Kiefft had given in to Caleb's demands too easily. The man should have fought to his last breath to retain what he had cheated to obtain. Instead, he had listened and nodded his head in agreement, promising to revise his methods of filling the Company's storehouses and administering justice to whites and red men alike. Something was afoot, Caleb knew it, and whatever it was, it boded ill for the Indian.

With a sinking feeling, Caleb admitted to himself that nothing he could say or do would turn the tide and prevent a confrontation between the Pequots and the settlers. At best, he could avert that disaster by going to see Sassacus and telling him of the governor's promised reform. He doubted that the Indian chief would listen to him, but he had to try. The Pequots were a small tribe, beset by problems from more aggressive and larger tribes—most specifically the Narragansetts. War with the settlers now would mean the complete annihilation of their people.

His conference with Kieftt had taken most of the night, and he had gotten only three hours of sleep in the governor's guest room before setting out to see Sassacus.

The nag which had carried him from Saybrook to New Amsterdam could never have made the return trip, and Kiefft had accommodated him with a russet stallion, complete with saddlebags brimming with food and drink. For this Caleb had been grateful, as it meant he would not have to stop in Saybrook overnight but could camp in the woods and arrive at the Pequot village well before noon the next day.

After spending a restful night in the woods, he rose early and continued his trek along the dense shoreline, his eyes watchful as the horse pounded the sandy terrain. From time to time he heard a bird call and knew that Sassacus's braves were warning their chief of a lone rider approaching.

The moment Caleb came within sight of the Indian fort, he reined in the horse and waited. He sat tall and straight, his dark hair falling low on his forehead. An Indian approached, his face inscrutable in the bright sunshine. Neither man said a word. Caleb allowed the stallion to trot behind the Indian at a slow pace, holding himself erect and proud.

The squaws and the children paid him no heed as they went about their tasks. One old man looked up from his pipe and went back to his dozing. A canvas flap was thrown back across the doorway of a small lodge, and Caleb dismounted and entered the dim room. A man sat cross-legged before a smoldering pile of ashes. He was dark-skinned and had bright, intelligent-looking eyes. His long black hair was coiled into a single thick braid hanging down his back, and his folded arms revealed rippling muscles.

“Welcome,” Sassacus said, rising with one fluid motion. “How are you, Captain van der Rhys?” He spoke an almost perfect English.

Caleb held out his hand and the Indian grasped it firmly. Caleb caught his breath but made no move to withdraw his hand. The Indian smiled and nodded. “You've gained strength since we did this last.”

Caleb laughed. “I'm two years older. Each year we gain strength.” The Indian looked skeptical but accepted the statement. Both men sat down, Caleb deferring first to the Pequot chief.

“My people have watched the waters for many days now. I knew of your arrival in Saybrook.” Sassacus eyed Caleb warily, to see if the honest, forthright man he had met two years ago was still present.

“I heard of the passing of your father, Sassacus. He was a great chief. Now you sit in his place, another great chief, and you look the part.” Caleb grinned.

“If only it were so simple. Looking the part of a great leader is not the deed done.” The Indian smiled, showing square white teeth. “Many things have happened to our people. Many per—” He hesitated.

“Persecutions,” Caleb volunteered.

“Many times the words do not come to my lips. White men talk many words. White men talk too much.”

Caleb threw back his head and laughed. “Why talk when a grunt will do just as well?”

Sassacus looked sheepish. “My people think I am a god now that I know so many white man's words. I am pleased to see you, Caleb van der Rhys. My greetings to your honorable father.”

“I'm here, Sassacus, to speak of the Dutch West India Company's business. I have just come from the home of the governor and bring his greetings. Also, I bring you word of his reform.”

“Bah! It is too late for reform. The deed is done—empty promises. First we will eat. Perhaps lies and deceptions will sit better on a full belly.”

When they had partaken of the simple food, Caleb leaned back on his haunches and studied Sassacus carefully. The chief's eyes shone brightly in the dimness of the hut, and the oil from his swarthy skin made him look as though he were perspiring freely. He too, was waiting, waiting for Caleb to say something, to make some sign that he knew there was more to discuss than the little that had transpired in the past hour. Each played a waiting game, each wanting the other to speak first to show there was no distrust in his heart.

Caleb took the initiative. “This could go on all day, Sassacus. I'm as good at waiting as you are. I learned much from you and your father on my last visit. No games, Sassacus. I can't help you if you won't confide in me.”

The Indian nodded, his lean, hard body relaxed and he crossed his legs in front of him. As always when he spoke, Caleb was stunned by his clear tone and his almost perfect command of the English language. Without the braid and the buckskins, he might have passed for a scholar. “A crooked trader named Captain John Smith came to the settlement and aligned himself with your governor. He arrived about six months ago and set up trading posts along the Connecticut River. Your own people feared him almost as much as the Indians. I understand from some of your settlers that he drew a knife on the governor of Plymouth and spoke lewdly and contemptuously to the officials in the Massachusetts Bay. Everywhere he had been, he was charged with drunkenness and adultery. It's not a pretty story, Caleb, and one I do not relish telling you. As I said, your own people wished him dead. One night his ship was riding anchor at the mouth of the river, and a band of Indians, not my tribe, but Pequots nevertheless, swarmed aboard and massacred all hands, including Captain Smith. He had cheated us and raped our women. His cutthroats had raped small children and then left them to die. In truth, if it had been your people, would you have done less?” Caleb said nothing, motioning Sassacus to continue. “You've come at a volatile time, my friend. The Massachusetts Bay authorities have demanded that we surrender the murderers to English justice. We cannot do that,” Sassacus stated firmly.

“My people are already at war with the Narragansetts and have made our peace with your Dutch brothers,” he went on. “I will attend a council meeting of my people. We plan to agree to a treaty if it meets with our approval. They”—he made the word sound obscene—“want us to hand over the murderers along with a heavy indemnity. I will tell them that our people retaliated only because of the rape of our women and children and for the murder of our chief. They kidnaped him, Caleb, and after we paid the ransom, they sent us back his dead body. If this is your English justice, we want no part of it. I know that we must concede somewhere along the way, but we must have terms.” Sassacus's voice was soft, almost humble, when he spoke again. “There are those who say the Dutch were responsible for the death of my father. In my heart,” he said, placing a dark hand on his chest, “I know this is not true. Still, I cannot think for my people. I can only disagree and protest.”

Caleb's own voice was soft when he spoke. “How soon will your people unite, and how soon will the war begin?”

Sassacus's smile was sad. “Ah, my friend, then you, too, see that war is inevitable. War solves nothing. Man must learn to talk and work out the problems. I was and am willing, but it is the white man who wants to pillage and plunder. The white man knows only war and greed.” He leaned forward, his eyes imploring. “We were a peaceful people until the whites came here. We would have shared, but they took from us without asking. Would you allow what belongs to you to be taken by force without striking back? You can back a stray dog into a tree, but sooner or later he will find a way to free himself, and then he will become a wild renegade. I have hope for the meeting, but that's all it is—hope.”

“What can I do? You haven't told me, Sassacus. I must know.”

The Indian shrugged. He would say no more, and Caleb understood.

“Do you know what happened to all the furs?”

Again Sassacus shrugged. “Whose blood runs in your veins, Caleb van der Rhys?” the Indian asked harshly.

“You ask a foolish question for a wise chief. I agree with all that you've told me. Perhaps we can figure out a way to avert a war.”

Sassacus laughed. “Now tell me who is being foolish. It is inevitable.”

Caleb's face was troubled as he got to his feet. He looked down at Sassacus, and his voice was stern when he spoke. “I see by your face and hear in your voice that you are hungry for war.”

“Wise words spoken by a wise man,” Sassacus said sarcastically. He rose in one fluid motion. “It is your people who will not listen! They will turn a deaf ear to you. For that I am sorry. There is something else you should know, Caleb van der Rhys. If it comes to war, and should we face each other in battle, I will fight to kill for what is mine. I want to be certain you understand what I am saying. If we meet in battle, one of us will die.”

Caleb stared at the Indian for a long moment. “Understood, Sassacus.”

The Pequot chief watched Caleb ride from the fort, his heart heavy in his chest. A pity all white men weren't like Caleb. He appreciated the relationship they had, one man to another, not white man and red man, but simply two men. Soon that would change, and it would be white man against red man, Caleb against Sassacus. Who would win? Sassacus's shoulders slumped. The white man always won. He squared his shoulders. Perhaps this time it would be different. Perhaps he could make it different.

He left the hut and walked to the clearing in the center of the fort. For a long time he stood there staring straight ahead of him. His bearing was proud as his eyes sought out one figure and then another. His jaw was grim, his high cheekbones lending a quality of arrogance to his face. Perhaps this time it would be different.

While Malcolm Weatherly made his way downriver to confront Caleb and extort ransom for Wren, she was struggling to free herself from the ropes which bound her to a massive tree trunk. She cried in agony as the bands around her waist became tighter instead of loosening with her efforts. If she had to be grateful for one thing, it was the fact that Malcolm had secured her in a grassy nook close to the water's edge, shaded by goliath-like trees. If the sun were beating down on her, she wouldn't last the day. Already she was thirsty, and Malcolm hadn't left her any water. Her mouth was dry and her lips were cracked and sore, and the glimpses she caught of the fresh river water were maddening because it was unreachable.

She drifted between wakefulness and sleep, exhausted from her struggles. Suddenly, a crawling on the back of her leg awakened her. Images of horrible multi-eyed insects shot through her mind. Frantically she tried to reach the spot but could not bend forward. Revulsion constricted her chest and her spine stiffened as she became aware of a parade of red ants crawling up the front of her leg. She succeeded in brushing them off by rubbing her legs together, but they returned for the attack. A soundless scream leapt from her throat as the long, endless column of shiny red insects, their antennae quivering, inched farther up her leg, their grinding mandibles growing clearer and more horrible every moment.

While the inch-long red ants tormented Wren, Malcolm traveled downriver, his eye constantly searching out the terrain to the left and to the right. He sang loudly and lustily as his oars dipped and spurred the dinghy onward. He should be in sight of the settlement soon. An hour, perhaps less, for his business, and then back to the woods. He was pleased with himself that things were going according to plan.

He rowed contentedly. Soon he would be face to face with Aubrey Farrington and collecting his half of the jewels. He had decided long ago that he wouldn't wait for the gambler to sell them off in Martinique. He wanted them, and he wanted them now. He could sell them wherever and whenever he wanted. And with the ransom money from Caleb, he would have ready cash, which was the main thing for the time being. His world was slowly coming to rights.

There they were—the sails of the
Sea Siren.
Malcolm maneuvered the dinghy to the left and got as close to the shoreline as he could. He swiftly calculated the distance and decided it would be a small matter to cover it on foot. He worked slowly and efficiently to beach the dinghy and then broke off branches from the low-hanging trees to camouflage the small craft.

He reached the shore rapidly, his heart pounding in his chest. Only once did he falter even slightly, and that was when he saw a new grave with a stout wooden cross on it. He stepped over it lightly, paying it no heed, and continued his short journey.

Malcolm walked through the stockaded walls surrounding Saybrook, and after making certain no one had seen him, quickly skirted behind the buildings as he searched for the offices of the Dutch West India Company, where he knew he would find Caleb. He was well aware of his disfigurement and realized he could never go unnoticed for long among the people of the settlement. Hunkering down against the stable wall behind the Company's office, he waited, squinting his one good eye up at the sky. It was only an hour or so past noon. He was prepared to wait all day if necessary. He had already waited over two days in the woods, and one more day would be worth the end results.

His patience was well rewarded. Within the hour he spied Caleb handing his horse's reins to a small boy and heard him give the lad orders to curry and feed the animal.

Quickly, like a wraith, he stepped out into the open and called, “Van der Rhys!”

Caleb turned at the sound of his name and for a full moment didn't recognize Malcolm. The change in his appearance was so startling . . . so pitiful. “Weatherly!”

“Why do you look so surprised? After all, it was your ship that brought me here. Of course, Farrington helped, but if you want the truth, I was hiding in what you call your locker box. I'd appreciate it if you could tell me where I can find the old man.”

Caleb was stunned. He shook his head to clear it. “You were on the Siren all the time, and none of us were aware of it?” He shook his head again as he recalled Aubrey's late-night comings and goings. He should have known better, or at least suspected. “Your friend, and mine, rests over there,” Caleb said, pointing in the direction of the new grave.

“No lies, van der Rhys. Where's that old sinner? We have business to take care of.”

“Ask anyone.” Caleb waved his hand around the settlement. “Somebody on board ship clubbed him to death the night before we touched land. We buried him when we docked three nights ago.”

It was Malcolm's turn to be stunned. “What about the jewels—where are they? That old fox wouldn't go to his death without leaving some clue to their whereabouts.”

“So that was what he was trying to hide! You've just given me the answer to his death. I could find no reason why someone would kill a harmless old man. You'll have to look elsewhere for your jewels, Weatherly. Whoever killed Aubrey Farrington has them,” Caleb lied smoothly.

Malcolm was beside himself with rage. “I don't believe a word you're saying. I think you have the jewels —in fact, I know you do. Well, I'll just show you how much good they're going to do you. Listen to me, van der Rhys, and listen carefully, for I have no intention of repeating myself. I want those jewels, all of them, plus fifty thousand pounds sterling for your sister, Wren.”

Caleb's face went blank and his limbs froze. “Wren is dead,” he choked. Then he remembered the misery Weatherly had caused her. “As dead as you're going to be!” He lunged at Malcolm, who deftly sidestepped the attack.

Malcolm laughed, a tinny cackle that nearly froze the blood in Caleb's veins. “She's not dead, but she might be soon. I have her safe and sound . . . for the time being. She was in the locker box with me. You look ill. Take some time, until noon tomorrow, to adjust yourself to the idea that your sister is alive and well. . . as I said, for the time being. You deliver the jewels and money to me tomorrow, and you can have her!”

“If you're lying to me, Weatherly, I'll carve you up in little pieces and feed you to the sharks!” Caleb's teeth were clenched as he advanced a step and then another. Malcolm held his ground, although his heart pumped rapidly.

“Keep your hands to yourself, van der Rhys. I said she's alive and well. I'll turn her over to you tomorrow on the noon hour, providing you meet my demands. Any tricks and she gets it.” He made a rough motion of running his hand under his throat to show his intent.

Caleb understood the action all too well and also that the former dandy would do just as he threatened. For now, it would have to be his way, but tomorrow was another day and he would be off guard. Caleb remained still, knowing in his gut that if he made a move or said a word, he would kill the man standing before him. For now, he would have to wait. That Wren was alive was all he needed to know. There must be something to all that praying, after all.

Caleb squatted down on the dusty road, in full view of every one of the settlers. His legs were rubbery and his arms trembled. That damn mist was clouding his vision again. When he was in control of himself, he looked up. Malcolm Weatherly was gone, almost as if he had never appeared, had never said the words that made Caleb a whole man again. Tomorrow was another day.

Malcolm ran through the woods fronting the riverbank, hardly daring to breathe. So one small thing was not in his favor. Now, who could have killed the old man? The Dutchman was probably right—someone who wanted the jewels. Malcolm could almost see the jeweled collar in Caleb's hand tomorrow at noon. He had it—he wasn't fooling Malcolm. Somebody might have killed Farrington thinking he had it, only to realize after the bludgeoning that the jewels were in the Dutchman's safekeeping, probably hidden in the ship's safe. A child could have figured that out with one look at the sea captain's face. Tomorrow the jewels would be in his, Malcolm's, pocket.

Cautiously he made his way to the dinghy, stopping every few seconds to see if he was being followed. Satisfied that he wasn't, he removed the branches and carried them deeper into the woods, to be used again the following day.

As he rowed the boat swiftly upriver, he glanced at the sky. He was right on schedule. He would be back before sundown. He felt surprisingly good, good enough for a little play with Wren. Maybe this time she would welcome him. And if she didn't . . . If she knew what was good for her, she would, and he would make that clear before he untied her.

 

Wren was in agony; the clawing red ants were all over her, beneath her garments and in her hair, and one of them seemed to be caught in her thick eyelash. She let out a shrill scream and then fainted.

Two small girls playing in the woods stopped in their tracks as the high-pitched wail reached their ears. Hearing no further cries, they tiptoed on moccasined feet to where they thought the sound had come from. They held hands and giggled slightly at this small adventure. A wounded bird perhaps, and they would nurse it back to health. A small animal caught in a snare, and they would free it so it could return to its natural lair. The smaller of the two, who resembled a precocious squirrel with her bright, merry gaze, nudged the taller one and pushed her forward. At the sight that met their eyes they backed off quickly and held a whispered conversation with much pointing and stamping of feet. The smaller girl tilted her head to one side and advanced closer, taking in Wren's dark gown. She looked at her friend, and they both nodded. The taller girl ran down to the river and came back with her hands full of mud. Together they ripped off Wren's clothing and smeared her with mud from head to toe. They clucked their tongues in sympathy when they noticed the ants in her hair, Another brief conference and another trip to the river. Within minutes Wren resembled a grotesque river monster.

The two girls sat back on their haunches and surveyed their handiwork. They had a problem. Should they go back to the fort for help, or should they try to take the “creature” with them? Could they make a litter and carry her? How? Again they put their heads together and whispered. Within minutes they had removed every lace on their persons, from those on their moccasins to the ties that bound their hair. Fir branches were broken by the smaller child's standing on the taller one's shoulders and swinging from a branch till it collapsed. Then, they tied the branches together and dragged Wren's unprotesting body to the makeshift litter.

The mudpack seemed to be working; Wren had come to and was feeling better. She wanted to say something to the children but knew they wouldn't understand. She tried to thank them with her eyes and a gentle touch of her hand. She wanted to tell them to hurry, to get her out of here before Malcolm returned. Her gaze became pleading as she motioned to the rope they had removed.

It was the smaller child who understood first. Gesturing wildly and pointing to the rope, she danced around in agitation. Her companion nodded solemnly to show she, too, understood, and bent to help her friend with the litter. They made their way deep into the woods, certain it was the wisest route to follow. Every so often they stopped to smooth the pine needles and cover their tracks. Their eyes met from time to time and expressed their awareness that this was serious business, and it wasn't just the boys in the fort who knew how to do things. Chief Sassacus would be proud of them, proud because they had helped a white sister. If they were lucky, he might even give them a sweet to suck on. Already the little one's tongue was tasting the rock candy she adored.

By the time they reached their village, they were completely out of breath, their titian skin wet with perspiration. They dragged the litter the last few feet to a shady tree and stood back expectantly, each rubbing at the blisters on her hands from contact with the rough bark.

The women of the fort meandered over to the litter and stared down at Wren and then at the girls. Each began to babble, and much hand waving ensued. The girls looked at each other when one of the women said Sassacus was downriver. There would be no sweet. Disappointed at this news, they ran off to pick berries, their mouths watering.

The children had probably saved Wren's life, the women agreed. But who was she and where did she come from? Because there were no answers to their questions, they lifted Wren gently and took her into one of the lodges, where they worked industriously to wash off the dry mud and to apply fresh, wet compresses all over her body. Their eyes met when they saw the raw rope burns around her waist, but they said nothing. A white woman who had been tied up somewhere meant trouble. They placed Wren on a clean blanket and then sat down around her.

Wren relaxed within the protective circle of women. She knew they were Indians and that they meant her no harm. The children had managed to bring her here and now she was safe, away from Malcolm and his deranged ideas and threats. These women, with serene understanding in their eyes, would never harm her, she was convinced of that. Her eyes closed wearily and Caleb's face intruded into her dreams.

The women took turns sitting in the tight circle. They watched the girl with compassionate eyes as she slept fitfully, calling on someone named Caleb to help her. They rolled the strange name around on their tongues so that they would have it right when they told it to Chief Sassacus on his return.

 

Malcolm felt elated as he stepped from the dinghy. By this time tomorrow he would have the ransom and the jewels and would be well on his way to a new life here in the colonies. He would set himself up in grand style and have servants wait on him hand and foot. He would be a generous employer and would lavish his servants with good food and fine lodgings. Money, he thought, could buy anything.