Captive (4 page)

It had helped that her apelike guardian-escorts were not good sailors. Trenton Wharton was a good six feet two inches tall, and well over two hundred pounds; Buddy MacDonald was a bit taller and even heavier. Either one of them could easily pick up a half dozen grown men at the same time—and certainly stop a wayward young woman right in her tracks—but neither seemed to have a decent sea stomach whatsoever.

But, alas! What difference did it make? There was
nowhere to escape on the open Atlantic, in the Florida Straits, or the azure Gulf of Mexico. All that she could possibly do was face the wind, feel it with her flesh, and with her soul, and dream. Of freedom.

Her fingers tightened and tensed over the rail as she watched the sea before her, the land seeming to come closer and closer.

She wasn’t quite sure when she and Michael Warren had grown to despise one another so completely. If she could only go back, she could perhaps change things. She’d been young when he’d married her mother, but her real father had been dead scarcely a year, and she had loved him with all her heart. Michael Warren had entered her world and taken her into his own, treating her just as he might a green private in one of his army companies. Discipline! It was his life. He made it hers. More than once he had seen fit to break pine branches over her shoulders and back. He had legally adopted her, and with his
discipline
and determination—sympathy had no place in a well-ordered life—he had buried her own dear father deeper and deeper with each passing year. Her mother had tried to reason with her. Point out that Michael Warren was a good man, just an army man. Strict and determined to keep his household in the same good order as he kept his men.

But he wasn’t a good man. He might have convinced her mother that he was good beneath his hard exterior, and he no doubt believed it himself. He prayed often enough. Turned to the good Lord daily, and attended church with an extraordinary vigor and regularity. But to Teela, no amount of churchgoing could atone for deeds done or the manner of a man, and though, for her mother’s sake, she had tried to find that goodness in him, she could not. He reveled in cruelty; he enjoyed inflicting pain. She could hear the pleasure in his voice when he spoke with his friends and fellow officers into the wee hours of the night in
her real father’s
plantation hall. He liked war; he liked killing. Most of all, he liked killing Indians. They were all firebrands of hell. It didn’t
matter the age. He’d fought in a number of the Creek wars; he’d fought at times with Andy Jackson when Jackson had been a military power in the field before he had become the president of the United States, only recently replaced by his friend Martin Van Buren.

Van Buren might be the president now, and Jackson might have retired to his plantation to live out his days as a gentleman farmer, but Jacksonian politics were still being played. Jackson’s determination that the Indians must move west had not ended with the Creek wars, or the sad migration of the Cherokees. The government remained intent on moving the red men out of Florida. And the Florida Indians remained intent on remaining right where they were. It left a field of war, and a great deal of work that Michael Warren relished completely.

Michael Warren had earned medals for his heroics in the War of 1812 against the British, but those medals meant little to him. He hadn’t really enjoyed fighting the British; he loved fighting the Indians.

Military life had often taken Michael Warren away. And while Teela’s mother had lived, life had been bearable, even enjoyable for Teela—since the army had so frequently kept her stepfather far from home. But last summer, when Michael had first been temporarily assigned as a regular army commander in the “hellhole” of Florida, as he called it, Lilly Warren had died. Gentle, sweet, and delicate as a rose, she had simply seemed to fade. In death she had been as beautiful as she had been in life, her radiant auburn hair spread out in a fan over the white satin bedding of the coffin, her lovely features at peace. Teela had watched her fade, had sworn to herself that she would stay as long as her mother needed her, and then turned her back on the graceful plantation that should have been her inheritance. Warren’s name was now on the property deed, even if Teela’s real father had built the place brick by brick. It didn’t matter, and she was certain her father would have understood why she had to abandon it. Teela wasn’t staying with Warren.

The pity of it was, she soon discovered, she was under-age.
She certainly couldn’t leave until her mother was properly buried, laid gently and lovingly to her eternal rest. Michael Warren naturally returned for his wife’s funeral. But even as Teela mourned Lilly, kneeling at the coffin, Michael paced behind her, describing the future he had in mind for her.

Letting him know in no uncertain terms that she didn’t intend to stay and accept any of his dictates had proved to be a tremendous mistake. She’d found herself locked in her room. Nor was Warren a fool. He never left any of the gentle household slaves to guard her. No. She could not coerce or trick or charm anyone into easing his guard—military men were set to watch her. The one time she managed to leave the house, she was dragged back.

Only to discover that she was to marry the very wretch who had forcefully dragged her back.

But no matter what Michael Warren did to her, there was only so much he could force.

She had walked down the church aisle with Warren, taken the hand of her “betrothed”—and point-blank flatly refused to wed in the very midst of the ceremony. Warren, of course, had been humiliated. And admittedly, she had been terrified of him that night, and with good reason. The lashings he had dealt her with his belt were barely healed. But though he had drawn her tears that night, he had not drawn submission.

She had hated him all the more, and her resolve against him had grown stronger.

The good thing—it had seemed—was that he had been permanently assigned to Florida almost immediately following the near wedding. At least Teela had thought it good at the time. Michael Warren lived by his own strange code of honor. He was her stepfather, allowed by God’s own law to dictate to her and attempt to beat her into submission. He was a good churchgoer, a Godfearing man, even though Teela was a little amazed by his concept of Christian charity, and of good and evil. But in his absences, though she was watched, though she
had scant chance for escape, she also had a certain freedom. She was delighted when he left.

Delighted, in a way, with the terrible news that came forth from the Florida territory. There was fierce war raging down there. The government had imagined that it would be an easy thing to force the Seminole Indians out to new lands in the West.

They’d underestimated their adversaries. The Indians had dug in, hard. Into a savage land where they could strike and hide, disappear, and return out of darkness and swamp to strike again. Many soldiers had been massacred.

Michael Warren might not come back.

It was wrong to pray for a man’s death. She tried not to do so. She didn’t pray that he’d die. She simply prayed that he’d disappear. Be swallowed into the swamp.

But Michael hadn’t been swallowed.

He had sent for Teela, and so she was now approaching the coast of a savage land where warfare was being waged on a brutal and desperate scale.

She sighed, watching the water. It was a land where many before her had come seeking freedom. Long before her stepfather had been sent to the frontier Florida territory, she had been intrigued by newspaper and magazine stories. Slaves escaped their masters to run south, to join with the Indian bands there. For decades now Creeks and other Indians had found themselves pushed southward by the encroachment of the white man. They had joined with tribes all but extinct. Newly immigrated Creeks, Muskogee-speaking Seminoles, Hitichi-speaking Mikasukis, were all grouped together by the white man as Seminoles, Cimmarons, renegades, runaways.

Treaty after treaty had been signed with them. Wars had raged. Treaties had been broken. And finally absolute violence had erupted with a December slaughter now known as the Dade Massacre, and since then the situation had only worsened. Teela read, and she listened to the army men, and she had no choice but to
know her stepfather’s opinions. The Seminoles, once quite loosely banded, had a hero now, a war chief or
mico
, a leader of extraordinary capabilities, a man called Osceola. Under his leadership the Indians had learned to fight and run, to create death and havoc and damage, and disappear into the wildness of their swamps. Amazingly—since the general white consensus had been that a few companies of good regular army men should be able to quell the disturbances of a handful of savages—the Seminoles had pitched the country into a dreadful war. Americans were expansionists. They wanted land, and they didn’t care if the Indians were on it or not. Reservations in the western section of the country would do for the native people, so the Seminoles were ordered to emigrate.

Some had indeed been transported west.

Many more had dug in, moving more swiftly than the wind, more silently than the whisper of a coming twilight. White settlers—men, women, and children—had been horribly slain and mutilated.

Entire Indian villages had been decimated.

But still they fought on. With an uncanny ability. And the trained and civilized army sent by the United States government was all but helpless against the tactics of the natives.

Only Michael Warren would insist that a stepdaughter be brought into such wickedly dangerous circumstances, Teela thought. But then, Michael Warren assuredly believed that she should either learn to follow his dictates, or else deserve to die a wretched death at the hands of savages. Besides, according to Warren, they were close to a truce at the moment. March had brought another treaty.

The problem was, like all other agreements between the whites and the Indians, this one seemed to be failing.

Soldiers were starting to raid villages again.

Seminoles were attacking white farms and plantations. The war continued even as Teela traveled toward the wild frontier of the peninsula. The long way, all around
the length of the east coast down the Atlantic and up the west coast within the Gulf of Mexico, because Warren would most probably be assigned to Fort Brooke, although it seemed that the sporadic fighting was now taking place just about everywhere.

Teela didn’t care. She despised Michael Warren, but she was anxious to see the frontier territory of Florida, the exotic birds she’d read so very much about, the sunsets … she wasn’t even afraid of the mosquitoes, or the hardships of a military fort.

While Lilly had lived, Teela had strived to be everything her mother had expected her daughter to be. She had entertained her mother’s friends—and even Michael’s associates—with all the grace and hospitality taught her by Lilly’s gentle hand. She had played the spinet and sung ballads for their guests, gone to teas and balls and dances, flirted and charmed to the exact expectations of her society. She had never missed church; she had followed Lilly constantly to bring aid to the needy and ill. She resented none of these things—in fact, she had enjoyed nursing, and would have loved to have studied medicine.

But Lilly was gone now. And there was no pretense between her and Michael. She loved Charleston, but not beneath her stepfather’s dictates.

She lifted her chin to the wind, smiling slightly, and wondering to herself just why she was so excited to be coming here. The things she had read had fascinated her. She wanted to see the swamps and the hammocks, the spectacular sunsets, the exotic birds. Even feeling the wind aboard the ship, she felt a sense of excitement. It seemed that life, no matter how deadly or dangerous, would be vivid here. Splashed with color. She was eager for the very wildness that was promised and threatened, for the beauty, however savage it might be.

And however much she might see, she reminded herself ruefully, for assuredly, if Michael Warren had summoned her here, he’d had a reason for doing so. She would probably find herself betrothed again. And this
time Michael would have surely chosen someone old and grizzled—but rich, of course. And strong. Strong enough to force the issue with a reluctant bride, since Michael would be wary of her now himself.

Never
, she promised herself silently. He could do many things to her. He could not force her to wed, and he never would. This frontier land would not be like Charleston. And Michael would frequently be engaged in battle. There would have to be a greater chance here for her….

A chance of what? she wondered.

Freedom
, something whispered in her heart.

A ship’s whistle suddenly sounded, and Teela became aware of a flurry of activity as orders were shouted, orders to trim the sails and bring the ship about.

They were approaching land.

Teela forgot her own reflections as she looked toward the shore, both fascinated and, admittedly, a little dismayed by the view that stretched before her.

The stockade itself was crude and wooden with high walls and towers, something that almost seemed to grow out of the earth itself. The small community surrounding the fort was little better, just a conclave of poor wooden houses, fences, domestic animals, and dirt roads. But she realized that the poor fledgling city was surrounded by a frame of startling beauty. The river, shimmering green, stretched through the growth of trees and foliage that forged inland, while the bay itself seemed touched by the light of a thousand diamonds, creating a dance of blue and aquamarine upon the horizon. There were beaches, too, encircling the city, white sand beaches that looked as if they were soft silk thrown out to buffer whatever thorns and brambles might he within the land beyond.

“Miss Warren, we’re nigh to docking,” Teela heard, and turned quickly, first to her left, then right. Her stepfather’s watchdogs were with her, both a little green. Indeed, Trenton, who had spoken,
was
green, his flesh nearly matching the color of his eyes. Poor Buddy was
almost as white as the sand of the beaches. But despite their distress, both men were back in full uniform.