She sat up and began brushing herself off and arranging her hair. Henry passed near her, gathering twigs. “Soon,” she said softly, “it must be soon.”
He made no reply. Had he heard? Had he understood? If he had understood, would he help? Or would she fall into even worse hands? She thought not, but was that only hopeful thinking? No matter where they went, what they did, one of the three white men was always present, always watchful.
Henry, she was sure, planned to escape. Yet in all the time they had traveled together, she had heard him use but one or two English words. He usually spoke in Portuguese to one of the white men, the tall, thin one, who spoke it well.
“If you helped us,” she spoke softly again as he came to her side of the fire, “you would be welcomed.”
The fat, dirty-looking white man sat up, staring at her. “You talkin’ to him?” he demanded.
“What?” Her face was innocent. “If you must know, I was complaining. I am tired of sleeping on this dusty earth.”
He leered at her. “Aye, but ye’ll be sleepin’ elsewhere soon, y’ can bank on that.”
The camp stirred to life, yet within her was developed the resolution. No matter what, it must be today, or at the latest, tonight or tomorrow.
She bathed her face and hands in the stream. After their capture they had walked westward for two days. Twenty miles? Possibly. Then for two more days they had walked north, following an old Indian trading path, and then they had walked east, toward the coast.
They were within a short distance of the seashore now. She could smell the salt air. The stream flowed east. Washing her face, she tasted the water. It was tidal water, she was sure. Not fresh water, certainly.
They were awaiting a ship, a slave ship. Very coolly she considered that. Once aboard a ship there would be small chance of escape. And the ship would come, so it must be soon.
She had risked speaking to Henry because it was a time for risks. So far they had not complained, not made any attempt at escape. They thought she was frightened, and they knew Carrie was. Somewhere along the coast to the north of Cape Ann, that was as close as she could guess.
Once free, they must go south—south. Or west, for they would pursue, they must pursue. They would expect them to go south.
West.
Diana Macklin was seventeen at a time when most girls of fifteen and sixteen were wed. She could scarcely recall a time when she had not known responsibility, and long since she had learned that a certain coolness, aloofness, bred respect and some hesitation on the part of too aggressive males.
Their capture had been simple. She had knelt to pick some leaves from a plant and arose to see a man holding Carrie with a knife at her throat. Now, looking back, she wished she had just screamed. There was a good chance the men would have fled, but she was not the screaming type, and by the time she thought of it, a man had a hand over her mouth, and it was too late.
For three days they were hurried, almost running, until when night came they could only fall to the earth, utterly tired, utterly whipped. Very quickly she decided they could not escape by running away, for their captors could run faster and longer. Nor would crying and pleading help. Carrie tried that.
They must first escape; then they must hide, and once free, they must never again be caught. Meanwhile, she thought, planned, and discarded plans, watching every chance, noticing everything. What she wanted most of all was a hiding place, somewhere they could go immediately and keep out of sight and just wait. She saw hollows under fallen trees, overhangs half hidden by brush, hollows among the rocks, and caves. None looked right; on none dared they take a chance.
Carrie got up and bathed her hands and face, then straightened her clothing, brushing off the dust and fragments of dried leaves and bark. Then she straightened her hair, and Diana combed it for her and helped her braid it again
“Never,” Diana had warned her, “give up, and never let down. Keep youself just as neat as you can, for if you respect yourself, they will respect you, also.”
“Do you no good,” Lashan had said. “Whoever gits you will fix you up the way he likes.”
She had not replied, ignoring him, which was far better than exchanging comments in a war she could not win. She must seem to be going along, seem to accept until the moment came.
Now she watched Lashan as he stood by the fire. He was tall, thin, almost emaciated, yet she knew he was strong, with a strength far beyond what it seemed possible he could have.
Suddenly he looked up at her. “Be you a witch?”
Carrie turned her head, half frightened, to look at her.
“They say that I am,” she said. Suddenly she knew all present were looking at her. Both the blacks had looked around. Henry was curious; Feebro stared at her, suddenly arrested in movement.
“Ain’t much of a witch,” Porney commented, hitching his pants to a more secure position with hands that needed washing, “or we’d never ha’ taken you.”
She turned her head and looked right at him. “It isn’t over yet, is it? Give it time to work.”
Suddenly frightened, Porney came to his feet and moved back from her. “Give what time to work? What? What’ve you done?”
“Be still!” Lashan’s voice was a whip. “She’s making a fool of you.”
“No pains yet? None at all?” She was still looking at Porney. “I thought you looked a little stiff when you got up this morning.” She was smiling. “But give it time.”
“All right! Be still!” Lashan held a willow switch in his hand. “Any more such talk, and I’ll…”
Diana merely looked at him. “You, too, Lashan. You, too.”
He struck with the switch, a vicious cut across the shoulders. She stood very still, her face white. “If I am damaged, Lashan, there will be questions. He who buys us will wish us unblemished.”
Lashan stared at her, his eyes ugly. “You’re not aboard ship yet, lass, an’ don’t y’ forget it. Many a bit can happen afore we make it, with Injuns about an’ such. Y’ push me too far and I may sell y’ to the Injuns m’self.”
There were no more words, but she had done what she wished and had made the others, at least, wary of her. She put her hand on Carrie’s shoulder and felt her cringe a little. That was the worst of it; she had frightened the child. Of one thing she was sure. The others might be wary of crossing her, but Henry was the only one who might help; because he was thinking of escape for himself.
Under the trees they waited another long, slow afternoon. Lashan paced restlessly, irritably. At any moment some Indian or some men out searching for good land on which to locate might discover them. Even a fisherman along the shore, for it was nearby. Already the ship was two weeks overdue.
“You must not be afraid, Carrie. Not of them or of me. I am no witch, but let them think so if they wish. It may frighten them.”
She spoke very softly that they might not hear, yet her words did not allay her own fears. And she was frightened. No matter how much she might reassure Carrie, she knew that nobody was coming; there would be no rescue.
Vern went away through the trees again. He was a small, well-made man with a narrow face and a pointed chin. He wore a stocking cap with a tassel, and a wide leather belt held up his canvas pants. The others she had not seen before, but she remembered Vern, for she had seen him one day at Shawmut when he came ashore from a shallop.
He had not been among the group that kidnapped them but had been waiting for them here, probably with the news the ship was delayed, for Lashan had cursed viciously after they talked.
She had seen him an instant before he saw her, so she had let her eyes sweep past him with no sign of recognition. Yet he had recognized her, and his eyes lingered on her from time to time.
None of them talked to her but Lashan. The fat one, whose name she had heard but could not remember, had spoken to her but once, that very morning. Lashan did not like it, and she was sure he was under orders to permit no such thing.
They slept, awakened, let the fire burn down. Vern came back, helped himself to a swallow of cider, then went away again.