Wilde, Jennifer (42 page)

His
arm was still curled loosely around my neck. He put the pistol down and curled
his other arm around my waist. I leaned against him, trying to conquer the fear
that gripped me like a tangible force. The Indians were no longer being
stealthy. We could hear feet slapping against the ground as they raced about.
They called to each other in harsh, excited voices, and then they seemed to be
arguing among themselves. Jeff held me, and I closed my eyes, praying they
would go away.

Then
he was shaking me and I opened my eyes to see the cave filled with misty
yellow-white light. I had fallen asleep. I couldn't believe it. The Indians had
been jabbering and I had been terrified and I had actually fallen asleep. I was
stretched out on a blanket, another blanket pulled up over me. Jeff was
grinning. He looked cocky and very pleased with himself. I sat up, rubbing my
eyes. My whole body ached, and I was hungrier than I had ever been in my life.

"Must
say, when you sleep, you sleep soundly. Thought you'd
never
wake up.
It's nigh on ten o'clock in the morning."

"Did
they—are they gone?"

"They're
gone," he said, "long gone. They went splashin' off down the stream
just a little while after you dropped off. I've already been out, had me a good
look 'round. They ain't gonna be lookin' for us any longer, Marietta."

I
climbed to my feet. "How can you be so sure?"

Jeff
frowned, reluctant to speak. There was something he hadn't told me. I sensed it
at once. His brown eyes were dark, his mouth tight at the corners. He still
hesitated, looking at me, and finally he sighed, grimacing before he spoke.

"They
found who they were lookin' for," he said, "or who they
thought
they
were lookin' for. Billy Brennan was camped 'bout a quarter of a mile up the
stream, Marietta, on the other side. They found him. They had a bit of fun.
I... uh... I heard 'em at it last night, after you dropped off to sleep. I
heard him, too. I was damned thankful you weren't awake. No one oughta have ta
hear anything like that."

I
was silent. I knew my cheeks were pale, Billy Brennan had been a
dyed-in-the-wool villain, a thief, a murderer, but no man should have to die
like that. Jeff looked at me with worried eyes.

"I
shouldn'ta
told you," he said quietly, "but in the long run it's best you know.
I found Billy, what was left of him. I buried him before I came back here to
wake you up. The Indians are gone, and they won't be back. We don't have to
worry about them any longer."

"That
poor man."

"Yeah,"
Jeff said, and then he changed the subject. "The mules are already
outside, eatin' all the grass in sight. I suggest we have some breakfast, too,
and then— then what say we push on to Natchez?"

"That
sounds like a splendid idea," I told him.

As
we neared Natchez the land became incredibly verdant, rich and green, and the
trees were majestic, great oaks that spread their boughs as though luxuriating
in the fresh air, the rich soil, the clear blue sky. It was still early
morning. Jeff told me we would reach Natchez shortly after noon. I should have
been relieved, should have been eager to reach the comfort of civilization at
last, but I wasn't. I was curiously sad, for it was over now, this long,
hazardous, grueling journey, and the warm, satisfying intimacy must end, too. I
would not be able to relax and reveal in Jeff's nearness any longer. I had to
steel myself against him. I had to escape at the first opportunity.

"Natchez
really began way back in 1716," Jeff informed me. "Chap named Jean
Baptiste Le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville, built a fort high on the bluffs, Fort
Rosalie, near the villages of the Natchez Indians. He and his men had a lot of
trouble with the Natchez, but he managed to subdue 'em—forty-nine men against
the whole Natchez Nation. A great settlement grew, Frenchies pouring in from
all over. The land was cleared, plantations established, merchants and artisans
arrived. Ten years or so passed, and then the Frenchies got greedy and tried to
take even more land from the Indians." He paused, shaking his head.

"What
happened?"

"One
of the bloodiest massacres in history. The Natchez came to the French with
reports that the Choctaws were going to attack, claimed they wanted to help
fight 'em off. The French were frightened and let the Natchez come pouring in
with weapons—Indians entering every house to 'help' fight off the Choctaws. At
four o'clock in the afternoon—this was November 28, 1729—their chief gave the
signal. The killing began. The French were butchered, decapitated, their heads
piled up in the public square. The women and children who weren't butchered
along with the men were taken captive. The whole settlement was razed to the
ground."

"How—dreadful,"
I said with a shudder.

"There
was retaliation, of course," Jeff continued. "The Choctaws were old
enemies of the Natchez, and the French got 'em to help. Soldiers and savages
came pourin' up from New Orleans, and the Natchez Nation was destroyed in a
spree of bloodlettin' that made the massacre seem pale by comparison. A few of
the Natchez survived and fled through the wilderness to join up with the
Chickasaws. The settlement of Natchez was reclaimed by the wilderness,
swallowed up as though it had never existed. Then, at the close of the French
and Indian Wars, it passed to the British."

"I
thought the French ceded this territory to the Spanish?"

"Most
of it was—Natchez bein' the exception. It's the only English outpost in these
parts. A few years back, settlers started pourin' in, folks who couldn't make a
go at farmin' back east, folks who were dissatisfied with the politics of the
Colonies, others who simply wanted a taste of adventure. They've done wonders
in the past five-six years. It's still pretty rough and rugged, of course, but
it's growin' all the time. The land's some of the richest I ever seen, and men
like Helmut Schnieder are establishin' plantations that are gonna become the
glory of the territory."

"Helmut
Schnieder? That sounds like a German name."

Jeff
nodded. "Teutonic to the core. Grim chap, Schnieder. He arrived a couple
of years ago, a man of mystery, loaded with gold. He bought all the land he
could get his hands on, built him a cabin, and then sent for his sister, a mousey
little thing, scared of her own shadow. They say Schnieder's buildin' him a
mansion now, say it's gonna be a showplace that'll make them fine homes up east
look like shacks."

There
was a high bluff up ahead. Jeff looked at me, grinning, his brown eyes
twinkling as though he were planning a surprise. We rode side by side toward
the edge of the bluff, passing under oak trees, emerald-green land sloping away
on either side. I heard a soft, rushing noise; then we were at the edge and the
land dropped away abruptly in a steep, rocky cliff and I had my first glimpse
of the Mississippi River.

It
was large, unbelievably large, a vast blue-gray expanse of water that seemed to
divide the continent in half. I stared at it in awe, for I had never seen
anything like it. It made the rivers in England seem like paltry streams, made
even the mighty Thames seem insignificant in comparison. As we watched, a huge
flatboat loaded with wooden crates moved past, and two men poled a crude log
raft piled high with bundles of fur. There were several canoes, as well, the
great river carrying them all along as though indulging these tiny specks
bobbing on its enormous back. Jeff sat there on his mule, grinning, delighted
that I was impressed. One would have thought he had invented this majestic
spectacle.

"Thought
you'd be impressed," he said.

"It's
overwhelming."

"Flows
all the way down to New Orleans and then out to sea. It's more'n a mile wide in
places—has to be one of the biggest rivers in the world, maybe
the
biggest.
It's really somethin', ain't it?"

I
nodded. The river seemed to sparkle in the sunlight, silvery-blue reflections
dancing on the surface. The banks were a reddish-brown mud, and on the other
side another cliff rose, rocks golden brown, jagged, the land above as green as
on this side, the great trees dwarfed in the distance. It was one of the most
beautiful sights I had ever seen. I gazed, and the sadness that had been
lingering grew stronger. I wanted to cry. Jeff sensed my mood.

"It's
been good, hasn't it?" he said.

I
knew what he meant. I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak.

"We've
had some rough times, true, and a couple of pretty scary days, what with the
Indians and the Brennan boys, but... it's been good. I ain't ever enjoyed a trek
so much."

"It's
over now," I said.

"Yeah,
I guess all good things gotta come to an end."

"And
now—" I began.

"Now
we'd better push on to Natchez," Jeff interrupted. "I got a lot of
business I wanna take care of this afternoon, and then, tonight, I'm gonna
treat you to the grandest dinner you've ever had. The inn's got a dandy
taproom, real elegant. All the best folks in Natchez dine there."

"When
will we leave for New Orleans?"

"Tomorrow
morning."

"There'll
be a boat?"

"Traffic
'tween here and New Orleans is constant. There's always a boat leavin', always
one pullin' in filled with goods. The docks are a regular beehive of activity
every day."

We
rode on then, the wind whipping my hair and lifting the skirt of my red dress.
It was the dress I had worn to the fair, the dress I had been wearing the day
Derek sold me to Jeff. That seemed such a long time ago, a lifetime ago.
Carolina... I mustn't think about that now. I must concentrate on making my
escape. It would have to be this afternoon or tonight. Jeff was in love with
me, but he still had every intention of taking me down to New Orleans. Love was
one thing, business another. He would probably make an enormous profit, enough
to give up these treks and go into some other kind of work. He had mentioned
wanting to open his own place, had mentioned it several times, though he hadn't
been specific about what kind of "place" he had in mind.

We
reached Natchez three hours later. It was indeed a bustling, growing settlement
with dozens of sturdy, squared-timber houses, a number of shops, new ones going
up. Perched on a bluff overlooking a river, it was impressive, and I found it
difficult to believe that, just a few years ago, it had been a wilderness with
only a few rusty French cannon and the ruins of the fort. As we rode toward the
inn, I could see the docks down below, crowded with boats, dozens of men busily
unloading crates and barrels. There seemed to be another small town down there,
too, the buildings ramshackle, already run down. When I inquired about it, Jeff
shook his head, making a clicking noise with his tongue.

"Natchez-under-the-hill,"
he said. "It's already got the reputation of bein' the wickedest spot in
this whole territory. Settlers come, decent, hard-workin' folks who wanna
establish homes, open businesses, get a new start in life —they're the ones
who're makin' Natchez an important town that's gonna rival New Orleans one of
these days. Other folks come, too—riff-raff, men fleein' the law, thieves,
murderers, whores. The decent folk want nothin' to do with 'em, so they settle
down there."

"I
see."

"Man
can indulge any kinda vice down there—drinkin', whorin', gamblin', you name it.
A lot of the so-called 'respectable' men help keep it goin'. Some claim Helmut
Schnieder owns half the property, includin' the biggest whorehouse. Wouldn't
surprise me none if he did."

"You
keep mentioning him. He must be an important figure."

"I
suppose he is, if by important you mean powerful. I don't like the man, not
many folks do, but he's rich— gettin' richer every day, it seems. There's
somethin' about him..." Jeff hesitated, frowning.

"Yes?"
I prompted.

"He's
cold, grim, likes to intimidate people. He never smiles, and you never know
what he's thinkin'. You get the idea he's plottin' something all the time, and
whatever it is he's plottin' ain't healthy."

We
reached the inn a few minutes later. It was a large, two-story building with a
gray slate roof. The verandah in front was supported by a row of slender white
columns in an attempt at New England elegance. A neatly clad black man hurried
to take the mules around to the stables in back, agreeing to bring in the packs
Jeff indicated he wanted. Jeff led me up the steps and onto the cool verandah,
proudly opening the front door.

Inside,
it was even cooler, dim. A small hallway led into the main room where the
proprietor stood behind a long mahogany counter. The walls were off-white and
brass chandeliers hung from the ceiling. A blue carpet covered the floor, and
there was a tapestry sofa, matching chairs, and a low table with blue and lilac
flowers in a large white bowl. A curving staircase led to the rooms above, and
an archway opened into the large dining room adjoining. Though it might have
been considered pitifully second-rate in the large cities up east, the inn was
like a haven of luxury after so many weeks trekking through the wilderness.