Shadow Play (39 page)

Without me you have no hope of being anything but some whore's bastard. I took you in when she threw you out. Who else is going to take care of you like I can? Who else can make your dreams come true? Who else is going to make you worth something for the first time in your miserable life?"

Through the haze before his eyes Morgan saw the slight figure of a young woman move up to King, her legs encased in dingy breeches, her unbound hair reflecting the day's sunlight. She looked at King hard, then drew back her fist and struck him in the face, toppling him backward to the deck. Then she turned to Morgan, and he thought she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. As she stood before him, diminutive and lovely, somewhere in the back of his mind a memory turned over of a girl whose blue- green eyes could sparkle like the sun on Caribbean waters, whose hair was thick and soft and the color of a sunset. He could almost smell her lavender-scented white skin and taste its sweetness upon his tongue.

"Morgan? Morgan, please come with me and rest." He raised one hand and touched her mouth with his fingertip. Smiling tiredly, he said, "Who are you?"

Another night. Unending. Horrible. Morgan continued to stand guard over King, rambling incoherently and occasionally calling out for Henry, confused and frightened when his friend did not appear. Then there were problems with the engine and they were forced to shut it down while repairs were made.

They floated down the river, and although they had long since passed beyond King's boundaries, they doused the torches for fear that those who surely followed would

realize they were in trouble and use the opportunity to attack. At last Sarah gave up her vigil with Morgan long enough to go inside, where she sat with Teobaldo, Chico, and Kan. Kan thought to lift her spirits by telling her that they had managed, with the help of the Indians, to get her seeds on
board just after the siege of the boat. They were stored below deck with the crates of gold the men had succeeded in bringing on board. But even that did little to improve her state of mind.

The tense hours ticked by as the men worked to repair the engine. While a few rebel guards took their stations around the upper deck, most of the others bedded down for the night. Sarah returned to Morgan, who was sitting with his back against the wall, the gun lying to one side. But his eyes were still locked on King, who remained in total darkness.

Sarah eased herself to the floor beside Morgan. She could feel the heat from his body; his clothes were wet through, and his eyes were glassy with fever.
He's dying,
she thought.
Dear merciful God, don't let him die.

"Miss St. James," came King's dry voice behind her. When she refused to acknowledge him, he went on. "You must do something to help him. I fear he's only barely conscious."

"I don't understand how this could have happened," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

"He told me he lost his quinine."

' 'So did I, but he gave me—'' She closed her eyes. ' 'No. Oh, no. He gave me his." She sank down beside him, her head near his shoulder. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, but King was right. Morgan wasn't aware that she was there. Closing her eyes, she whispered, "My darling Morgan, what are we going to do?"

She fought sleep as long as she could, but exhaustion pulled her down into a dark abyss. Minutes—or was it hours—later, she forced her eyes open, imagining that she heard whispers and movement in the darkness. She reached out for Morgan, touching his arm to find him fiercely hot and trembling. "Morgan?" she whispered. "Morgan!"

The whispers and scrapes grew louder. There were shadows moving over the rail, menacing figures wrapped in cloaks, hurrying toward King. Suddenly a guard yelled out
from the upper deck and the night exploded in a terrifying uproar that made her throw up her hands to cover her ears. Gunshots boomed from overhead, shattering the-wall near her head. Men screamed and running feet vibrated on the deck.

Suddenly Sarah realized what was happening. Somehow a group of King's guards had infiltrated the steamer under cover of night and made their way to the bow. She rolled into the shadows as more sheets blasted from the upper decks.

King, now freed from his bonds, stumbled to his feet, collapsing to his knees, he was helped back up by his companions, who did their best to protect him from the gunfire. Just then Morgan managed to get to his knees, swaying, dragging the gun from the floor but unable to raise it. Sarah grabbed for him, her desperate pleas drowned out by the gun blasts and yelling men.

"King!" he roared. "King, you bastard!"

Sarah screamed as the dark figure holding King threw back his cloak. It was Gilberto de Queiros! As he pointed his gun at Morgan, Sarah hurled herself against the American, shoving him down so that he hit the deck with a groan and a curse. She placed herself across him, and when King stumbled toward them, she pleaded, "Don't kill him. He's sick... If you have any compassion at all for another human being, you'll let him live. I beg you!"

King grabbed her and flung her away. In horror she watched as he twisted his hand in Morgan's hair, lifted his head from the floor, and bent his own face down. "My friend, you're a dead man, you and these ignorant revolutionaries who tried to destroy me. But we'll meet again, when we're both stronger. Then I'll have the great pleasure of looking into your eyes when I kill you." Then he kissed him on the mouth and leapt to his feet. As the bullets ricocheted off the floor near his heels, he spun away with his companions and disappeared over the rail, into the canoes that vanished like a mirage in the mist.

Morgan tried to rise, making it no further than his knees before Sarah caught him as he collapsed into her arms. She gripped him to her, rocking him in a desperate hold as she pressed her cheek to the top of his burning head. "It's over, my darling. Let him go; there's nothing more we can do."

She cradled his head against her shoulder, whispering of her regret, and her love—words and endearments she knew he could not hear. As his tears soaked her shirt, she clutched him tightly, kissed his head, his brow, his temple, crying his name until his body stopped shaking and he leaned wearily, defeatedly, against her.

She eased him down to the planking deck, ignoring the voices of the rebels who were furious over losing King. Kan stooped beside her, placed his hand on her shoulder. "Missy?" came his gentle voice. "Is he—"

"No," she said. "He's not dead. But he's ill, Kan. Very, very ill. He may die if... Please.'' Her voice broke. * 'Help him."

She lay down beside Morgan, took him in her arms, holding him so that his head rested between her breasts; his arm closed around her and he drew her to him like a child might

who was sick or frightened. He slept the sleep of deep exhaustion and high fever, and once or twice he wept in his dreams.

There was heated debate among the survivors over whether or not they should allow the boat to be docked long enough for Kan and the Indians who had trekked with Morgan and Sarah to search the floresta for cinchona, a tree bark that could cure him of his fever. "There's no time," a man named Jose stated as he faced Teobaldo angrily. "Thanks to Kane, King is free again. Had he allowed us to kill him right away, we would be safe now."

"It is thanks to Kane that you are free at all," Teobaldo responded. "Without King as hostage we would never have made it this far."

A
caboclo
with a scarred face stood up and shook his
fist. "I say we go back and find King. Kill him before he has a chance to murder us!" A chorus of agreement followed, spurring the speaker on. "Otherwise he will hunt us down and slaughter us in our sleep."

"Kane is a dead man already. Even if he recovered from the fever, King will find him and kill him."

"Perhaps we should surrender the American to King now and—"

"Stop this!" Sarah shouted. "How can you say such a thing after he was ready to sacrifice his life for you? Not forty-eight hours ago you were cheering him as a hero. Now you're condemning him to death to save your own throats. You disgust me!" Grabbing her rifle, she fled the pilothouse.

Morgan's cabin was cramped and stifling, even with the porthole open as wide as it would go. The place stank of sweat and sickness. Kan stood at Morgan's bedside, sponging his flushed face and burning body with cool water while he chanted so quietly Sarah could hardly hear him from where she sat with the rifle across her knees.

"Is he going to die?" she asked repeatedly. There was a break in her voice she could no longer control, and as night descended, she sat in the darkness, unwilling to leave Morgan long enough to search out a lantern. His fever soared, then the chills set in and his body shook uncontrollably. He thrashed in delirium, screaming in pain, fighting Kan with the strength of five men until Kan, convinced that some demon had invaded his body, was forced to tie his arms and legs to the bunk and place a piece of wood between his teeth to keep him from biting off his tongue.

The night dragged on as Sarah fought sleep, afraid he would die if she closed her eyes. She endured Kan's chanting as long as she could and finally told him to get some rest since there was no hope of her sleeping. He refused, reminding her that jungle demons found their way into a man's mind that was weakened by fever. She assured him that she
could deal with any demons and once again ordered him to leave. He did so with reluctance.

Lying on the bed as best she could, she held Morgan in her arms, her flesh burning where his body pressed against her; she stroked his head where it rested on her shoulder and spoke to him as if he could actually hear her. "I love you," she told him. "You're not alone. I love you, Morgan. I love you."

Finally, just before dawn, the tremors eased and she was able to release the bindings that held him to the bed. As she rubbed his wrists and ankles to restore the circulation, he lifted his head and looked at her. He seemed almost normal, though his eyes held a glazed expression that was as frightening as the fever that had fired them earlier.

His hands touched her face, and out of relief she smiled. But the smile froze as his fingers closed into her shirt and ripped it open so unexpectedly she barely had time to gasp before he buried his face in her breasts. Stunned, she grabbed his shoulders, her fingers sliding off his sweat-slick skin. He pressed her harder into the bunk, and she realized that he was delirious, and not rational as she had first thought.

She tried to shove him back while speaking his name as calmly as possible. He struck her hands away and slammed his forearm down over her face, driving it to one side. To speak was impossible. The pressure of his arm made her words come out like animal whimpers. He dragged her breeches down her legs, shoving them to her ankles, wedging apart her thighs with his knees so he was probing her with his body, in and out until he drove inside her, making her arm arch to him and away, first in shock, then pain, mentis this rough enough?" came his words in her ear. "Does this get you going? The old boy won't give it to you like a real man, eh? Well, how do you like this? I'm gonna do it to you real good.'' His lips brushed her ear as he asked in a raspy voice, "Is this how you want it, bitch?"

Oh God, oh God,
she thought frantically.
He doesn’t know me. He doesn't know what he's doing!

Then, as quickly as the hallucination started, it ended, and his body went slack on hers, and in hers, and he was unconscious again. She slid from beneath him, hit the floor on her hands and knees, weeping as she grabbed for her breeches and tried to drag them up her legs. She got them no higher than her knees, however, before she rolled onto her side and drew her legs up, buried her throbbing face in her palms, and began to sob. "Help us. For the love of God, someone help us!" she cried, beating her fist against the floor. A fog of hopelessness engulfed her. Her father was gone. Henry was gone. And now Morgan ...

The jarring of the boat against something solid awoke Sarah where she slept curled up in the corner of the cabin. She wearily opened her eyes. Her surroundings brightened gradually to a warm glow that gave life to the images and shapes around her. Then the

boat's engine died; there was silence before the quiet gave way to the familiar sounds of the forest. Sarah rubbed her eyes and struggled to her feet while doing her best to assess Morgan's condition. Dear God, if he had died while she slept...

His head was turned from her. She moved closer, her hands clenched. There were flies on his face and neck, crawling over his chest and the hand that had slid from the bed and dangled, palm up, in the air. She swept her hand over his face, stirring the air so the flies rose in a buzzing swarm. Her heart throbbing in her temples, she touched his cheek and found it—

Warm!

He stirred and groaned, and she almost collapsed. Then the door was thrown open behind her and Kan entered. "What's happened?" Sarah asked.

"The men have agreed to give me two hours to locate the cinchona."

She swayed in relief. "Can you do it?"

"I will do my best, Missy, but even with the cinchona there is no guarantee he will survive, or that he will be the
same man he was before. While the cinchona will cure the fever, it cannot repair the brain if damage has been done. And it cannot cure the fever indefinitely. It will come and go for the rest of his life."

Sarah stroked Morgan's brow. "We'll worry about that in the years to come, Kan. Today we deal with saving his life. Now hurry. Two hours isn't long, and it might well mean his life."

She followed him to the deck, and prayed for his safe return as he and the other Indians disappeared into the floresta. Then the wait began. Minutes seemed like hours as she divided her time among pacing the deck searching the trees for some sign of Kan, rushing back to Morgan to check on his condition, and sitting in the galley with Teobaldo, alternately checking the time and feeding the hungry marmoset bananas.

Then the two hours were up, and when she stood on the deck gripping the rail, the men grew impatient and demanded that Teobaldo shove off before King and his henchmen caught up with them.