Captive (45 page)

“Ill,” Coa Hadjo said. “Disease—the spotted disease, measles—has laid many of our people low.”

Hernandez saw James then, arms folded over his chest, watching. He nodded in acknowledgment, flushing. Hernandez was a good man, James thought. In the quick glance Hernandez had cast him, he thought he saw many things. It was true that this was pure treachery. Jesup had planned it; Hernandez disagreed with it. He was following his orders.

“I am your friend,” Hernandez said. “Tell me, why have you come to talk?”

“For the good of all,” Coa Hadjo replied.

“Why?”

“We have had word from King Philip through the messenger of his son, Wildcat.”

“Have you come to surrender to me”?

“No, that was not our intent. We had not understood that we should do so. We have kept our peace during the summer.”

“Ah, but there have been incidents—”

“Ah, friend! Not by us. We have sought peace. Just as the generals have not always been able to control the slaughters by the farmers settling the land, neither can we always control a renegade warrior.”

“Have you brought back stolen property!”

Here Coa Hadjo hesitated. “We have brought in the negroes many call their property.”

Again Hernandez looked conflicted. “I wish you all
well,” he said. The words were repeated by the interpreter. “But we have so often been deceived. I am afraid that you must now come with me. I will promise that you will be treated well. Here, I have brought Blue Snake of the Yuchis to speak with you. He will tell you that you must come with me.”

Blue Snake, his leathered face weary, stepped from out of the soldiers and came forward. “General Hernandez, it was not my understanding that any who spoke would be seized.”

Hernandez looked surprised at Blue Snake’s defiance. He made a movement, the slightest movement. The troops that surrounded them surged forward.

The trap was sprung.

Every single warrior saw what James had seen. Though they carried rifles, they could not get off a shot before they would all be mown down like corn in autumn.

James looked at Osceola. His expression was unreadable. Hernandez continued to speak with them. It was to be as Jarrett said. They were to march the seven miles to St. Augustine to the fort there. They would be well treated. They wouldn’t be harmed or killed.

Osceola and two others were brought horses. James, his arms still crossed over his chest, watched the proceedings until Hernandez rode to where he stood.

“It was treachery,” James said quietly.

“It was necessary.”

“You seized a man who is already a legendary chief while he waited under a white flag of truce.”

“And I shall live to rue the day, surely,” Hernandez said wearily. “I can excuse nothing to you, James. I am sick myself with what we have done, yet I see that Jesup believed he had no choice. He thinks if he can stop Osceola, he can stop the war.”

“He won’t stop the war. He will create a martyr.”

“God forgive me, I just pray to stop the bloodshed for a while. James, I say again, I can offer no excuse. I can but give you a chance to slip into the woods if you so desire.”

James looked up at him, slowly smiled, and shook his head. “Thank you. I appreciate the offer, and the friendship. But I must go with Osceola now.”

“But—”

“Am I in danger of being hanged?”

“No. You are in danger of being classified a renegade.”

“Surely, I have been classified as worse already. Again, I thank you, but I have to see this through.”

“I’ll see that the men find your horse—”

“All right. But I feel the need to walk.”

They began the trek to the fort. The take for the day had been brilliant, James mused. Osceola, Coa Hadjo— and seventy-odd warriors, six women, and a few Indian Negroes. Someone would have already ridden hard to Jesup to tell him that his treachery had paid well.

James didn’t think as he walked the distance. It felt good to move hard, to work the tension and fury from his limbs, bones, and soul.

They came to the city with tremendous commotion and fanfare. People had lined the streets to watch the soldiers, mounted and on foot, lead in their haul of savage prisoners. Men and women called out, laughed, sneered, pointed. James walked, looking straight ahead.

He heard whispers.

“Dear, isn’t that the half-breed McKenzie?”

“Turned savage, indeed! Blood tells in the end, no matter how his brother dressed him up in white frilled shirts.”

“He was quite the rage for a season—”

“No decent man would allow his daughter near him, surely! Even if he is rich as Midas!”

“Rich?”

“Half the McKenzie land is his.”

“But he’s a savage … so very good-looking, but a savage nonetheless …”

The words didn’t matter. He had heard them before. He walked with prisoners because he had chosen to do so, because they were his people, too, because he still had to do what he could. No stares, no words, could
hurt him. He continued to keep his head high, his bright blue gaze focused before him.

But then …

He saw her. She was by the roadside. She wore a blue flowered day dress, and yet somehow she had never appeared more elegant. Her fiery hair was swept into a perfect twist at the back of her head.

She was standing with young John Harrington, her hands gripping his arm as she watched the wave of Indians and soldiers come and come.

There was something different about her.

Of course. He had last seen her in the swamps. She had been naked half the time, her hair as wild and free as her spirit. They had been the same.

Now they were different.

Now she was white, and he was that half-breed McKenzie no decent white woman would go near.
Bitterness.
It tore at him even when he knew he was proud of his heritage, glad of his red blood, the honor and pride that were a part of his people, just as much as the starvation and misery….

But she was one of them. She couldn’t understand.

It wasn’t just that. She was indeed different. Staring at him with pity, turning away. He couldn’t bear the pity, and he couldn’t bear the way she turned from him. In shame? She clung so tightly to Harrington’s arm …

Yes, she was different! There was something very different about her indeed!
More than the way she looked at him, more than the pity, more than the shame.

It was subtle. So subtle, at this stage.

But it was
physical.

Yet striking into him with alarming speed, with staggering force. Suddenly it felt as if everything inside him began to wind into a tight, burning coil. It felt like a braid of emotions, the bitterness he longed to fight, doubt, fear, envy, jealousy …

He looked at the way she stood with Harrington. Stared.

For the love of all the gods,
he mocked himself,
hadn’t
he told her to marry Harrington? Hadn’t he all but thrown her from himself again and again …

It didn’t matter. He wanted to tear himself from the rows of walking men, leap through the crowds, grab her, shake her. Ah, yes, let them see how blood told what kind of a savage he was!

She was going to have a child—and not a child she had conceived just weeks ago. She must have known it when she had been with him in the private cove. She hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t told him …

Told him what?

That she had tired of staying at his brother’s, waiting for him, because there were
white
men in the world? How many had she admitted she liked well? Robert Trent, Harrington—even the physician Joshua Brandeis?

His fingers knotted into fists; he looked straight ahead again and kept walking.
Is the twisted fear of a man so accustomed to prejudice that he cannot accept the times when it may not exist? But if she knew, if it was my child, why didn’t she tell me?

Was she all a lie? Everything they shared except for their desire—savage desire?

Stop! he told himself, but the doubts and the fury had taken hold, eating into a heart weary with the treachery just practiced upon Osceola, the band, and himself.

Just whose child did she carry?

He felt someone walking quickly by his side. Old Riley, face forward, marched beside him.

“Warren’s daughter is in the crowd,” he informed James softly in Muskogee. “Perhaps she will try to see you—”

James swung on old Riley. “If she is smart, she will keep her distance!” he lashed back furiously, then paced on ahead swiftly, angry with himself.

He knew there was no sense or logic to it, but his pride suddenly seemed to be rubbed raw.

And he couldn’t help but wonder how many men, warriors and whites, watched him as he walked.

A prisoner, accused.

While
she
watched on a white man’s arm.

T
eela raced into the house, shouting for Jarrett. He didn’t appear, but Tara came flying down the stairs. “Teela! What is it, what’s wrong?”

“They’ve brought a large group of Indians in … to the fort!” She gasped for breath. Hurrying along behind her, John Harrington stood panting, almost doubled over. “James is with him. He’s—in chains!”

Tara stood still, clutching the banister, going very pale. “Where’s Jarrett?” Teela asked.

“He rode out very early; he’s not back yet.”

“Teela,” John said, “he’s going to be safe in the fort, you needn’t be so disturbed. He can’t be going into battle—”

“No, but battle can come to him!” Teela said. “If my stepfather returns—”

“He is on campaign,” John reminded her.

“Campaigns end.”

“But—” John began, but at that moment the door opened and closed behind them. Teela spun around.

Jarrett had returned. He had been out riding. He had come in sober and thoughtful, and looked up to discover the three of them staring at him. Teela rushed to him. “They’ve taken James! They’ve taken your brother! They just marched him into the Castillo.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know!” Teela gasped, horrified. “Then, you must get him out, Jarrett. Surely, you’ve the power—”

“I’ve the power, not the right.”

“What?” Teela demanded, stunned.

“He could have escaped before the prisoners were taken. He chose not to do so. He has made the choice for reasons of his own, and I have sworn not to interfere.”

“But—” Teela protested.

“He is in no danger,” Jarrett said.

“But if my stepfather returns—”

“He has not done so yet.”

Teela approached him, still unwilling to accept that Jarrett wasn’t ready to drag down the heavy walls of the fortress. “There may be some other man—a guard, perhaps, who hates all Indians—”

“Well, he will have plenty to choose from, then.”

“But what if he wants to kill an Indian who he believes has brought about the deaths of many soldiers—”

“Then he would start with Osceola, wouldn’t he?”

“Jarrett, damn it—”

“Teela, my hands are tied. I gave my word. There is nothing I can do. And you underestimate my brother. He is strong, intelligent, and well capable of looking after himself.”

“Jarrett—”

“I have given my word.”

“Well, I have not!” she announced furiously. She spun around, hurrying out of the house. She marched to the small carriage still waiting in the street and climbed into it. By then John had come running from the house behind her. “Teela, wait—”

“I can do this alone,” she said.

“And I can help. I am military, remember?”

She waited. When he sat down beside her, she smiled ruefully and kissed his cheek. “Truly, you are the world’s best friend.”

“Maybe I am the world’s biggest fool. Maybe I think that you will turn to me if something does happen to your magnificent warrior.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Well, I do—and I don’t. Don’t make me maudlin, now. You were in such a hurry, let’s move on!”

She smiled and flicked the reins. A few minutes later, they were in front of the Castillo. John helped her down. There was tremendous confusion around the place, now called Fort Marion. Townspeople still milled around the coquina-shell walls, watching the guards on the walks, curious for every bit of news called down to them, anxious to see another glimpse of the warriors in their splendor.

John managed to usher Teela through the waiting crowds and into an office. John kept explaining that they had come to see a well-known white-Indian, James McKenzie, taken by mistake.

But they met with a sour-faced clerk, a man with iron gray hair and a long, slim face, one side of it scarred from forehead to chin.

He had been writing on a pass when he paused, staring at them both. “No visitors.”

“What?” Teela demanded, rising.

“Your white-Indian is not so innocent.”

“How dare you—” Teela began.

“He’s guilty of murder and kidnapping.”

“That’s one hell of a lie—”

“Teela!” John gasped in warning. All right, so she shouldn’t have cursed. She’d lived in a military fort too long, in the wilderness too long, and it just didn’t seem to matter to her too much anymore what young women should and shouldn’t say. But this soldier would think her ill-bred. Actually, she was dying to tell him that he belonged in hell—she even wanted to tell him what to do with himself before he went there—but she managed to restrain her tongue. “James McKenzie is innocent of any such charges. I am the woman he supposedly kidnapped, and I can swear to you—on a dozen Bibles, if you so choose!—that he did no such thing. I was also a witness to the massacre—”

“So you watched him kill people?”

“You pompous ass!” Teela hissed.

“No visitors. The Indian Running Bear clears himself by witness of the surviving soldiers, and that’s that!”

“You think that’s that!” Teela cried. “Just you wait! I’ll create such a stink about what you’ve done here today that—”

“Teela?” John interrupted.

“Just a minute, John. Now, you pay me heed—”

“Teela!” John insisted.

She stopped, staring at him. He caught her by an arm, pulled her close, and whispered softly. “His name is Clarence Higgens. He has ridden with your father and been attacked by Osceola’s band,
and
barely survived to tell the tale. We must retreat for now.”