by Laura Frantz
Colonel Clark? She seemed to recall something about his being at the Falls of the Ohio. But her exhaustion and fear were so profound the details blurred to nothingness in her brain.
He continued, his face hidden in shadows. "You will bring me a fortune in trade goods, perhaps a new horse and musket. And plenty of rum. The child is worthless but seems to keep you quiet"
Worthless. The gibe loosened her tongue. "What do you want with me? I mean nothing to you"
He snorted and stepped back, taking out the flask again. "Perhaps you are not as stupid as most white faces. You are right in saying you mean nothing to me. But you do mean something to the soldier chief Clark. He has come into Kentucke to make the Shawnee abide by the treaty terms and return white captives"
"I'm no captive"
"Captain Click says you are. I was with him at the Fort Pitt treaty-making. He found out you were at Mekoche Town and then at Loramie's Station"
Captain Click? Did he truly think she'd married and gone north against her will? Her mind leaped back to their journey downriver some two years past. She'd been all lace and ribbons then, looking like a Philadelphia lady. Was it any wonder he doubted she'd wed a half-blood scout?
Spirits ebbing further, she looked again at the warrior before her. She knew better than to try to reason with him, but a biting resentment spurred her on. "Colonel Clark will learn the truth"
I will listen to no white woman, he spat, finishing the flask and sinking down opposite along the wet cave wall. For a time it seemed he brooded, his head tilted toward unconsciousness or sleep. Her guardian slept beside her, but the familiar rawhide tug that usually bound them didn't rub her wrist raw tonight. He'd forgotten to tether her.
Slowly, she glanced out of the mouth of the cave. The world was white, the wind howling like a wolf. She might escape if she dared. But where? And what of Rosebud asleep at her breast? The sour-milk smell of her was nearly overwhelming, and her bottom and thighs were red-splotched from a rash. Morrow had been unable to keep Rosebud clean, but under their guardian's watchful eye, she sliced off pieces of an old trade blanket with a knife to keep her dry. Her violet eyes were open now, absent of all joy. She seemed to study Morrow with the intensity of her father, reminding her of Red Shirt in every striking line of her little face.
Swallowing back a sob, Morrow began to hum again, and the long-lashed eyes drooped shut, the tiny pink mouth opening to emit a ragged breath. Rosebud had caught a cold that seemed only to worsen in the chill. Her tiny hands clutched at her mother's filthy bodice, now soiled with mud and stiffened by milk. Bending her head, Morrow's tears fell on her flushed face, her lips moving silently.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil ...
They were in the belly of a blizzard now, so white it hurt her eyes. To fight snow blindness, the men slashed black paint beneath their eyes. Morrow remembered how Red Shirt had done the same-tenderly-planting a kiss on her cold lips when done.
The Bluecoat chief continued on, his stamina staggering. She could no longer feel her fingers or her toes, and she worried without end. Rosebud... always Rosebud. Her breathing seemed labored, and she'd not so much as whimpered since dawn. As Morrow placed a frigid hand against Rosebud's soft cheek, her fingers felt stung from the heat of her face.
The mare Morrow rode became lame and was shot, so she was hefted behind her guardian. His bulk sheltered her from the bitter bite of wind and hedged the baby like a wall. Soon after, she saw smoke and heard the roar of water not yet frozen by winter. A ghostly memory returned to her, beloved and bittersweet. Could it be? Wasn't this the same place she and Red Shirt had first come together, conceiving the baby she now held? The sight of pickets made her insides ache, as did the ugly stumps littering the once lovely island just below the falls. This was the wilderness beneath the white man's hand. But it wasn't at all as she remembered, and she shut her eyes to block it out.
A warrior at the advance of the column hoisted a stick with a white rag high in the air in case some hasty soldier mistook them for hostiles. The gates swung open with a groan. Once inside the garrison, she stumbled off her horse and onto her knees, snow covering her with furious flakes from her bare head to her frozen hem. There she sat and rocked Rosebud and made a spectacle of herself before the gathering soldiers. They regarded her with solemn eyes in the gloom of twilight and made no move toward her.
"Is this the preacher's daughter?"
The voice behind her was distinguished, even aristocratic, and held more than a hint of command. In answer, one brave jerked her to her feet, turning her to face the man she guessed was Colonel Clark. He stood tall in his fine Continental coat, dwarfing the gawking soldiers surrounding him.
"Well, don't leave her standing in this weather! Take her inside at once," he bellowed, squinting in the bitter wind. "Is that a baby? Good heavens, the woman looks frostbitten. Call for Dr. Clary."
Making haste, an orderly led her into a blockhouse and up some stairs where a bath and bed waited. Morrow struggled to make sense of the dimness after the blinding whiteness of the snow. There, upon the landing, a plump black woman regarded her with wide eyes and reached for Rosebud, but Morrow wouldn't release her.
"Now don't you pay me no never mind. It's only Hester here to help you and the babe, iffen you let me." Her voice was so kind that Morrow felt a thawing, wooed further by the steaming tub Hester gestured to near the hearth. "It was a heap of trouble totin' all that water for what should have been a fine bath for Colonel Clark. But you needs it a sight worse than him-and all my hard work ain't gonna go to waste'
Never had anything looked as fine as the steam rising off the tub's top like a coveted cup of tea. Numb, Morrow stood as Hester stripped off her soiled clothes and took Rosebud from the filthy sling. "Well, ain't she a purty thing. And those eyes! Ain't no Indian baby ever had eyes like that:"
She set Rosebud on Morrow's naked knees in the tub, chuckling as she came wide awake and splashed and kicked. The water swirled around them, stinging Morrow's skin and melting away the dirt. Taking out a bristle brush, Hester began to scrub them with soft soap, thoroughly but gently. "Ain't gonna let Dr. Clary see you till you gets cleaned up. Now close your eyes and hold that baby high while I rinse you off."
Afterward Hester took Rosebud and laid her on the bed, swaddling her while Morrow waited in the hip bath. The sight of an Irish linen dress gave her pause. It was for a small woman with an impossibly small waist, but Hester fixed that too, untying the blue sash so that it fell unhindered about her blossoming body. "You sit here by the fire and nurse yo' baby while I get you some victuals. It ain't much, just soldiers' fixin's. The doctor'll be here shortly."
Morrow obliged, her back to the fire. Rosebud nursed hungrily, her little smacks belabored as she coughed and sputtered. When Hester delivered the promised plate, Morrow fell on it as if famished, scraping up the venison and gravy with a large spoon and eating three biscuits in as many minutes. She drank the hot cider down, marveling at the peculiar taste before she realized it was laced with whiskey.
"It'll shore you up and ease the baby's breathin," Hester said. "Now I think I hear the good doctor on the stair."
The doctor entered, reeking of snuff and rum. Dare she trust him with Rosebud? But he took her with practiced hands, examining her gently from head to toe. "A bad cold, 'tis all; he announced, handing her to Hester to rock by the fire. The doctor turned to Morrow next, examining her hands and feet. The tips of her fingers were slightly discolored, and she'd yet to feel her toes.
"You've come close to frostbite. By jigs, but you've barely escaped it. You need rest-a great deal of it;' he pronounced, shaking his head warily. "I told Colonel Clark'twas madness to bring a woman here in such weather.. "
He soon took his leave after instructing Hester about the medicines he'd left. She began to hover again, turning down the bedcovers and placing a warming pan between the sheets. Morrow didn't bother getting undressed, just lay down a
nd pulled the bedding over herself and Rosebud, her damp head on the feather pillow.
Hester clucked. "Go on and get to sleep. You'll need yo' rest so you can face Colonel Clark in the mornin"
In the cold light of midmorning, Morrow was ushered into an austere office in an adjacent blockhouse. She realized Colonel Clark had given up his bed for her-and his bath as well. But this speck of generosity in no way removed the sting of what he'd done in bringing her here. A bitter storm brewed inside her at the thought that this man had separated her from her little son, leaving her to wonder where he was ... if he was.
Colonel Clark rose from his desk when she entered. The stale room stank of tea and whiskey, leather and gunpowder. A knot of officers turned to look at her, their worn, wrinkled uniforms a striking contrast to their clean-shaven faces. They didn't glance away even when her eyes skimmed over each one, dismissing them without expression. Somehow she remembered her manners, thanking the colonel for the chair he offered her and then the tea he poured to ward off the room's chill. The hearth fire directly behind him seemed to hold no warmth, though it looked robust enough to set the whole garrison on fire.
She tried not to study him, but he was a curious sight, young for an officer despite his air of authority. His hair was a rusty red, his heavy brows a dash of white, and she fancied his eyes were a washed-out green, but when he looked up at her, she found them fiercely blue.
"I trust you and your baby passed a peaceful night;' he said, passing her a china cup so at odds with their rough surroundings.
She nodded warily, holding the cup away from Rosebud, who slept in the crook of her arm. Somehow she'd thought he'd meet with her alone. She felt ill at ease with these other men and was thankful Hester remained standing behind her.
The towering commander took a seat behind a desk cluttered with papers, a compass, and a spyglass. She felt a nudging to try to sway him with the considerable charms that Jemima once claimed she had, but doing so seemed deceitful somehow. Desperate as she was, she'd plead her case honestly or not at all.
She took in the shadowed corners of the room and wondered where the Bluecoat chief was who'd brought her here. His lies had already done their damage, she guessed, and she wondered how much trouble she'd have unraveling them. She looked straight at the uniformed man before her and said quietly, "I want to tell you the truth about my leaving Kentucke'
He looked up, surprise softening his clean-shaven face. Had he wanted to lead? Did he expect her to be a mouse? Cowed by her supposed captivity? Running a hand through his hair, he nodded and gestured for her to continue.
She swallowed, distracted by the clock on the mantel behind him, unable to recall what day it was. Was Red Shirt already on his way back to Ohio? Would he ever be able to find her? She had no idea how long ago she'd left Loramie's. Days? Weeks?
"I'm not a captive, Colonel Clark, no matter what you've been told"
He looked at her with unflinching eyes. The men about the room moved closer, obviously intent on hearing what she had to say. Colonel Clark cleared his throat. "What is your name and who is your husband?"
She felt a tremor of unease. Looking into his weather-hardened face, she sensed he already knew. "My maiden name is Morrow Little. My husband's name is Red Shirt, a half-blood Shawnee"
"One of the warring sept? And a British scout to boot?"
She set the teacup down on the edge of the desk, not trusting her trembling hand. "He's a man of peace now and has been for some time. We were wed a year ago by my father, who was a preacher in the Red River settlement:"
His eyebrows rose, but his gaze remained steadfast. Two officers took chairs on either side of her. Another man-one she'd overlooked when she entered-moved to stand by the hearth just in back of the colonel but in her line of sight. He wore the garb of the woods, a long linen hunting shirt and buckskin leggings, his hair plaited and clubbed in Indian fashion. He reminded her of Captain Click ...
"Is that your wedding ring?" Colonel Clark asked, eyeing her hand.
She looked down at the narrow band, the Celtic cross catching the light, and remembered that soldiers had taken Red Shirt's. "'Twas my mother's before me:"
"Is she still living?"
"She was killed by Indians long ago. My father died of consumption last year."
"After wedding you to the half-blood Shawnee?" A sliver of a smile touched his face, and she shifted uneasily, realizing he didn't believe a word she was saying. Had her captors been so convincing, then?
He leaned back in his chair, never taking his eyes off her. "Surely you have some Kentucke kin:"
"No ... just an aunt in Philadelphia'
This seemed to trouble him, and he looked at Rosebud pensively. Was he wondering what to do with her and her baby? Thinking no white man would want her-and no relative?
Reaching past the inkstand on his desk, he took up a document, untied the leather string, and unfurled it. "I wish to acquaint you with Article 3 of the last treaty made with the Shawnee, Miss Little"
His use of her maiden name stung, as it seemed to slight her marriage, but she simply looked down at Rosebud and waited.
"`If any Indian or Indians of the Shawanoe nation shall commit murder or robbery or do any injury to the citizens of the United States, that nation shall deliver such offender or offenders to the officer commanding the nearest post of the United States, to be punished according to the ordinances of Congress:" He paused. "Do you remember a Major McKie, Miss Little?"
Oh, please no ... not McKie.
The name stirred a deep well of worry inside her. She forced herself to look at him, to meet his hard eyes. "I do"
He leaned back in his chair. "I've been informed that this officer was murdered by your husband in violation of this very treaty. The Shawnee scout in my employ-a man who calls himself Talks About Him-is merely acting in accord with Article 3 to deliver the offender to the officer commanding the nearest post. That would be me, you understand:"
Is this where her Shawnee captor had gone? To search for Red Shirt? Or lure him here by telling him where she was?
She swallowed, panic flooding her. "My husband is not the man he was"
"Is he not a murderer?"
Unbidden, Red Shirt's poignant words at Loramie's came rushing back to her. I am a murderer and a horse thief, but I have been forgiven.
She clutched Rosebud tighter. "My husband is no guiltier than Major McKie, who killed a peaceful Shawnee chief and his men along the Kanawha:" Though her voice seemed to warble with every word, exposing her turmoil, she pressed on. "Must I acquaint you with your own treaty articles, Colonel Clark?"
Remembering what Joe had told her, she reached out and took the document from him with a trembling hand, scanning the paper through tear-filled eyes. "`In like manner, any citizen of the United States who shall do an injury to any Indian of the Shawanoe nation shall be punished according to the laws of the United States:" She paused and looked at him. "I recall Major McKie's punishment being more a promotion, Colonel ... and I dare any man in this room to argue otherwise:"
The ensuing silence was sharp as glass. Not an officer stirred. No one seemed to breathe. Every eye in the room was upon her, but none so fixed as Clark's. She felt she was fighting for Red Shirt's honor-his very life-with words.
The red-haired giant across from her smiled a tight little smile and took the treaty paper from her hand. "Ah, Miss Little. What a clever little minx you are. I do seem to recall some trouble along the Kanawha. And perhaps Major McKie has received his punishment in full. But your husband. . "
She said nothing, her thoughts whirling, scattered, like windblown leaves.
He continued quietly. "I don't have the manpower to hunt for half-blood offenders. Not with a war on. The tactics we use to bring criminals to justice must be particularly ingenious here on the frontier, thus the raid on Loramie's Station. We've killed two birds with one stone-ridding the Ohio territory of an American enemy and rescuing you. Now I can turn my attention to oth
er matters. I am told your husband is quite clever, extremely elusive, and rarely lets his guard down, except, perhaps, where you are concerned"
What could she say to this? Except pray Red Shirt would not come for her?
Rosebud awoke, and Morrow brought her against her shoulder, sensing she might cry. She breathed in her daughter's soft scent and felt smothered by helplessness. Did her anguish show? Surely it did, for Colonel Clark leaned back in his chair and said a bit less forcefully, "I had not thought to kill your husband, just question him:"
Her voice turned entreating. "What if he doesn't come?"
"Oh, he'll come. And when he does, we will ... parley"
Oh, but he was smooth as butter, she thought. Their eyes met, but he was the first to look away. The danger she'd felt upon coming here seemed to quicken, and she felt as helpless as the baby in her arms. In this cold room with this cold man, her hopes seemed little more than ashes. Clearly, Colonel Clark's mission wasn't to listen to half bloods or Indians, or to those defending them, just be rid of them. This was why his garrison was standing on lands secured by treaty for the Shawnee.
She looked down at Rosebud, who gave her a sleepy smile. One chubby hand grabbed at the kerchief of her borrowed dress, just like her brother had often done. The memory nearly shattered Morrow's composure. In a heartbeat the room became a blur of timber, erasing the buckskin-clad man before the hearth, and the colonel as well. Finally she felt Hester's hand on her shoulder, telling her it was time to go.
Upstairs she gave way to her fear and exhaustion, rocking Rosebud and crying as she sat before the fire. Hester padded away on soft feet, leaving her to sleep, but she couldn't close her eyes. Crossing to the window, she looked out on a crude scaffold made more hideous by gentle swells of snow. Red Shirt would come, and they would make an example of him. The love that tethered them-and the truth-would bring him to this once beloved and now terrible place. And she was captive till he came.
