by Laura Frantz
Scraps of an earlier conversation, most of it disturbing, returned to her now in the heat and stillness of the bedroom. At dinner, all the details previously denied her had been laid out like cards on a table. Come morning, Red Shirt would head west. Though the Spanish claimed exclusive rights to the Missouri territory, the ties they boasted of were mere spiderwebbing, Loramie said. Few Spaniards were there, and only a scattering of French and Indians. Settlement, he assured them, was wide-open.
Loramie's manner, usually one of contagious joie de vivre, had seemed almost sullen in the candlelight. "Although the Americans have only threatened to torch more Shawnee towns, I have heard rumblings the whole of Ohio will soon be filled with smoke"
Joe grimaced and looked up from his plate. "I misdoubt they'll cross the Ohio like they're thunderin' Even with reinforcements comin' from Virginia, Kentucke's got precious few men with the war blazin' in the East:'
"'Twould be a fine time for the British and their Indian allies to sneak across the Ohio and take back the Kentucke territory," Loramie mused. "But I have heard they sit in their camps like drunken dogs and do nothing."
"Maybe neither side will move and there'll be peace, Joe said, looking doubtful.
"My concern is this colonel called Clark," Loramie told them, emptying his wine glass.
"Aw, Clark's too busy at the Falls of the Ohio to make trouble this far north, Joe said. "At least with winter comin"
Loramie nodded thoughtfully. "Fortunately, making war in winter is a miserable affair-the only point of agreement between the Americans and us-so we will likely rest easy till spring. But I have been thinking of taking Angelique and the children to d'Etroit for safekeeping next year until I can determine what the Bluecoats will do"
"I knew there would be trouble after the failed treaty at Fort Pitt," Red Shirt said.
Loramie nodded again and motioned the serving girl forward to pour more wine. "Such a fracas did not endear the Shawnee to the Americans. They now have even more reason to drive the Shawnee out of their Ohio homelands. And I have heard more troubling news. It seems some of the Shawnee have crossed over to the Americans and become spies and scouts"
Red Shirt nodded. "Rum is a powerful weapon"
"Sadly, it is so. But no one likes a traitor-not even the Americans-and that is what these turncoats have become. Once they have led the soldiers to the Shawnee villages, the Bluecoats will likely be rid of them and refuse to pay them in trade goods and spirits"
"I'd best get home before I get caught in the middle of the tussle, Joe said, throwing his napkin down. "I've been gone so long Good Robe likely thinks I ain't comin' back"
Lying atop the feather tick, Morrow tried to empty her mind of the troubling talk at dinner. Beside her, the babies' gentle breathing, synchronized even in sleep, solaced her a bit. She stirred as Red Shirt got up and crossed to the open window and pushed the shutters aside. Cool air threaded through the stale room. Though autumn, it was still hot as a kiln. Spring seemed years away ...
She watched him lean against the rough window frame and look west, unaware of her scrutiny. Moonlight limned all the pensive lines of his striking face, and her heart squeezed tight. Was he thinking of his father? Leaving at first light? Crossing the Mississippi before the first snow? Was he wishing he was outside, under the stars, away from this breathless room smelling of dried lavender and dust and babies? She remembered how he'd once stood by her attic window, looking down on McKie and his men that winter's eve. When he'd left, she'd feared he'd never come back, but after long, lonesome months, he had. Would God return him to her once again?
When at last he lay down, he reached for her, one hand brushing the dampness of her face. "Morrow, are you crying?"
Unable to answer, she felt the mattress move beneath his weight as he gathered her up in his arms. She placed a tentative hand on his bare skin, relearning the wide lines of his shoulders and the smooth slope of his chest. They'd not come together in so long he seemed oddly unfamiliar. When he kissed the hollow of her throat, she shivered, her need of him scattering her senses. But she lay back in the crook of his arm, willing her body to heal, tamping down her heartache.
He ran a hand through her unbound hair. "When I come back, there will be time for us."
If you come back.
Tonight, in this stifling room, was all they had. The brevity of it broke her heart into little pieces and made her reckless. She needed him-all of him-if only for the little time left to them. She needed the memory to hold on to till spring.
She turned her face to him. "Just one kiss"
She sensed him smile in the darkness. "Morrow, there is no such thing:"
Her voice was a beguiling whisper. "Just ... one"
A gust of wind slapped the shutter against the wood wall, and Rosebud startled, letting out a little cry. Reaching a hand into the cradle, Morrow rubbed her bare back till she settled. The babies had just been fed-surely they'd sleep.
Before she turned back to him, he was reaching for her again, his raw strength making her feel doubly fragile.
"One;' he whispered.
He took his time, his mouth moving along the damp wisps of her hairline to her ear. Breathless, she freed his hair of its leather tie till it spilled like a black waterfall onto the thin fabric of her nightshift. Oh, but she'd forgotten how sweet he could be ... how unerringly gentle, even gallant.
She felt like a bride again and shut her eyes, remembering how he'd held her that very first time, beside all that rushing water. Only now, with time against them, it was sweeter still.
Morrow unlatched the shutters, peering past the frosted glass to take in the swell of slopes to the west with their bright dusting of snow. Somewhere out there beyond the icy Mississippi River was the place called Missouri, and further still stood the Shining Mountains. But here, in her upstairs room, the twins were making their musical baby noises from the snug confines of their cradle near a crackling hearth, and all was warmth and comfort and peace.
Oh, Red Shirt, where are you on such a cold morning?
Resting her forehead on the frosty pane, she breathed a prayer just as she'd done every morning since he'd left in September. Now that it was December, she felt prayer was all that tethered them, that it might be the only thing that brought him back to her. Having made amends with her hurt over his leaving, she admitted he'd been right to bring them here. Loramie and Angelique spared nothing for their comfort and happiness, treating her like family, keeping her with them at the house instead of the lonesome cabin. She'd even assumed a place in the trade room, overseeing all the sewing goods from d'Etroit.
Without Red Shirt, her days were relentlessly the same. Leaving the twins with Angelique and her daughters, she went to work every morning save the Sabbath. As she opened crates of cloth and needles, scissors and sewing chests, her heartache was softened somewhat. She was glad to be useful. Busy in the big timbered room with its rich aromas, she kept a discreet eye on the men who came to trade, always searching for some semblance of Jess in their bearded, intense faces. Sometimes it seemed they eyed her more intently than she did them, and she felt chilled by their brazen scrutiny. To be less conspicuous, she wore simple wool and subdued her hair in a severe knot.
But the day came when Loramie took her aside, a wary light in his keen eyes. "Madame Red Shirt, you are-ah, shall I say, not a plain woman. Since your coming, the success of our sewing goods has increased tenfold, and for that I am grateful. But only this morning I have had two more offers for your hand"
Surprise-and a decided flush-swept across her face, and she fanned her hands over the heavy dress that draped her rounding middle. The glint of gold on her wedding finger caught the lantern light, reminding her of Red Shirt's missing ring.
Loramie forged ahead as tactfully as he could. "It matters not that you are enceinte and tightly wed. These hungry frontiersmen and Indians look no further than your lovely face. Your husband, I fear, would not be pleased with the arrangement. So, chere Morrow, I
must close the curtain on your tenure as my clerk, however profitable it has been to us both:"
His gentlemanly phrasing elicited a slightly sheepish smile from her, and she said as gracefully as she could, "I think I hear my babies crying'
But at five months, they rarely cried except when hungry, doted on as they were by Angelique and the children. She guessed she didn't need the distraction of the trading room, truly. She was tremendously content with the twins, nuzzling their velvety necks, kissing their plump fingers and toes, nursing them, and napping with them till time was lost to her altogether.
She'd written Aunt Etta of their birth but received no reply. She considered writing Lizzy but feared where that might lead. Perhaps it was best if no one knew she was in this far-flung post. And so now, in the dwindling days before Christmas, as snow piled high against the pickets, she kept to the family's quarters, counting the days till spring and wishing Red Shirt was back. When he came, his wee son and daughter wouldn't know him, or he them. And now, this new one ...
She was at her window again, looking west, night falling like a curtain over the land. The winter air was so bitter the occasional snap of a tree split the air like musket fire. It was only this she thought she heard as she drew the shutters closed. But the pop and snap sounded again-and again-and when she peered past the shutter a second time, the far pickets of the entire west wall seemed to melt away. Her eyes ricocheted about as she tried to make sense of what she saw.
Below, scattering like ants on the common, were Loramie's clerks and housekeeper and guests. And flooding through the post's gates were a great many men-Bluecoats?-and a great many Indians. The Americans hated Loramie-and he them. Were they now storming his post? Whirling, she began scooping up her sleeping babies, only to lay them down again in her panic and confusion to search for their slings.
Trembling, she arranged Rosebud across her breast, just above her swelling waist, cinching the calico sling in a double knot. From below she could hear Loramie's frantic shouting and the high-pitched screams of his daughters. Minon?Esme? Hysteria began rising inside her like steam from a kettle. Rushing to the door with both her babies, she nearly collided with Angelique as she swept into the room. Her usually placid face was tight with fright as she took Jess from her.
"Come quickly, we must take the back stairs!"
The hall outside was dark, the sconces extinguished by a furious draft. Morrow's senses felt singed with the stench of burning fabric and furs, wood and trade goods. Billows of smoke swept in like a tide and soon separated them. Panicked, choking, Morrow called out for Angelique, but her cries were lost as a series of explosions erupted deep inside the post. Had the powder magazine met the fire's fury?
She stumbled out the door into the slush of the common, where the heat of the fire melted any remaining snow and speckled her face and neck with sweat. A herd of horses stampeded past, and she hugged a wall, her thin slippers sinking deep into icy mud. Terrified, she took in yet another fire-eaten wall.
Where was her little son? Angelique?
She could see soldiers looting and fighting among themselves, carrying trade goods beyond the inferno's reach, swinging swords at any who tried to stop them. Her mind began piecing words together in a terror-riddled prayer. Father ... help us ... spare us. Before the words left her lips, an Indian emerged from the smoke and shadows, the tails of his Continental coat flapping around mud-spattered leggings. He fastened his eyes on her, his face so ravaged with hate it seemed to wound her.
He was but one of several Indians who surrounded her in a nooselike circle. She blinked, trying to make sense of his face and form through the smoke. Hadn't she seen him days before in the trade room? Hadn't she seen them all? Their eyes were fixed on the sling across her breast, and she hugged Rosebud tighter, fearing they might tear her away and fling her against a burning post. With one lithe movement, an Indian grabbed her wrist and pulled her to a waiting mare.
The horse shied, but he jerked its bridle and manhandled her into the saddle, nearly spilling Rosebud from her sling. The tawny men surrounding her turned and mounted skittish horses of their own, clearly anxious to be away from the destruction they'd made. The Bluecoat Indian rode at the front, a jug of rum tipped to his lips. Around her fanned several warriors. Terrified, she wondered if they were Shawnee turncoats, perhaps American spies and scouts. All were dressed warmly in buckskins and buffalo robes and beaver hats.
Thoughts rattled around her head like spent musket balls. Where were they going? Why? On such a night it seemed more fool's errand than battle plan. But they went boldly down the frozen valley, carrying pitch-pine torches. Once she looked back to see a furious column of black smoke rising like some evil offering, a great funnel of swirling spark and ash, the flourishing finish to Loramie's Station. Her heart couldn't hold it all, and she hung her head, numb with disbelief.
In time they came to a nameless river that uncoiled like a mud-covered serpent. They put her in a bull boat with two men who paddled, then crossed at the river's narrowest point. She sat rigid as if doing so would keep her fraying emotions in check. The choppy water bore chunks of floating ice, and the occasional spray from the paddles reminded her of how little she wore. Just a wool dress and worthless slippers. Her feet were wet, benumbed. But at least Rosebud was snug in a swanskin nightgown and a little lace-edged sleeping cap, her feet bound in fur-lined shoes.
Thoughts of her little son-his sweet, milk-sated smile, the dimpled hands that pulled at her bodice, the sounds he was beginning to make in French and English-burned like a hot ember in her breast. He was so small and it was so cold. Had Angelique made it out of the burning post? As Morrow's eyes filled and overflowed, she felt a rough hand push her out of the boat, and she was surprised to see fresh horses on the opposite shore.
Amidst all the jostling, Rosebud awoke and began to cry. With shaking hands Morrow fumbled with the lacing of her dress so she could nurse, so cold she felt she'd turned to ice. Rough hands helped her mount another mare, and someone draped a buffalo robe about her. Toward dawn one man shoved a canteen of water at her, but when she refused it, he gestured to his tomahawk. Dumbly she stared back at him, wondering why he'd even offered. She had no ally among these men.
That first night, her chief captor sat opposite her across the fire, eyes on the sling as he ate a piece of roasted meat. "I will kill the child if it cries"
The threat jerked her awake, but she held her tongue, bent on protecting her baby at all costs. The other warriors were watching her-and watching him, as if anticipating what he might do to her. Looking away, she swiped her nose dry with the edge of her dress sleeve. She'd taken a cold and was still feeling its ill effects, head throbbing and throat raw.
One warrior crouched beside her and dropped a piece of jerky and some kernels of parched corn in her lap. She nearly refused them but knew she must keep up her strength, if only for Rosebud's sake. Each bite threatened to come up, so she chewed slowly, tamping it down with sips of water. Though the fire burned brightly, she felt she'd never be warm again.
As the night grew longer, a guard was posted and the men rolled up in buffalo robes, feet to the fire. She was tethered to a lanky brave, his eyes slits of contempt in his leatherlike face. Cocooned in the robe, she drew Rosebud closer, letting her nurse at will through the long, near-sleepless night. In the morning she was too tired to sit on her horse, falling asleep in the saddle before they'd made much time. Circling back, the Bluecoat chief slapped her on the leg with his whip. The sting of it jolted her awake and made a bloody welt under her dress, but it kept her alert mile after miserable mile.
Miraculously, Rosebud slept, never making a sound. She was heavier now, all rolls and dimples, so unlike the fragile baby at birth, and her bulk made Morrow's neck and back sore where the sling cut across. But somehow, strangely, Rosebud seemed a sort of buffer between Morrow and these men. Wicked as they were, they seemed reluctant to lay a hand on her. She sensed a skittishness about them as they traveled. Ofte
n she caught them looking over their shoulders as if fearful of being followed, and this gave her comfort.
But as the hours unwound, they seemed to grow more confident, emboldened by the flasks they passed around. The smell of rum was near constant now, and she shook her head when her guardian offered her some, though she wondered if it might help warm her. Snow and ice crusted their blankets one morning, and as the daylight dwindled, it became so cold they had to make camp in a cave above a frozen slip of creek.
Oh Lord, where am I? Who are they? Where are we going?
To keep her spirits up, she began to sing. She crooned a French lullaby no more than a whisper in Rosebud's ear, unsure from whence it came. Perhaps Ma had sung the same to her or Jess or Euphemia. It seemed to solace Rosebud and settle her to sleep. Morrow tensed for another slap of the whip to shush her, but the men seemed oblivious to her murmurings in their haste south.
Soon she lost track of time. How many days, nights? She ached for Red Shirt, craved her son's sweet smile. The mere memory of them, blurred though it was by exhaustion, made her weep.
"You are slowing us. I don't know what to do with you.
Half-asleep, she straightened, her back pressed against another damp cave wall. The Bluecoat chief stood over her, reeking of rum. The other men were asleep, or pretending to be. She said nothing, so weary she felt sick. Was this how it had been when Jess was taken captive? Desperate? Exhausted? Without hope?
"Colonel Clark is waiting for you. I would kill you otherwise"
