Captive Splendors (34 page)

It was too quiet. There should be leaves rustling, small animals running through the underbrush. Even the birds were silent. Something was wrong. His jubilant mood of moments ago disappeared. What could have gone wrong? He had left Wren securely tied. He had the dinghy and he had seen Caleb, and he knew for certain that he hadn't been followed.

Malcolm's good eye nearly popped from its socket when he saw Wren's gown lying on the ground, covered with a lacy pattern of holes made by the red bugs. His mind refused to accept the visual evidence before him. What is holy hell happened to Wren's dress? he asked himself. Did she free herself? She couldn't have, he answered silently. Someone must have helped her escape. Who? He looked around and felt the first rumblings of fear in his gut. This was Indian territory, after all.

He reached down and picked up the tattered dress, trying to imagine what had happened. It was too much for him to comprehend, and he slumped against the tree. All his fine dreams of mere moments ago were shattered. There would be no fine house and no servants. Not only would the ransom be lost to him, but the jewels would be lost as well. He had nothing. He had never had anything except a pocketful of dreams, and now that was gone, just like his handsome face. His eyes burned with tears and the injustice of it all. What was he going to do now? Without Wren, van der Rhys would kill him. Unless . . . he wiped at his eye with the back of his hand . . . unless he could come up with a plan to outwit van der Rhys and get the gems and the money first. How? He couldn't think. All he knew was that he didn't want to die. He couldn't die; his whole life was ahead of him. But, he sobbed silently, I can't have any kind of life without money and someone to take care of me. I don't even have a weapon to defend myself against Caleb. I have to think—to come up with some sort of plan. He prayed that wherever Wren was, it was far away from Caleb. And, he thought maliciously, whoever has her, I hope it's the Indians and that she's strung up somewhere for all the grief she's caused me. Whatever is happening to her, she deserves it.

Malcolm made himself a small campsite and settled down to sleep. Normally, under the present circumstances, he would have slept with one eye open. Now, thanks to that bitch Wren, he couldn't even do that. However, because he was so tired and needed to sleep, he would simply have to take his chances.

Dawn crept up on him and woke him with tenacious fingers. He stirred, trying to orient himself to his surroundings. He itched; God, how he itched. In the early light he could barely make out the red bugs that were crawling all over him. He screamed shrilly and ran down to the river and dunked himself, hoping to wash the crawling insects from his person. At least now he knew what had happened to Wren's gown. He had dreamed of that tattered garment all night long, wondering, imagining, what had made those holes. Now, if he could just figure out how she had gotten loose, he would feel less anxious.

He shivered in the cool air as he made his way back to the campsite. He had no blanket to warm himself, and his flint was wet. He sat with his arms wrapped around his knees and cursed everything in sight. That didn't alter anything, but it made him feel better—until he started to think about how Caleb would react when he found Wren was gone. Malcolm had to find a way to wriggle out of taking Caleb to where Wren was supposed to be. He would just demand the ransom brazenly and give him directions; if the bastard didn't like it, that would be that. No ransom, no information. After all, one didn't divulge everything. Caleb was probably thinking the same thing—no Wren, no ransom. It would be a stalemate, and it would depend on how hungry Caleb was to see that bitch Wren. Malcolm would have to act convincingly ; otherwise he would have to give up that scheme and start all over.

He settled himself as comfortably as he could and was soon asleep again, his dreams now invaded by a tall, dark-haired Dutchman who chased him from one end of the Saybrook settlement to the other, finally catching him and locking him in the locker box aboard the
Sea Siren.
He woke, drenched in his own sweat. There would be no more rest for him now. He rekindled the fire and sat shivering as he nibbled sparingly on the food he had brought with him from the ship.

Sometime during the morning hours his eye became glazed and his mouth curled down, making him look more grotesque than before. When he walked down to the water to wash himself, he stared at his reflection for a long time; for some reason the face that gazed back at him pleased him and at the same time frightened him.

His movements were slow, sure and precise as he readied the dinghy for his trip to Saybrook and Caleb. He stuffed the sack of provisions beneath the bench-like seat, placed the oar in its lock and then stood back to survey his campsite. The fire was nothing more than charred embers, with a few smoldering coals that hissed at him when he kicked out with his foot to scatter the ashes. He decided to leave Wren's gown as evidence that she had been here. Caleb would want proof, and the gown was as good as anything.

Malcolm sat down before the dying fire and stared morosely at the hole in the sole of his boot. Not only was there a hole in his boot, but there was also a hole in his stocking through which pink-gray skin glared up at him. A man shouldn't have holes in his boots, he thought. Caleb van der Rhys' boots flashed before him—soft black kid that cleaved to his legs and looked as though they had been made expressly for him. And what did he have? Boots and stockings with holes in them. All that would change as soon as possible. The first thing he would do with his money would be to find a bootmaker and order a dozen pairs just like Caleb's. And the second thing he would do would be to order seven pairs of stockings, one pair for each day of the week. If he had boots without holes and fresh stockings, no one would look at his face and see his disfigurement. He knew this was a flimsy rationalization, and he grimaced in despair. Why was he fooling himself? In his gut he realized that his life was over and van der Rhys had won. Even that bitch Wren had won by getting away from him. He was alone. All he had was a little food, the rags on his back and the dinghy. A man deserved to have more. A lone tear trickled down his cheek and he wiped at it angrily. His entire predicament was all Wren's fault. Women, he decided, were not even a necessary evil. Yet they made fools of men and caused wars, and a few besotted men had even lost empires because of them. A fierce, scorching hatred erupted in him and he spit vehemently. One way or another, they always won, always managed to come out on top and stand laughing at some man. Or was it just he? Women didn't laugh at Caleb van der Rhys; it was the other way around. The thought caused Malcolm such anguish that he rolled over on the ground and pounded his fists into the still-warm embers of the fire.

He had wasted enough precious time with his woolgathering. He had to begin his journey.

When Caleb rowed away from the
Sea Siren
to meet Malcolm, his thoughts were only on Wren. God, he had thought he would never see her again or feel her in his arms. And now, within hours, he would have, his dearest wish come true. There would be no more sleepless nights, no more recriminations. He would do, say, whatever she wanted as long as she loved him. He would lay down his life for her, if that was what she wanted. The thought stunned him and he grinned to himself. If that would make her happy, he would do it unflinchingly. God, how he had envied Regan with his love for Sirena! And now he had the same thing, the same wonderful thing that had made Regan a whole man. He would hold her in his arms and whisper all the right words in her ear. He would say them over and over until she begged him to stop. God, how he loved her! And how he hated Malcolm Weatherly! It had taken every ounce of his self-restraint not to have killed Malcolm on the spot when he told him about Wren. But Caleb hadn't, because if he had given in to his vicious impulses, he would never find Wren. If he had killed Malcolm, he would not be feeling what he was feeling now, this deep love for another person, the desire to give his life to Wren's happiness. After he had found her and held her in his arms, he would kill Weatherly and toss him to the sharks for fodder. He had never killed a man out of pure hate, but there was always a first time for everything.

Idly, his booted feet scuffing the dusty patch of ground he was now standing on, he watched Bascom Stoneham lead his flock to the outer perimeters of the settlement. His eyes narrowed slightly as he saw Bascom cup the elbow of a young girl in a possessive manner. His eyes narrowed again as he spotted a young man weaving his way through the ranks of the Puritans with a look of determination and purpose on his face, and not to attend a prayer meeting. Even from this distance Caleb knew the young man was interested only in the stiff-backed girl being escorted by the preacher. He recognized impending trouble when he saw it. But the Puritans were no longer his concern. His only concern now was for Wren. He turned his back on the parade of Puritans and watched both the shoreline and the woods for Malcolm to make his presence known. He was a patient man, and he would wait forever if in the end he could hold Wren in his arms. That terrible mist is covering my eyes again, he groaned inwardly. One of these days—He didn't finish the thought, because when his vision cleared, Malcolm was standing about ten feet away from him.

Caleb hadn't really expected Wren to be with him, but he had secretly hoped that maybe Malcolm would decide to turn her over at the point of exchange. He should have known better. The weasel wasn't going to give an inch, and from the looks of the stout club in his hand, Weatherly wasn't taking any chances on Caleb's emotions. Caleb wanted to kill him, to strangle him with his bare hands and hear him beg for the mercy that he would deny. At last he forced the words from between clenched teeth. “Where's Wren?”

Malcolm laughed, a shrill sound that sent the hackles on Caleb's neck to twanging. “First the ransom and the jewels. Now!” Malcolm demanded arrogantly as he waved the club in the air. “And no tricks, van der Rhys, or you'll never see her alive. Toss it here for me to see.”

There was nothing for Caleb to do but toss to Malcolm the oilskin pouch he had hidden inside his shirt before leaving the ship. Malcolm laughed again as he stuffed the pouch inside his own shirt, satisfied that Caleb had kept his end of the bargain.

“All right, you bastard, you got what you wanted. Now, where's Wren? I'm warning you—if she's been harmed, I'll kill you.” Caleb said this so softly, Malcolm had to strain to hear him.

“She's upriver. Ride the shoreline, and when you come to the bend with the cove and the sandbar, head to your right. That's where I made camp. Wren is tied to a tree, just waiting for you.”

Caleb's heart turned over at the words. “Oh, no, we go together, and if you're lying, I'll kill you on the spot.”

“I'd like to oblige you, van der Rhys, but I have other fish to fry. And this club I'm holding makes for the odds on my side. If you want your sister, you'll have to get her yourself, without any help from me. And if I were you, I'd get a move on, for the camp is infested with red ants that can eat a person alive” He added nonchalantly, “I wouldn't waste any time if I were you.”

Dark sparks of fury shot from Caleb's eyes and Malcolm backed off, the club held out in front of him.

“It'll take more than that measly weapon to get me,” Caleb gritted as he reached out to grab it from Malcolm's shaking hand. They fought like animals, with Caleb having the advantage over the wiry Malcolm. Weatherly gouged and scratched, fighting like a woman, while Caleb struck out with his fist, letting it find its mark in Malcolm's good eye. He was momentarily taken off guard when Malcolm screamed shrilly in his ear. That moment was all Weatherly needed to race off into the woods and disappear from Caleb's sight.

Caleb leapt on his horse and dug his heels into the animal's flanks, enraged because he had to rely on Malcolm's word that Wren was alive and safe. But he had to believe that!

As Caleb's horse pounded the sandy riverbank, Malcolm raced wildly through the woods, going in circles in his blind panic. His vision was poor, and pain creased his head in spasms as he continued his erratic flight. Soon, he gasped to himself, I should be out of the woods and near the dinghy.

Exhausted, he fell to the ground and cried, the sounds like those of a whimpering child. He had to find a safe place where he could hide from Caleb. Caleb would kill him as soon as he found Wren gone. Pitiful mewing noises came from Malcolm's mouth as he wiped at his eye that was rapidly closing, almost obscuring what little vision he had left. Where was there a safe place in this Godforsaken land? He couldn't live in the woods like a wild animal. If he did that, he would never have his fine house and his servants. Wherever he went, Caleb would find him. He knew it, accepted it. Now he had to go on, to look for a place that would be free from Caleb's searching eyes. If Caleb did manage to find Wren and she was dead, the Dutchman would devote the rest of his life to hunting down Malcolm and then would kill him in slow, easy stages.

Malcolm curled himself into the fetal position and rocked back and forth, his soft moans of anguish shattering the quiet of the forest. He didn't want to die; God, he didn't want to die. Safety, that was all he needed, and he needed it only until Caleb set sail. He sat upright, his spine straight, as a thought occurred to him. Once before he had been safely hidden from Caleb's eyes. True, Farrington had helped him then, but he could make his way back to the
Sea Siren
and hide in the locker box right under Caleb's unsuspecting nose. Van der Rhys would never think to look there. Malcolm would row out to the ship under cover of darkness and creep aboard. He sighed. This was the answer to all his problems, he was certain. Survival was all that mattered. His survival.

 

Caleb crouched low on the stallion's broad back, making it easier for the animal to race across the soggy terrain. He rode for what seemed like hours, every muscle, every nerve in his body strained to the breaking point. From time to time he shouted Wren's name to let her know he was coming. Each time his cry was more muffled and carried away on the brisk wind. Perspiration dripped down his back and drenched the horse.

His eye peeled for the sandbar, Caleb almost missed it with the wind stinging his face. He slid from the galloping steed and rolled over several times. Then he was on his feet, shouting Wren's name as he raced into the woods. In his heart he knew she wouldn't be there; it was his mind that refused to accept the thought. His broad shoulders heaved and then slumped as he bent down to pick up a black rag. He blinked at the lacy, cobwebby holes and at the dried blood that was caked to them. He ground his teeth together in a helpless fit of rage as he poked a finger through one of the holes. This couldn't be happening to him. No, it was impossible. To have come this far and then have the joy snatched away from him. It was like drowning and coming up for air one last time, only to get pulled back down by the undertow.

The thought that he refused entry into his mind surfaced, and he looked at it squarely. What if this were a devious trick and Wren weren't alive after all? What if she had really gone over the rail, as Sara had said she had? What if she had been dead all along, and this was just some rotten, macabre joke of Malcolm's seedy little mind? “Oh, God,” Caleb moaned. She couldn't be dead. His mind and heart could not accept that now. She was here, somewhere. There was blood on the gown, Wren's blood. He had to believe it was her blood and that somewhere, some place, she was free of Malcolm and alive. He had to find her. He had to clear his mind of all the cobwebs so he could think logically.

Caleb sat down, his long legs crossed in front of him. He forced his lean body to relax and let his mind take over. He would go with his original idea that Wren had been here tied to a tree as Malcolm had said. She had either escaped or been freed by someone. That person hadn't been Malcolm; therefore, it had to be someone who inhabited this section of the country. Only the Indians lived here. Caleb had ridden over two hours, at a hard and fast pace, to arrive at the sandbar. Another hour and a half and he would be at the mouth of the Mystic River and Sassacus's fort. Other Indian tribes inhabited this area, not just the Pequots. Any tribe could have found her and taken her for reasons of its own. Gory tales of Indians' vengeance made him shudder when he thought about them, and he forced them from his mind, refusing to believe Wren was anything but alive and well. A negative attitude would get him nowhere.

She could be anywhere, and if he didn't have a plan of action, he would go in circles for days or even months. The forest was all-encompassing, dark and forbidden to those who didn't belong. The thought frightened him. He would appeal to Sassacus, who knew the forest intimately. Sassacus would help him. Caleb would promise whatever was necessary to secure the chief's help and would work the rest of his life to repay his debt to him. He had no other choice, and he knew in his gut that the red man would help him.

 

The rough-hewn stockade gates of the Mystic fort opened and Caleb rode into the compound. He reined in his horse, visible to all, and waited. He knew that no message would be sent to the chief, informing him of his arrival. Sassacus had probably been aware an hour ago that Caleb was heading in this direction. When he was ready, and when he thought Caleb had waited long enough, the chief would come out and welcome him.

Caleb waited patiently, his eyes circling the huts and coming to rest on a small group of chattering women. An eerie feeling crawled up his spine, and his forehead became dotted with perspiration. He was used to seeing the Indians behave in a solemn-faced manner, their great dark eyes staring unwaveringly before them. Something must have happened for the women to be chattering the way they were. And they weren't paying any attention to him, which was equally strange. He shrugged, but the eerie feeling remained.

Sassacus pushed aside the canvas flap covering the doorway of his lodge and came out to greet his guest. His eye followed Caleb's to the babbling women, and he shrugged as if to say, “Women!”

“A small matter, probably something to do with one of the children. It's of no importance—a little harsh to the ear, but of no concern. I am pleased to see you again so soon, Captain.”

“And I am pleased to see you, Sassacus,” Caleb said, clasping the Indian's wrist in both his hands. “We must talk and then I must go back downriver. But first I need your help.” Once inside the chiefs quarters, he explained about Wren and how he had found her gone from the woods.

Sassacus nodded. “We will help you. But only when it becomes light at dawn. One Indian tracking another Indian in the dark is a foolish waste of time. Each of us learned from our fathers how to hide tracks. The daylight hours will give us a small advantage. My men will set out at first light. I see this woman means much to you—here.” He placed his hand over his heart.

“She is my heart,” Caleb said simply, and smiled.

Sassacus returned the smile. “I understand. Now, tell me, what is the other thing that brings you here?”

“What have your chiefs decided? When will you start the war? You notice I said
when,
not if. I will go once more to the authorities and plead with them. More than that I cannot do. I sail back to England and Holland shortly.”

Sassacus motioned for Caleb to follow him outside. He pointed toward the rising moon. “You understand, Caleb?”

Caleb felt a great sadness envelop him as he stared at the orange ball in the sky. “I understand. Before another full moon the war will have begun.”

Sassacus nodded and his shoulders slumped. “By that time, my friend, you will be halfway to your homeland. We will not see each other again in this life. In the next one, perhaps we will stand side by side and hunt and fish like the brothers we are. I must do what is right for my people, just as you must do what is right for yours. We both understand this. You are my friend and I am yours. Nothing—war, man, Indian or white—can change that.”

There were no words to say, and if there were, Caleb could not have uttered them for the knot that was choking him. Instead, he placed his arm around the Indian's shoulder and went back with him into the lodge.

Sassacus smiled. “We will eat and drink, and you will tell me of this woman who has captured your heart and I will lie to you and tell you all the women in the village want me as their man.” At the concerned look on Caleb's face, Sassacus added, “You must not pity me. At some distant time, if you want, grieve for me and my people. If just one white man grieves for one red man, then we have made progress. It will be up to the others who follow me to continue where we have left off. Is that not so, Caleb van der Rhys?”